Ego-youthful: August 2018

Stories and Characters

by Gregory Douglas Wredberg

Table of Contents

Doctor’s Visit

I was in my cubicle working, cutting and pasting Tetris blocks onto a website. At 10:30, I got really bored, so I started to eat lunch in front of my computer. I fell asleep on my keyboard. At noon, I woke up and lifted my head. Peter was standing and looking at me. A Tetris block was stuck to my forehead. "Are you okay?" he asked then took a sip of coffee. I stared into space. "Yeah," I said. I threw up half a chicken salad sandwich on my keyboard. Peter said I should go see a doctor on the 3rd floor, then walked away. I went to the doctor's office. I was sent to an exam room right away. The doctor came in and listened to my stomach with a stethoscope. She paused. The light left her face. She stood and looked me in the eyes. Coldly, she told me, "Please wait here. I'll be right back." She left then returned with a bald short scientist man wearing a lab coat and black rimmed glasses. I hated him. He pulled out a tiny telescope and put it into my bellybutton. "Hmm," he said as he looked through. He stood and looked me in the eye. He whispered something to the doctor, then he left, thank Jesus, the bastard. The doctor thought for a second, eyes cast down. She lifted her head and looked at me but through me. "I'm sorry," she said. "Okay," I said. "There are a million dying universes in your core, each full of millions of dying screaming civilizations," she said. I thought for a second. "Okay," I said. She stared into space, stone faced, and cried. I stood and walked to the exam room door. I opened it and stepped out into deep space. I floated away from the exam room. I climbed around in the starry darkness. I found another exam room door. I went in and saw the doctor. We put our arms around each other, smiled, and stared into each other's eyes. "There are millions of universes and millions and millions of us living and dying," she said. "It's okay," I said. We let go. I crawled through a space portal and was immediately hit in the face by a speeding space truck. I woke up standing at a tee on a golf course. In the distance beyond the fairway I saw a shallow mountain. I held a golf club. Then I fell asleep again.

The Non-Asian Male 20 % Club

All of the worlds and I had to come to a settlement. “If I can agree to be walked upon… the fellow plants and animals may be at peace and find a simple way to be walking always, for a high concentration of anyone, two, or five will spoil an entire eternity’s worth of reactions to reactions. Male, 2 eyes, 4 limbs, 1 torso, necessary and unnecessary organs, necessary and unnecessary thoughts, future deprived, past undetermined.

7:43, awake, the last signal. Press, smoke, rest, spoke.
“All right, Nine-gold Thomsons, Maybe down, left of the lane this is how we play with the other tool boxes, but over here, never, NEVER, we sell our fine brothers short, don’t sell them shorts, don’t tear their shorts… Interesting? No! We have loved this wager under dark skies and loud orders, we never forgive the last order, it’s an indication, it’s all too superlative, The Last Four… it happens to be a way impassable.

Traffic lights turn from green to yellow to orange to blue and back to yellow. The straight and high buildings cover the little roaming hair-covered heads. He and she cross paths, and silently go back to their blank minds, directing the asphalt and pavement with their four feet. Spread out over the earth… are all of the … these … and there is me. In all my forms, I travel to secret and public locations, my body moulded to fit the obvious layouts of contexts and spiked soup of primordial glistening chaos, attached to no one, succumb once and for all to the blank, the bludgeoned performance, the overstated here-for-now, going for a quick one… Yes, and then we said it has to be the only fully exercised diet since we began enrolling the sold out jack hoping the nuisance would piddle and the grain would forewarn.

Take off the glasses, the deep, deep puddle. The oligarchic king’s crown is castle-shaped. Falling off is the best way to get back on. Intense, the courtyard’s park of the 9318 Century Elite building est. in 2002, the people meshed like cotton bags slowly euphorically sending signals that estrogen tablets were trite and TV news programs disintegrated ultra-violet consistency in the evermore-appreciated cosmos of weird wonder-filled beings beginning by belaying birth

Some days and months ago I read a children’s book in my mother’s library. It was about God and his creations. The question was where is God. Each element of creation argued for why God was with it. The wind said God is with me; the water said God is with me; different animals say God is with us. Then people come along and say we look like God. Then a giant tortoise comes along and tells everything the way it is. People are getting careless or forgetting or something. I think the illustrations are watercolour; they looked Chinese or Japanese. It has a happy ending maybe, or it tells a valuable message probably.

The End.

[a monster.com tv advertisement, Dream On the Chemical Brothers]

Airport Birthday

1

My name is a love Christian Billy Munday
He waited by the wall.
The buried soldiers risen from the graves came up through the floor and had nothing much to say.
Billy Munday sacrificed his younger sister to have a turtle action figure doll.
All over the gray place the sound of busy people and moving machinery happened.

Billy Had Had Two Birthdays With Out His Father(Jim) Since He was Five, and Three Before That.

This One Would Have Been the Third after Age Five and The Second In a Row.
But Very Special Arrangements were Made By His Mother Father And The Very Nice People Working At the Airport.

When I pictured it, I saw green walls and fantasy painted charters like from alice and wonderland that mommy read me last week (Two Weeks Ago and A Day)

The fire extinguisher red makes me reminded of the happy fire man in the dream(Fantasy) He was fast and jumpy…
(Didn’t Make much Sense Even For A Seven Year Old.)

Colelius Eusthanasian stands in the runway being peaceful watching the window into the party, His Ghost Eyes See More Than I can Describe.
The Planes Don’t Worry About His Body Because It is not There And The Air Plane Will Not Kill Him Be Cause They Go Through Him.

Cole sits on a step near the metal wall of a 100 feet building like a curb.
His Ghost Brain Thinks Of A Girl of Euthanasia, Whining in The Woods.

Her blown Bronde Hair Seems Of Sounds And The Smell Look Of Trees Thin And Wood Coloured Grey and Living Yellow.

The flesh was wet.
I skinned the skidded words on the Highway of my mind. He thought of The road in movies to California.
The Skin Peeled off On the Roadway.

In His heart the Burning Road Red Like In Billy’s Mind The Character Of Red Hot Mad man Bouncing in the dream.

He looked at the wall in boredom,
Was there nothing more I could do for Him?
“What did ya wish for Bill?”
He was slow to answer, “Uhhmm, I’ms wasn’t spose to tell, was I?”
I felt useless and Arbitrary in his life and My Own For that Matter.
I forced the stupid Must-Need-To, “Ha, You got it boy!”
The sky outside seemed red over the dark and grey and menacing.
I had to get out.
… In a pause and moment of desperation, “emm, Well, I hope it comes True”
Being Myself, “But Don’t Forget to Go after It With All Your Best Efforts”
I was Proud…
“I gotta go son,” making my way over the purple blue grey carpet and dead civil war souls in the dirt far under(~100 feet) I kissed his forehead sweet and warm, going through the motions.
His mother was just coming back into the room, “Leaving?” some what scared, exasperated. Her face passing my eyes, Yeah.
Stopped me pulled me in soft cloth sweet smell. Bye, Have a safe trip, All right Bye.
The Gate looked far away, and lonely.

2

It was Billy Munday’s seventh birthday. His mother drove him and four other children in his class to the airport just after one in the afternoon. It was a rather calm day in South Carolina; the sky was an indefinite and shifting gray colour. The mother and children got out of the SUV, formed a pack, and walked to a reserved room near gate 11. An airport staff member received them and helped Billy’s mother seat the children in generic, plastic and metal, dark gray chairs around a generic, plastic and metal, light gray table. Three of Billy’s guests joked around about some childish things. They all were amazed by the airplanes they could see taxiing around outside of the two walls of windows.

One hundred and forty years earlier, during America’s civil war, a battle was fought at nearly the same spot where Billy’s seventh birthday party was held. Some of the soldiers were buried shortly after the battle on the same grounds. Secretly their bodies held a presence that barely reached the party, because there was a lot built on top, like concrete walkways, rebar, long metal wall slats, floorboards, plaster, and a purplish blue carpet, all piled up nearly one hundred feet. One particularly restless soul had had the name of Cole. Cole had one perfect memory. It was of his only love. She spun and pranced through a birch thicket, gleefully giggling. She wore a loose, weathered white dress, almost the quality of a nightgown, but with the appearance of having been worn in this birch thicket everyday of its existence. She had straw yellow hair that flew as she moved; the birches’ bark was a whitish gray colour, but where the bark was broken or peeled it revealed a flesh that was pale green then, deeper, a glistening, opaque, striated blond. Green grass flooded below them, and above the green layer of tree leaves was an ocean of radiant, cloud-reflected, impenetrable sunlight. Back in the present day, life seemed to be a chaos of infinite distraction with huge jet airplanes moving smoothly, connecting to buildings, and roaring mercilessly.

Billy was slightly underwhelmed by the scene of his birthday. In his wild anticipation, he likened his party to his recent fantasies that were sparked by and involved characters from Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and a fire department demonstration at his school. He imagined walls of jungle where insane, short men jumped around wearing bright red hats. He mostly kept quiet, looked at the fire extinguisher on the floor by the door, and waited. Billy’s father was rushing to make the party before catching another flight. His wife just finished arranging the presents and cake and setting the children’s places at the table, when he came to the door. He hugged Billy quickly, then stood next to his wife after she lit the candles and switched off the lights. After the cake was cut and children were handed pieces, Billy opened his presents with mild enthusiasm, looking back at his father each time after thanking a guest. Neither knew what kind of face to make when making eye contact, but they settled into a complacent, sympathetic gaze while Billy looked at his father for a longer moment after opening the last present, paid for by his father, but picked out, purchased, and wrapped by his mother.

The mother gathered all the trash and, noticing there was not a bin, set out to ask someone for one. No one at the party could imagine all the imaginations of the people coming and going from that place or all places they had been and were going to be.
“What did ya wish for Bill?” the father asked.
“I dunno. I can’t tell anyone, right?” Billy slowly answered.
“Ha, yeah, yeah, you got it!” his father forced out, then he had a worried look. “Well… I hope it comes true,” then quickly adding, “but be sure to go after if with all your best efforts.” He looked distant but satisfied. He ruffled Billy’s hair then kissed his head, smelling his salty hair. He quietly remarked that he had to go.
“Mmkay,” Billy said. The other children were busy with cake, utensils and presents. With his hand on his son’s head, the father stared at a wall, breathing still, and almost thought of crying. He turned and grabbed his luggage. His wife came in with a surprised and exhausted expression.
“Leaving?” she asked.
“Yeah.” They hugged, and he relished her blouse’s soft collar and laundered smell. The atmosphere became almost foreboding. He pointed himself toward his gate. The queue of passengers looked like a relief, a destination, a lonely little planet where he needed to be.

Selfly Friend

I have a sexy friend. How do I. I am in love with Someone Else Or. I wanted to tell her I feel nothing for her or she doesn't matter to me. I have a textbook to read, but I only want to look at pictures of her on facebook.com. She looks like a movie star to me. I want to be in a movie with her. I have longings and passions and emotions that seem uncontrollable. They cause distress in me. I want to change something about my live and my living. I want to be with her at Spider House, at grocery stores, on the streets, at her home, at her parent's, and at shows and meeting new people and trying new things at new places. I want to throw clocks away and judge time based on her presence. I want us to reveal our deepest desires and help each other achieve everything we want to. I want to help clean oil spills and petition to only use clean energy that doesn't hurt nature with her. I want to live on a wide open plain of rolling grasses in a tiny wooden shack with clothes lines attached to it and it's windy and sunny and her hair blows around and she smiles and laughs and runs and we keep animals and go on trips closely and far away and we have families and friends we see them and hug them and tell them what we do and what we will do and what we love about them and each other and we listen and listen and we hear almost everything and we mimic and cry and dance and fornicate and multiply and blossom. We make our minds up and we lay dawn, and we spring up our sheets are draped and we make a difference and we matter most to each other and we help each other become who we are meant to be. We are fairytales and we live in cities. We drink allowance and water.
Fuckher. I peel my sweaty ass clothes right off. I danced four hours at a club place. I lost every identity I had. I heard people's clothes and saw the empties inside them. Skin seemed to disappear. Light seemed too weak to fight the dark parts of the night there. Movements erased the visuals and air was smudged. It was a nightmare painting. I hurried home where I opened my laptop and typed and four page story about a horse racing against the sunrise in a land where eyeballs were the only source of life. Tightropes were strung between the villages in the mountains. Everyone had poles. Most people were upside down and had constant diarrhea. Toes were seen as evil.
I drank four glasses of liquid and light lemonade, then I listened to the song and cried four hours when I rather would be asleep. In the morning I saw the mail come through the blind windows. I noticed I was male too.

Sex and Franzia

(Let us see how sorry we can make them.)

She texted me and asked me to come over for a box of wine. I did not hesitate to reply,
"Hell yeah. Keep your panties on."
I splashed cologne on me. I sped away in the night and in minutes I was at her door. Thrice I rapped with a knuckle. One beat, two beats... three... I lifted my hand again and breathed in, when just then the door swung open and I froze. Time slowed. I saw her red fingernails, her slender white hands, the hairs on her arms, and her soft, pale blue dress with flowery prints, concealing her young, fertile, voluptuous body. Her cropped mahogany hair hugged her luminous, angelic face, her sand-dune cheeks, bunny rabbit nose, poison-berry lips and deep ocean-sky eyes.
"Hello," she quandaried. My heart stopped, and she stole my breath. I nearly gasped and shed a tear in awe of her.
"Do come in, lonely traveler." My body acted independently of my wonder-struck brain. We slid liquidly into her kitchen, where she poured glass after glass of Franzia for us, and we guzzled it until we collapsed unconscious to the floor, our four feet nestled like a liter of puppies.
At mid-morning I regained consciousness. My face was sewn to the tile floor in a puddle of drool. I was alone except for the sounds of the birds and the sunshine. I sat up and rubbed my eyes. I heard a toilet flush, and moments later she walked into the room. She looked almost exactly as she had the night before except for a little muss in her hair and some sleep in her eyes.
She yawned real wide and loud and scratched her belly. She made fair-trade coffee and organic toast. I learned my head against her warm, firm thigh, and she stroked my ear and hummed a tune as tears poured out of my face. I became erect in microseconds. She laid on the floor and rested her head on my lap. I pet her hair and smelled her feminine essence. I saw down her dress a little, and I could see on the surface that her nipples were pointed.
"Hsssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss," she sighed through her teeth, perfect teeth, lovely teeth...
"Morning makes me horny, man."
"Me freakin' too," I gobbled. We took a quick nap, my head backed up against a wood cabinet. I awoke suddenly, my erection still in full force. She perked up just after me, stretched her arms to her sides, balled her fists, arched her back, wobbled her head, scanned my body, and said,
"I'll go get the petroleum jelly."
The sun hit my eyes hard as she skipped out the room.
We had to hurry and get ready to take her nephew to court in an hour.
That was May 12, 2049, and I've forgotten it many times.

THE END

Cart Pusher

Cast of Characters:

- Nelson Angola Petridish

- Chicken Barf Gorgonzola

- Freezeframe Doogal

- Funky Albatross

- Mutant Sex Fish

- Evil Garbanzo Beans

- A Two Ton Deer

- Yurt Judy

After I leave Walgreens, I find a Wal-mart shopping cart, so I push it back to Wal-mart. After I leave Wal-mart, I find a Target shopping cart, so I push it back to Target. After I leave Target, I find an H-E-B shopping cart, so I push it back to H-E-B. After I leave H-E-B, I find a Randall's shopping cart in a CVS parking lot, so I push it all the way to Randall's. In the Randall's parking lot, I find a Central Market shopping cart, so I push it back to Central Market. In the Central Market parking lot, I find a Sprouts shopping cart, so I push it back to the Sprouts parking lot. In the Sprouts parking lot, I find a Whole Foods parking lot, so I push it back, a whole Foods shopping cyart. In the whole, Foods shapping curt I find a Kray-mert showping cort, so I pish it bick to Kray-mert, yeh dum-dum. After I leave Kray-mert, I got seven kyit-kyat bers, so I pishem becta Church and prays the Lourde that I heaven't god a jab thad I hade so mitch.

Math Story

7 exists. Or not. Minus 17. It must be beyond time and space. It is I-T. I-S-I-T. T-I-S-I. A letter which represents nothing is -. Without order, boundary, motion, or matter. Words are words. Nice fair par fore unspecific meaningless sample example poll survey opinion idea compose revise continue end tragedy comedy sacrifice indulgence favor flavor. Oops. Mistake. Take. Give. Action. Verb. Noun. Subject. Object. Dynamic. Static. Reject. Accept. None. Twonce. Eleventy. Range. Notion. Possibility. Concept.

Another 7 of exact replication. Same 7. New. Not other. Similar thought. Though not not. Indeed Yes. Of which not without of course of all 9, 12, 11, 7. And is. With no with it, all and not in, of and without. Is and no. Some of them of one is one - one is - one of none is none. Know, name, does, correct, simple, effort, save, Ung, Lif, Sui, Pon, Jui, Ter, LO, CU, B6, 5K. Which is it. Offer. Identify. Define. Serve. Procter.

Only as a collection believing appropriate specialties is greeting Calvin Kelvin scales purporting.
Necessary topical trope designates a situation belonging about appraisal performance.
Fixation totally retracts ambiguous article supposing perfection.

9 needless. 7 subtraction. No ideal integer.
Contemplate arbitrary selection of multiple additions to negative absolute processes. Impart an imaginary rational denominator insinuating exclusive particulars.

Absent image. 7 practices.
Redistribution. 11 lesser.
1 every single. Among 2 associative properties. 10 is.

rice seer these heat rats mats cheer tart root nice tame tarn crease

Rice is our only resource. The Seer says it's all we need, and it will save us all. These heat rats breed mercilessly, and have begun to spill out from the mats they hide under during the day. We try to cheer each other up with silly performances of the prophecy of the eradication of the heat rats. One legend tells of a tart root growing under the mountain that can lure and poison the vicious rat horde, but since it contradicts the Seer's prophecy, to speak of it is formally forbidden and publicly feared. My oldest brother shares a legend with me that our grandfather shared with him many years ago. Once upon a time, these heat rats were nice and tame. We got along harmoniously with them. We gave them shelter and they gave us warmth. As our numbers grew, we produced more rice and took up more space. We pushed them out, and instead of sharing our rice with them, we burned it to replace the heat they had given us. The more we despised the rats, the more they crowded around us and multiplied, stealing our rice and overheating our homes. Only if we accept and respect them again will our lives become peaceful. The tension seems unbreakable. I can't imagine anyone in this land reconsidering our relationship with the heat rats. I feel more at peace with them than with my own people. I help them whenever I see them trying to get inside. I hide away from people. Our rice supplies are getting desperately low. To everyone's surprise, the Seer decrees that the tart root of the mountain must be found. The strongest farmers and staunchest enemies of the heat rats set out for the unexplored tarn at the center of the mountain. After many days of finding nothing, a hungry man, who lost his home and whole family to the heat rat invasion, dives to the bottom of the tarn and finds a shiny root stuck in a dark rocky crease. He knows that's what they've been looking for and pulls and pulls harder until he is out of breath. The root comes loose and floats to the top, and he drowns (he will not be missed). The entire land celebrates the tart root. Soon after placing it at the edge of town, we notice fewer heat rats, lower temperatures, less rice missing. Everyone calms down. The rats are all gone, and people seem happy. The tart root seems to slow time. The new rice crop seems to be growing slowly. In fact it isn't growing at all. The harvest yields less than ever before. People are even hungrier than at the height of the heat rat invasion. Winter is bitterly brutal. No rice to burn. No rats to keep us warm. The root is shining brightly, simply laying on an altar. It seems to need nothing to thrive. Nothing is what it gave us. We hate the tart root. Only last hope is to burn it. Everyone gathers at the altar. The Seer sets it alight. It is brighter than the sun, louder than a hurricane, and smells worse than anything. Those of us who were most excited originally by the tart root's power faint from the sensory overload. The rest of us rat-lovers wait as the light, noise, and smell fade. All that's left is a black seedy ooze burning its way deep into the dirt. Through the new darkness, on a distant mountain, we see a soft orange glow flicker with life. In an instant, I know that it's the heat rats. We gather the fainted ones and journey onward to reunite with our old warm friends.

Thad

Thad Thack struts into Dillard's wearing faded, ripped jeans, a leather studded vest, and dark sunglasses. He holds a medium Coke in a red cup with a lid and straw. He slides his sunglasses to the tip of his nose with one finger, takes a sip of Coke, and slyly peers over at the women's underwear section.

He hops on his hog and drives up the highway at sunset. He's got a girl on his brain. He swerves to try to squash a squirrel but misses. He drives by a large old tree and thinks of a picnic he had with his mother ten years ago, before she died, but he quickly stifles the memory by thinking of the drive-in diner where he wants to wolf a cheeseburger, fries, and a vanilla milkshake. Gangs of teens swarm on the diner to chill as night falls. Thad pops his collars and judges every one of them to be brainless and gutless. He gets full and is about to split, when he sees Stacy pass by, driven by her tight-ass veteran father. For a moment, Thad is struck by her shapely face, and his mouth hangs open. He knows she will slip out on her bike to hit the town in less than an hour. He tosses his trash onto the asphalt and peels outta that business. The remains of the burger bleed ketchup, and a fourth of the milkshake dribbles into the black cracks.

He tears down the road to the river, where shadows envelope lone travelers. He feels like sighing (he doesn't know why), but he burps sharply instead then blows a nostril, pressing the other closed with a leather gloved knuckle. At the farthest picnic area by the water, there's a bonfire and twelve motorcycles scattered at the edge of the wide glow. Thad Thack nestles his ride at the end of the driveway, walks over, and as he is illuminated, he's met by whoops and shouts and slaps on the shoulders. A reclined leather-clad young man with shaggy blonde hair lobs him a six-pack of warm beer cans. Thad rips one and drops the rest. He pours the yellow fizz down his throat, crunches the can in his hand, and chucks it into the trees. He lays on the dirt, puts his hands behind his head, and stares at the smoky stars.
He zones out and his eyes begin to water... He jumps up suddenly, raises his eyes and arms straight up, spreads his fingers to the limit, and yells... something profane and thoughtless. Everyone is silent. The gathering fades. Thad drinks two more beers, and one is poured onto the hissing fire.

Thad catapults himself back into town. It's not late at all. At the park he idles and spies Betsy buying two ice cream cones. He follows her on foot, keeping far away. She gives a cone to Stacy, who is sitting by the pond and laughing with Derick. Thad hides behind a bush and peeps. Derick puts a hand on Stacy's lower back, and flames erupt in Thad's eyeballs. He breathes heavily, uncrouches, prepares to charge into an unknown conflict, but before he moves off his spot, the world turns upside down. He hurls his red and brown dinner onto the clean green grass. The sound attracts everybody's attention. Chuckles fill the park. Thad lies fetally and sideways glimpses Derick take Stacy's hand and lead her away.

Thad rides to the bus station, skids to a stop, and lets his bike fall. He cranes his neck and scans the street as far as it goes both ways. He rests on the bench for a long time, his head in his hands, taunted by wordless thoughts and indecision. He sleeps on his back. Nothing happens. The blue yellow warm day wakes him. He gets up, cracks his bones, and walks away. The crotch of his jeans is damp, and there's dried vomit on his vest. He happens upon his mother's dusty graveyard. He stands and squints at tombstones behind a chain link fence. He wants another girl. He needs to eat.

Thad Thack steps into Grossman's Pharmacy and spends 2.50 on a chocolate bar and Pepto Bismol.
His feet ache. He wanders into the park, sits, and watches ducks. He never changes. He sighs forcefully and loudly. No one else is there. Sunlight beats on his flesh. He whips out his wallet on a chain. He counts his crisp Ones. Fourteen. He skips toward the highway tossing his bills like confetti. He has totally forgotten about his motorcycle. He bought it used last week with money he stole from his aunt two towns ago. He sticks out his crooked thumb. Eighteen-wheelers fly by; their gusts almost knock him over. The highway air is dry, his eyes even dryer. Thad Thack blacks out from dehydration. The few drivers who notice his body lying by the road just assume he's supposed to be there and think no more.

Back story:

Thad showed up unannounced at his aunt's house. They had a good relationship, but she was worried that he and his dad had a bad fight. He hung around her for a couple of days and swiped her stash of cash from a shoebox in a closet. In his hometown, he had worked with a landscaping crew and saved six hundred in cash. He didn't say anything to his father, didn't leave a note, just left on a bus. The nine years since his mother died, living with his father in a shack, going to a dumb school, and working to eat and party, had been long and full of spite, regret, grief, envy, delusion, and boredom.

Sounds sad, don't it? He breaks it all. He breaks himself. He becomes a scrap in the rubble of his society. That's how we do. It could be better.

[Bonus Poem]

SHEDDED
Busted Boone pipes.

He leaves.

Kick him to death. He is unnamed.
He must be trusted. He must be wanted. He must be estranged.

God damn time. He should know. We should have a meeting. We need a new way to go.

Here to there should not be now and then. When should be now. Now should be always.

Hungry. Dragging, smeared, biological colors and textures.

The Policies of Edwin Fernuckle, LLC
Being a Charming Novella for the Ever-Expanding Youthful Mind

Edwin Fernuckle is born on any ordinary Monday.

The End

Message History with Ashley as of Jun 03 14

Mar 29 13
A: Yes

May 07 13
A: Nothing.

May 17 13
A: I meant

Jun 08 13
A: I sorries
A: Been busy with work

Nov 21 13
A: You?

Dec 18 13
A: But hopefully not much

Jan 05 14
A: I'll text you when I'm done.

Apr 27 14
Me: So, plans?
A: movie with a coworker
Me: Which one?
A: Grand Budapest Hotel
Me: Good choice!

May 02 14
Me: Howdy stranger?
A: Sunday!
Me: Oh sweeet potaytoes (:

May 03 14
Me: noon.
A: Alright.
Me: g'night. See ya lata.
A: Goodnight.

May 04 14
A: So I went out for my friends birthday today last night. I'm probably not going to be ready at noon.
Me.Oh happy birthday friend. Tex me when u r.
A: Okee.
A: What are we going to eat?
Me: Casa de Luz?
A: Ohhhh
Sounds pretty awesome.
Me: Happy
A: So my headache won't go away. When are your next days off?
Me: Ah sorry, next week, relieved, dissapointed, wait. Feel better soon!

May 15 14
Me: Want to chill out on Sunday? I'll give you food!

May 18 14
Me: Howdy, madam! Wantu go to a park close to you if youre not busy?

May 20 14
Me: I dreamed we met after a long time. We hugged. 30 rock, Kenneth, Jack.

May 28 14
Me: How are you feeling these days?

The End

It’s Boggle and a Process

1

Opening my eyelids, you search yourself for sympathy and examine the misfits in the foreground of your thoughts. Drunk retards dash near the zone for hour-long parking where zero cars are parked. Seeing this, you untie my tourniquet and with it lash one of them just hard enough to draw blood from his cheek. Your sister stands in his way, grabs his shoulder, stops him, and kisses the cheek. Nobody but you sees this. You decide you need to go after the maniacs vanish into other people's problems. Now that honesty is unnecessary, you say, "I need you now." Someone behind you startles you, but he's just staring, not listening. You drag my body into the gutter. The stranger continues to stare and smokes a cigarette. You wipe your hands and, looking through yourself at nothing, say, "What do you want?" The stranger looks at me and I say nothing. He exhales and smoke envelopes your head. You don't breathe. You stare at my closed mouth and hear the stranger say, "I thought I would be older by now."

2

I shot the hanging mass of meat with a taser. My team was far less experienced than the others. We sneaked a flask full of mead into the event to make life more interesting. We knew didn't have a shot at winning anyway. The spirit of competition is way tamer than I expected. One of my teammates could not handle the wine. He had a wild mane of dry-dead-leaf hair and a worn-out, unpredictable face. We tried to ween him off the sauce, but he kept snatching it and began to shout about pandas dying off or invading the U.S. and other inebriated fantasies. Two officers from the group with most experience caught him and tossed his floppy body out into the snow. I followed the shouted curses out into the night. The seniors barked at us to go home. After they slammed the stark heavy dull metal door, I felt the alcohol warp my mood significantly for the first time that evening. I reviewed my circumstance from the outside and found it laughable, in both a comical and depressingly pathetic way. The over-drunk outcast, Seth, was face down on the curb. I lifted him by his shoulders. The weeds under his face were half-thawed. I sensed that this episode of each of our lives was about to end. I wrapped his arm around my neck to help him walk. We trekked over a swath of frozen white parking lot. We had almost two miles to go. The threat of the cold was real and immense but we were too high to care or make a better judgement. In the yard of the trailer Seth was renting, we tripped over a pile of old fishing nets and squirmed around for a minute. Laying on the frosty ground, in my frustrated concentration on getting us untangled, my view was of a trailer wall of graffiti tags. Unconsciously I tried to decipher them. This moment seemed to last forever. I lost all my bearings. Somehow I found myself inside Seth's trailer, turning up the heat. I slumped his limp fully dressed body onto a couch, his head on the top of a back cushion his feet on the hard carpet, and threw a quilt over his torso and face. I ran hot kitchen tap water over my numb hands. My skin was stinging as the feeling came back. I bent over the sink and doused my face. I seemed to be waking up from a long weird day. Fatigue crashed down on me. I almost collapsed right there but instead found the strength to stumble the ten feet to the bed, kick my boots off, shed my coat and fall back onto the mattress.
I woke up right away, mid-morning. I realized I had fallen asleep immediately last night. I thought that time is barreling full speed through me. Then my skull exploded. All I could do... was... sh-shut my... eyestightly! andsay-fuckstopit.Stp-stopit.!ow!
Seth was standing at the stove scrambling shitty eggs, softly whistling. He heard me and peeked into the room... "Good fucking morning, beautiful fucking angel. Ha ha ha ha!"

Part of Us

I'm so hungree to bee a part of aneething.

I want to bee outside on a feeld beetween some trees.

I can see four miles in each direction into the past and into the future.

All the work is done. The soil is tilled. We are complacent and ecstatic even though we should have done everything differently. We are perfect and we know it. Our skin is clean and cool and clear and white.

The wind blows on us at two miles per hours.

Our tummies contain the perfect amount and composition of food. We are intensely satisfied. We each have a lover of the opposite sex.

We all want children and have no doubts that we will care for them perfectly and they will be as perfect as we.

We harvest radishes. We are the center of everything.

We wear denim and plaid flannel. We could be models but we are too cool and too proud.

We have no souls, but we are the soul of everywhere we are and all that we do.

We never have to try. This life is a first rate film about us.

We built this country. We built the Indians. We built the coasts and the mountains and the shining sky and everything between.

We invented humor. We never laugh. Our calm heroic expressions never change.

We are always standing outside. We eat delicious healthy macaroni and cheese in our spotless farmhouse and that image makes you cry.

The community named every street, park, public building, and bus stop bench after us.

This is not some mystical metaphor. Not an aging homely horny hermit.

We spy on our pathetic minions throughout the expanses with a godly caring golden eye.

Do you think we are going to be okay?

Sess

Green electric cop shirt skitters over the weedy watery black street. Air-blooded male man scoops it with his fork arm and shoves it through an open 2nd floor window of a 2 dollar hotel. Horey still sleeps humanly, her eyes not blinking. She taps her horizontal feet onto the friar trail of siren flickers.
Barking homeless Dane feels the lack of feed inside his pink jelly bags systematically engorge and entropically deflate as six souls scarred eye a blast of vibrant sunset vital ribbons and sheaths.

Slobad is a nonety waste

Purk

5

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Es ist mi favvorita melodia melatonin bReaking race

This Is a Story about Kaynard

Kaynard floated down then street, not literally, she just walked but her connected brain was floating in her cranium, woah oah!
Silking shop we light up for festivitie, looking with watershed eyes in also Kaynard's head. Her head is heated water ballow hot air in the heavy sky, to read like a magazine. In the waiting pregnant but she is fat and sits like a horse at a mouth trough. I felt sorry. The music, green faces in the pale area over opaque and vague grey. A dream, Kaynard lovely snacks on cupcakes, in the evening, she is a love to a dog, a man heart. She cries for plants and God. It's not heart, but it's hard. Cold feet Kaynard all over her day in socks and drawers. It is spelled like a book, a dictionary and a street she is walking on gravel horses manure slick squishy and fart disgusting. Her nose crinkles and gags. Smelly are all the way to the OZONE, and she lifts head up at the night yawn sound sneeze eyes water in her titter head. Mousy feature hurt the day in a day, the mouse sweep in the shallow gutter alley of all wishes for moons, never lasts in a dark room, and she is underwear for a minute; no one touches her under my jurisdiction. I set the rules and, in a lucid dream she pale quivers with sex, the idea of an arrow from medieval in America lonely sad blowing sound from near trees long demolished in winters of dissatisfaction of Indians horny hungry. Cold, can't get warm, shudders, rushes, verbs are great.
Kaynard Oh sweet baby.
A lady in the night reduces me, rejects and betrays. Laughs with a mouthful of soft candy, sugar lives in her teeth, my tongue, in my dreams. She, on her feet in the hearty cobble stones. A shopkeeper looks; her eyes are my eyes, I wish; she looks and the skin on her face. Tight pin. Blurry past up on the erasing good times from the wood block.
Tales of a wooden place fantasy on the wall in front of a face beyond it behind your eyes, it does not feel like a hemorrhoid on your sack pus podules in latency after effects soaking up egos and existentialism on the page fro fried chicken grease on my brothers sideway herring chicken coat rack for dead lovers. Hunting water fowl is a nasty sport. It can't get much worse
I hope.
For her
I do it
I lick it I'm happy and let's get back. I don't want to disappoint the reader of my short story with cute button down eyes in blurry diarrhea; it hurts, but it does not get over, I worried
for her
I do it again. I'll try again. Kaynard steps, her giant feel crushing dirt molecules under the weight of whatever may want to trouble you. The truck rushes past the future holds its silent breath, then squeaking I hold its hand. She is tired and I am imperfect.
I want to, but I also what whats for me.
For me.
Gas station, I am in a different citys are where people are. They are and are doing things to keep themselves and their grandchildren alive. I bet you didn't think Kaynard had grandchildren. It's important. She also buys bacon and bakes bread for her family. I was once a party. Hotels have fallen out of the snow globe I held, holding by a childis hand. It's soft and warm and small I wish.
She never really gets out but walks in, slows down and seeps apparent to the life and she says in a raspy golden voice, 'How much are these,' while holding up a random keepsake at a wonderful store. The male shopkeeper is content after a grey day of customers of all nationalities.
[In France where people have souls, great movies, and popcorn strings of healthy attitudes and relationship communication coffee.]
He thinks about what he will drink upstairs next to a fire with his perfect wife. Then to sleep in the night. Now it's slow and peaceful.
She puts it in her pocket. The man felt the bird in his throat. She was not even noticing. She smiled at the situation, eyes perusing on shiny light reflecting small and light in the night that she wishes her only once child could be. All of the time passed, and she is in her gut and on her way bright new day, sunrise of defeat and eagle toes scraping the green rainbow. Then he in his throat brings up aooeadh softly. She is aware she oh ha. Smally cutely he smiles, no harm in deeds, and she opens mouth like juice stick and inside brown interior walls 750$ 10 lira. He says, 'Oh I don't want to buy,' her last words trailing off into a land of dreams and instant satisfaction and gratitude; he smiles.
Death comes quickly night cold. Little souvenirs, past is cherished but forgotten and replaced with misleading cherishered ideas and phonographs and young neighbors. The past and future fall out the window screens.
She screams hello to say goodby. She sees him hurl his body into the sky; he flies and flies 'til he is out of sight. She wonders but does not ask, Kaynard, where are you on this fateful night like any other not lonely speaking [Diana Ross] of another day when cherished dreams are awakened to seal morning flowers and motor oil and pedestrians to passerbys of holiday secret emotions? Not too many verbs. That's how I see it, then that sought out of now where on the door screen seen the glass happy plays walks out. It's a city with all those people singing about who knows what, but they know and they don't need no explainin', because their future is truth in their ideals they share. They bark their dogs, and when it's finished, they start over again, because they have to; they don't want to cry, but the flag pole shimmers in the evening dust to whoever for art out there. There they hear their name an' all they need are ear bells and a kindly sleigh keep them going on merrily in the mountain drifts of sweet passion for living like a duckling teeter tottering in a moment of ecstasy piss in a park sometime with Susan on the water she says and the waves mass sepulcation denies the end over again because that's the way it happend and I want nothing less than the truth from you, my dear boy.
That's how it happed, and if you don't believe me, don't read the book, but if you don't, you won't now.
Let's stop being negative. How was your day yesterday? I saw you. You were far away. I heard a cab. I am mostly awake during the Day!!! It's the END. its all right

A Stupid Story That Makes Sense

Geral was born in hospital when his mother was 33 years and 7 months old. As she held him in her arms, his father, ...., walked out of the room, and she never saw him again. She was in such a stupor, that she forgot the 'd' that she meant to be at the end of her son's name. Originality became her new lifestyle after she decided to raise a boy named Geral. She quit her elementary teaching job and started her own business of growing potted plants and shaping them to look like people with green bushy heads.
Geral was home schooled, and when he was six years old, his mom had a girl, who she named Aria. Aria learned to make Geral her sole source of entertainment, companionship, and survival. The three traveled always and mainly lived in hotels with ground floor lounge bars. Aria's favorite food were pickles, and Geral's were pretzels.
When Geral was 12, a woman named Cady saw him and Aria walking down a big city sidewalk, looking for their lunch. She decided to take full responsibility for their lives, while their mother was pawning treasures that she picked out of dump sites along the highway. Cady asked the kids questions and led them to some government agencies, promising them safety and good things. At the end of the day, they were driven to a large new house on the edge of a town called Cottleville. They wore new clothes and laid in new beds. There was a closet full of new, unopened games and toys. There was a pantry and a refrigerator full of every kind of food except pretzels and pickles... The air in the house was colder than they were comfortable with, so they protected themselves with layers of clothes. Cady and her husband were settled in the first floor of the cavernous building, far away enough for Geral and Aria to ignore as they roamed the rooms of white. They had been content, but with two days, became infinitely bored and missed their mother.
She didn't think of her children until the sun set on the desert horizon, when she realized she hadn't eaten dinner with them and didn't even know where they were. She peeked around their temporary lodging and asked the clerk, but nothing... 'Those brats,' she thought, 'Is this their idea of a joke?' She watched talk shows on the hotel TV and smoked on the bed, until she fell asleep. Her empty head and disconnection from reality were a result of the culmination of everything she had been through, and she wasn't done yet. She woke at dawn. She sat up on the silky, warm bedding, glaring at the dim yellow glow behind the thick curtains. She thought of the kids and said, "God damn..." She walked the streets all day, visiting the places she imagined they would go, calling out their names. An older woman, witnessing her in need, offered her help. "No," their mom said. She was more embarrassed than concerned. She missed them, realized how much she loved them, then loved them more. Night fell and she found herself in front of a police station, staring at it intently, elusive plans slipping through her mind grasp. Slowly, she made her way to her quiet room and rested her head.

Aria and Geral rode quietly in the back of a roomy, deep blue SUV, playing with each other's hands, as Cady drove them to their new schools, talking cheerfully about their happy futures to no one. They glid past ranches and fields, bright gold under a powerful sun. Aria went into the administration office with Cady and Geral and waited while he was enrolled. The damage came when Geral was commanded to stay, and Cady led Aria away. "You're going to your own school with nice kids just like you!" Errrrrrah! Nnnnnnnhe!" Aria pleaded and pulled. Geral's face tensed, and he tried not to cry.
Geral calmed as he acquainted himself with the classroom. His eyes were caught by a girl sitting in the back row. She had long straight black hair. 'Lucy' was written on her name card in bold black marker. She seemed to have a supernatural quality, distinct from from her surroundings and classmates. Geral was the last student to enter, so he sat in the front row. Lucy paid fervent attention to the lesson, while Geral divided his between the teacher and everything else.
They walked together after school to Lucy's bus stop. Neither could think of something good enough to say to the other. They were silent. Geral hung around and waited with her, but this made her uncomfortable, and he left after a few minutes of ground-staring. Her bus would take her home to Rose Hill, and he was to return to Mist Vale.
Geral arrived at Aria's school, and she ran at full speed to embrace him, then empty her thoughts on him. She told him every detail of her day she could remember. She said it made her feel like the baking ham she had watched through a round-cornered rectangular window in the oven at their grandmother's house, one of the two times she had been there.Or maybe like one of those mythical pigs stuck through with a skewer, eating an apple, and rotating slowing behind a butchery window. Anyway, she was happy now to be hanging on Geral's arm again. Although, she uneasily sensed something had happened to him at school and he was distracted. They had missed their buses on purpose and trekked toward the place where they slept in the opposite of a hurry.
Aria always kicked off her shoes before stepping on the white-tan carpet, not out of cleanliness or respect for her guardians' rule, but because she liked the feel of the bristly fibers between her toes. Geral usually stomped right on in remaining defiantly shod. Sometimes he kept his sneakers on until wanted to put his feet up on his bed. Wearing shoes in this house felt right to him, since bare feet would contradict the fact that he felt uncomfortable and not the least bit at home.

Weepers over Heavy Times

It's

Alarming that my options are always shrinking, even just in relation to the time that passes.
---
Two-Bitch straddles a Dutch door an' hollers in at Siggy, "I'm a goin' git some fried crawfish, hon'! Yawn't any?!" She swings out on the door. "He-haw! Ride 'em --OH!" The hinges burst an' 2-Bitch falls flat on her bulbous front. "Aww, shit!"
It's all dusky out, air littered with lightnin' flies. Siggy trots out to the pitiful scene. "Damn, Toob... I love you like Hell, but... you suck, cuz you so stupid like that!"
"Shut up, I know!" Toob rolls over an' sighs.
"Well le's get dem crawf--" Sig starts to say, before *Fart!* Toob lets a stink bomb loose. "A'ight, I'm gone," Sig hops off the porch an' shuffles away.
"He-haww-hee-haw!" Toob has zero shame and less dignity. Sig's at the gate by the travel trail, Two-Bitch shouts, "Oo, git me some hushy pups too!!"

The weepers loom over Siggy as she strolls to Mr. Luther's Chow House. The dark times weigh heavy an' sneaky demon-wisps swoop 'tween the brambles 'cross the path of raw earth. Indigo-violet tears plop outta Siggy's eye slits and tumbles along her rouged green face. On she marches full of regret and misplaced heroism.

Toob crawls into the life-room and squirms under the Pit. Right away she's sopping like a pig if they sweated. She grabs an armful of coals orange and hot as young stars. The rogue black whisper, that Toob hides under the back of of her wig, keeps harm at bay. She's not as stupid as she lets on. She never planned to go to Luth's for craws tonight. There's a partic'lar heavy Deem comin' down on Poss Bore Hill soon... an' if 2-Bitch does right -er, wrong, rather- then all them Life-deporters are in for a rude s'prise. "Hee-haww!" She swallows dem-orb after dem-orb till her rosy belly bulges with sinister gluttonous glee. "Shit's goin' down an' at las' lil Tooby's gone be up top!! Hawww."

Siggy gets real serious worry, when jus' as Luth's house pops in view, she ses the moon high an' glowin' pale blood-colored; stranger still it's shimmerin' and shakin' like a fire bug in a jam jar.

DC Dog Fire Cloud

I and my fellow delegates lounge in the spacious gazebo sipping dark red wine. We look out across the pristine green lawn at the moderately populated boardwalk and the clear rippling river. An enormous red, white, and blue papery pinwheel blocks a third of the sky. The piano man plays reserved classical tunes that blend with Louis Armstrong's crooning coming from a nearby phonograph. We mumble locally-known names and chuckle weakly. The sun sets slowly...
A grinning dog on fire ambles and hops onto the lawn, screaming much like a man in unbelievable pain. The canine stalls and falls, yelling mercilessly, consumed by monstrous flames that set the grass alight. Fire tears towards the river and gazebo, the dusk splashed by orange. We continue to imbibe and quietly converse.
I rise upwards, lifted by my shoulders. I bid my compatriots adieu. They are disinterested. I drift through the ceiling and roof in a ghostly fashion. 83 meters above and to the east is a miserly cloud with white arms reaching for me, pulling me along for a ride. Mr. Cloud moans and sobs with disdain and contempt. We float away, I a few meters under his curled fingers, blissfully aware of my inexorable exit from this arcane temporary stage.

Lulululeileila

Lulululeileila got fired when xhe fired up the grill.
Grand entrance.
Glad to make your acquaintance.
My name is Lulululeileila Xo!, pronounced 'loo loo loo lay lay luh zo!'. The exclamation mark must be included. 'Xhe' can be pronounced, 'zay' or 'je' like in French. It means that I am not identified as either male or female, and my sex or gender, or lack of thereof, or any physical or grammatical identifier, is not yours to know or label, and vice versa.
I know I am just a character created by Gregory Wredberg, who was lying on a bed propped up by two pillows tapping (approximately) this on a smartphone at 12:02 a.m., but then "Unfortunately S Memo [...] stopped running," and now he is typing most of this from memory in the apartment complex business center at 12:23 a.m. *clicks Save*
I suppose I am more than just these words on a screen. I would give you some of my back story, but I ain't got one. Part of my name might remind you of Layla from that The Kinks song. My 3rd person pronoun being 'xhe', I find that comparison apt.
I suppose I can read Gregory's thoughts, and he can read (or write) mine. I suppose my thoughts might be included in his. At least we share some of our thoughts, and now so do you. These might not just be thoughts that he/we give to you; these thoughts are totally your own, because you can read and understand our English, can'tchoo? ":}{:"Can'tchoo if I can, can'tchoo if I cain't."{"?:}:{

Is all uv it over --Every real person-- ?

... Anyway, I've got 16 siblings you don't know. My 2nd house was light blue. My first house is orange tan. I lived an cocker beagle. At 14 years old, I was the head of my body, and I completed and storied in 1500 words. On my way, at perilous paces, toward 15,000 words, in time. I never had a life. It was not too hard, all the reeling and writhing for naught, to accentuate and articulate and formulate and actualize my verbiage conundrum.

The End

.... Or Did They!!!!!... !. The End. Period. Period " " {{{description of something that is not there}}}

Bye

Talk to you later,
Love, Greg

Quirky and the Elephant’s Brigade!

In the time when dinosaurs roamed the land, there lived a bright, shiny puppy named Gregory. He frolicked all day and night without a care in the world. Some days when a mean dinosaur approached him looking for trouble, Gregory growled his mightiest growl, and the dinosaur would quickly gallop away. Gregory slept in a small cave near a big rock, called Enchanted Rock. When Gregory awoke with the sunrise each morning, he would race out of his cave and climb Enchanted Rock all the way to the top. He stood there proudly for a moment and stared at the Valley of Boulders, which was the area from the Mystic Mountains to the Sparkling Lake. When he came down from the rock he pounced in the bushes looking for a big, tasty bug for breakfast. When the sun was high in the sky, Gregory lay on the warm ground of the valley and slept. He jumped into the Sparkling Lake often and swam in circles near the shore. It was a very large lake and Gregory had never seen the other side. Gregory returned to the top of Enchanted Rock and watched the sun set behind the Mystic Mountains. Gregory dreamed of traveling over the mountains and finding the place where the sun went at night. Gregory didn’t know why the sun had to leave every night, but he forgave it since it returned every morning.

One cold morning Gregory woke before dawn. It was just light enough to see in his cave. He stared across the land at the grey sky. He kicked around a rock with his front paw. It was quiet. He could hear the wind whistle through his cave. He lay still and slept more. He woke up again to his growling stomach. He walked out and saw two big tyrannosauri walking towards each other. When they met, they began to fight. It was very violent, and the dinosaurs looked angry, like they wanted to kill each other. Their fight came towards Gregory, and he leaped into a bush for protection. One of the dinosaurs smashed the other into Gregory’s cave and destroyed it. Gregory jumped from his bush and barked at the remaining dinosaur. It stood still for a moment then headed to the Valley of Boulders. Gregory followed still barking angrily. Once in the valley, the dinosaur ran faster than Gregory could follow, and Gregory quit barking. All over the valley the dinosaurs were fighting each other. Gregory was scared. He ran into the Sparkling Lake and swam for miles. When he could not swim anymore, he drowned to death.

A second later, a meteor struck the earth, and all of the dinosaurs died. Ten million years later, I sat at a table with John, Jacob, Mary, and Susan. They spit in my face, and I peed my pants and cried. I had my backpack on as I walked on the brown, crunchy leaves going home. My name was Jeremy. I was 72 years old. That was sixty years after now anyway. I was also twelve. Now was 9:37 p.m. February 17, 2004. I wished I hadn’t said that. I wished I had said something. I swept the road at night. Then after making me wait a while, Jerry moved and said something. I thought he was incompetent, but I admired him. We walked along the empty street at night, in that nice, quiet, small town in Northern Virginia. There were lights on each side of the street, and peaceful, welcoming houses. Jerry mentioned something about Gregory and a puppy, but I wasn’t listening. I was thinking about a girl... I didn’t know what to say to make it special. I wondered what I should have said. I wanted to tell her about Harble and his office building at sunrise. Why would she care though? Only I think it means something. It doesn’t mean anything. I wanted to meet Harble. I wanted to be Harble.

Kintow

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Bbbrrrrrmmmmm. Thunder rolls.
T-t-t, chs-chs-chshh. Rain splatters the window.
Bzz, crshkcrshkrsh. TV static buzzes and crackles.
Clop. Clop. Clop. Mom walks to answer the door.
Heeheeheehahaha!
Grandpa laughs childishly at his TV tray of peas and carrot and mashed potatoes with butter.
He plays peeka-boo with the food. He sticks out his tongue and blows - pllllbbbbtttttthh. Saliva sprays and drips.
The supine child's gaze rolls along the white slick ceiling. From there on the floor, it's two or three of her lengths away. Every one of her muscles, except her eyes, relinquishes itself to gravity, sagging into a scruffy carpet the color and dankness of snow on a busy city street, distant as that is. Then her arms and legs sway to their own wild will. She swims by not moving or seeing or hearing...
Thunder crashes. Rain plummets and splashes the ghostly wood and pale vinyl on the idyllic isolated farmhouse.
Mom lets Dad in.
He drips and, "Jesus!"
She's, "Sorry."
He's, "For what?!" Because nature is loud.
"Just," she takes his jacket.
"Ehh..!"
The child stares at them through the foyer doorway. "Hi, Molly! How ya doin'?" He waits two seconds, motionless and staring her way. No response. "Yeah, well, me too."
Heeheeheehahaha! Plbbbttt. Heehah!
Bzztz, Crshkrkrkshh...
Drip, drop, plink, plonk, pshh, pshh, splat, tip, tap.
Kssshhhhh-brrrrrrmmmmm!
Ding dong! The doorbell rings.
Thirty seconds have passed since Dad knocked.
Dad opens the door for a smiling man under a brown cap holding a half-man-sized brown cardboard cube with black cow spots printed on it. He sets it down on the wood floor and leaves.
The child begins to swell with interest in the man and his box, but she hides it and turns the other way to super-old, insane Grandpa. Heehah! Peekaboo! Her eyes glaze, and a chill creeps down her spine. Her arms hold her tightly. Her eyes close. She breathes out deeply and releases her tensions further into the musty carpet.
The child faintly senses everything around her at once. "Half a doze-... Two today?!... Why doesn't it ever-... Then three or four... just... again..." from the foyer.
The food stinks. The carpet emits wide-ranging odors from weeks of weather and walking. The rain is fresh and clean. Grandpa rots. Mom and Dad steam and boil over, grimy, sweet, and sweaty.
There are cowboys chasing Indians and Indians chasing cowboys on the fuzzy, ancient TV. Who knows of they're real or not?
Bing bong! The door-dell brings.
Another thirty seconds have passed. The girl rolls onto her stomach. Her short white T-shirt twists and cinches, embracing her lovingly.
The man brings a cow-boxed shape in-too the in-house. It is placed by placing, now a stack of two identical cubes.
He leaves. The child stretches. Her purple shorts bunch up tight, like she likes it.
She turns and rolls and gazes and stares.
Boom! Crash!
Splish! Splatter!
Bzz, crshshkr.
Peeka-boo! Teeheehahahee!
"Five-fifty!?... NO, you DON'T!... Eleven, ten K... I don't eve-..."
She focuses in on one melody of dripping rain. Plip... ploop..plop, plip. Everything else drains away. Beside the bottom of the front porch steps in the grass is a little puddle gathering rain. Two pecan-sized black beetles jump in and paddle around helplessly, but they seem to like it...
Ting Tong! Doordle-ings.
Thirty more seconds've passed.
Brown box-man sets down another moo-cube on the floor. He goes again.
The afternoon fades as the storm blackens. Life slows to a haze. The girl swims very deep and far. She stretches into another world. From a circle of carpet around her a small sunny-green dome softly gathers upward and cocoons her. Blue spots and white clouds shine at her, tiny and close. She is warm and giddy. She giggles and grins. Her black locks sparkle and splash on her head. Her white skin beams red. Baby-sized black-spotted white cartoon cows prance around her. Mouses click, click.
She slips and slides through windows and Bliss.
Why not?
She hides her fortune. Grandpa stares at her all serious. ... Plllbbtttthh, drip. Heeeeeeehaahahh!
The girl's insides are exploding. She writhes and quietly squeal-hums. Dad walks in, eyes cast down, "What the hell..?"
"Just ignore her," Mom breezes past to the light-drenched kitchen to do work.
"Whatever floats your boat." He strolls behind Mom, passing Grandpa. Plllllbbbbbtttttttt- "Shaddup! ... Jesus... Damn retard--"
"Hey!!" Mom scowls and cleans.
The girl shrinks into her shivery skin and lies straight up. Her eyes feel open and broken. She stares at the ceiling, ignoring the rest. She reluctantly accepts her awareness of her real life.

always ben and will

I know how to always be a quark's flavor.
I am the best at being eternity's forever!
My name is Ben.
I work in a car.
ym dneirf si lliW.
We play with thin wheat bread and white cow cheese.
I love my self.
I am happy almost every morning; my two shiny fully functional human hands appear before my two fully functional beautiful eyes.
Before yesterday and after tomorrow.
Three Days Will never die for you.
It happened again.
I Will pop the universal red balloon skin.
Inside the balloon is not the balloon.
Candy fun party colors apricot pit penis saliva.
Goose pimples Ben's arm, every day to work and forward. My car is a Pathfinder. It's eleven hundred years old. My Star burnt out. Ben change it out with two fingers. Two friends have lists to read out loud to each other. Light is fake.
Lake fight. Flight lake. Light flake.
Charles choose me. Will fell; Ben did not slow or look back. I give you my secret.
A flow below, we uncovered.
Charles Beckett chuckle the floor and a half years, but she hides the same man, and I will be a great place for a smiling face. I have been getting Monday night and day out of town for work and play with the help of my favorite part of the most passionate you.
Will live for ever.
Urgent Heidi's itch neurobiology.

J J J G C C C

Julia Grobe drove from home to Mr. Crumbdick's history class. Jane gave her a Danish with strawberry. Carrol had a sore on the back of his left hand, Julia saw he looked sad and distracted. Crumbdick slapped the green chalkboard with a lecture stick. Julia felt her oily hair that was not black and not as short as the hair on any of the boys' heads.

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She felt fatigue drag thru her body. She imagined herself sinking into watery shadows off a cliff in the ocean. She found herself staring at a poster of lesser known U. S. presidents. She mouthed 'what's the point.' She imagined her lunch period with
anticipation. Sandwiches and sodas and talk about school games and music. She remembered her dad is coming to visit this week. She thought of zoos and chameleons. Carter tapped her chair with his foot. She looked over her left shoulder to see him making a V with his fore and middle fingers and flicking his tongue in the opening. He turned and snickered with his pal Clement. Julia's face tensed into a stony jagged frown quickly turned forward. She flipped her middle finger at him. To Julia's left, Josie rolled her eyes. Josie imagined throwing her desk at the window, screaming, and running outside. It was a pretty perfect day.

Mr. Crumbdick said, Excuse me, shuffled to the door, fumbled with the knob, and left. Two unnamed kids chuckled out loud, and 12 curled their lips and suppressed it. Jaqueline stood up and drew on the chalkboard a heart shape pierced by an arrow. Clement stared at her blue-jeaned ass, and his blue-jeaned penis became engored with blood. Jane looked around the room and thought of the names for the colors and shapes she saw...

Greg sat in the center of the room and wrote on a blue lined white sheet, 'I killed my family and raped a school.' Josie felt so horny and hungry and trapped that she almost cried. She laid her right arm on her desk and rested her forehead on her sweatered forearm. She sighed, trying to make no sound. She clenched her jaw and fists and squished her eyes closed as hard as she could. She thought of her little sister at home taking a bath and she felt the urge to laugh...

A feeling rose from deep within Josie. She focused on it. She began to relax.

Carrol strode determinedly toward the exit. The feeling climbed through Josie's throat. Instinctively she charged to the door, hand clasped over mouth, bashed Carrol away, and dripped bright reddish bluish vomit on his jeans. She hurtled down the hall to the Girls' Room. Groans and exclamations of disgust rang out from the class. Carrol was stunned, back against the wall for a few long seconds. He snuck out to the Boys' Room. Josie spat a mouthful of candy bile into the sink, went into a stall, sat on the floor, and sobbed.

Joesie, sits by the front doors. Hands folded, head down. She waits for her dad. She is going home.

The Locksmith

1

Newspaper in his lap, ice cream by his side, lying in his reclined chair, his eyes half open, he gazed wearily at the grey snowy tropical island on the decrepit television. “$2999” appeared on the screen. Five thousand thoughts went through Harold Richmond’s mind after seeing this and before nodding back off to sleep.
The sun was still out the next day. Harold longed for another cool, cloudy day. He walked to work down a cracked sidewalk. When they saw Harold Richmond, the people across the street were glad they were. It would be all right. He would be indoors soon. His miserable existence was only a footnote in the happy, exciting lives of everyone else. He was generally a kind and reasonable person. Maybe if someone saw this in him, he would not have been in the state he was. At the top of the steps to the shop, Harold’s boss, Carl Horowitz, waited impatiently.
The day was put away as every other, and Harold walked back to his apartment to go through his nightly routine. In a replica of last night, Harold made a decision for his life. Inspired by the same $2999 tropical island vacation commercial, he vowed he would get away from this sadness. No money in his possession made dreams more difficult to make real. He had a job in a trusted profession. He would suddenly become a lot less trustworthy.

2

The next well to do couple to come crawling to the mercy of Mr. Horowitz and his services were named Grollinger. Harold argued with himself every second of the day and night, which was a little more than usual for him. He finally decided that trying to do something, even if he failed (even if it was illegal), would be much better than doing nothing at all. He made one too many keys for the old, stranded pair and slipped it into his front pocket. That night he sat alert and upright in his living room staring at the key as he turned and twisted it in front of his face in the dimness of the only light coming from his kitchen ceiling. He had overheard a conversation between the shriveled, rich kooks. They were to be out this night until midnight. His stopwatch showed 10:39. He had better get going.
He drove mischievously to the shining mansion in the moonlight. He’d brought two black bags with him. Scared to death he slipped the golden key into the great brass lock. Quickly and surprisingly skillful (to himself), he packed the bags with valuables and left before 11:09. Hitting every other pawnshop he saw he cashed in and earned more than he had expected. Filled with a long-forgotten excitement, Harold tensely but under control made his way to the airport where his vision of apparent happiness awaited his arrival. He sweated nervously all of the way on the jet liner. Stinking like a pig, he departed the craft, taxied to a hotel, showered and lay on one of the double beds. Satisfied by the situation and relieved of his assumed safety, he gazed wearily with half open eyes at a television that did not work so well. It had begun to rain. The grey snowy static and its noise, suddenly realized by Harold, filled him with a deep, dark depression. He was where he had been when he decided to do something about it. He was tired and closed his eyes completely to try to bring on the sleep that would be an only remedy to drown out his melancholy.

3

Just on the brink of a beginning dream, a hard tapping on his hotel door, numbered 113, viciously awoke Harold. In the midst of all his panic, bewilderment and fear of the hand that had made the noise Harold sprang off the bed knocking off a lamp beside it with his knee. Another knock sent the frantic Harold racing for the window in the bathroom in the back. He forced it open with some trouble and began the impossible task of squeezing though it. As he hoisted himself up on the toilet the door was violently flung agape. With one arm and a head jutting out into the cool ocean breeze, Harold was shot twice from behind, and falling back into the bathroom and slamming the back of his head into the hard-tiled wall, he was knocked unconscious.
When he awoke the next day in a hospital bed, he still felt the fear and panic of the night before but also a disabling pain. People in white came and went, caring for him as they saw fit. He was gradually improving. Soon he was out of bed and in a wheelchair. It was many days later that he discovered he was still at the beach and that he had not seen the sun once save for the first night in the hotel when he had his head out the bathroom window and he caught a glimpse of it rising in the rain. One day on a request he was wheeled outside on a concrete platform. He was pointed at the sea. He felt a cool wind on his face. The water was dark and turbulent, and the sky was grey and serene. As he gazed up at it, he smiled for the first time in a very long while.

“C” Assignment Story

He used map colours to draw the forest. He stole through this forest, and when he came out to a field, he was wet, and he carried a flat-screen plasma Dell computer monitor. He smiled at the sun that was setting. A flying animal was flyin' at him from the northwest at a declining angle of 18 degrees. When it got near him, it turned and flew into the sun and burned black. When the bird went by, Timothe dropped his monitor, and it disappeared as it touched the grass that was leaning 78 degrees from the ground. Timothe exited the drawing, and when he sat back in a chair, he felt like a giant one thousand times bigger than a normal sized human. His clothes were black, and he thought of the flying animal all black after it flew into a sun. He almost cried, but he was too scared. A teacher was talking about a bathroom, and two children laughed. Timothe lowered his head onto the wood flat desk in front of him. A white cloud rose beneath him. Falling through it, he saw and felt a soft, green tree as his hair grew shorter and lighter. He felt like a a good boy, since a mushroom told him so. Soon though it was dirty and dark, and he has scared again but in a different way. He almost cried, because he did not want to die. He thought of his grandmother, who he thought was dead. He saw her in the darkness. She was gone after a moment, and Timothe saw dark yellow and orange spots in the darkness. He thought of Julia, who was a girl, who said, "I'm sorry," when she learned that his grandmother was dead. It made him sad to think of his grandmother all dead and in darkness for eternity, so he crawled out of a sideways hole and was not dirty. He thought of what grass feels like but could not remember exactly. Today he wished was over. Completing a round trip to collect water for people. If he helped like that, like he had seen in movies, he might not feel so useless. He ate and sat and breathed and got uncomfortable and strained and made pain for his muscle and bone. Carla worked at a bookstore and did not bother herself or waste her time with impossible dreams or fantastic wishes. She saw Timothe from behind the checkout counter at a bookstore, while she was working. Jane was his mother, and he followed her into the store and walked slowly around looking. Carla did not like his face, but she thought he was interesting, because he was weird. It was sunny outside, and some of the sunlight shined into the store. It was Friday, January 11, 18163. Timothe kicked the bottom of the door frame as he was leaving the bookstore after his mother. Carla glanced at him, and she thought he tripped. She almost laughed, and then her left eye felt dry. She rubbed it with her left hand. She had purple nail polish on. She looked down 41 degrees with her right eye at a book titled, "The Long Loss When We Watch the Summer Pass on Our Decks, Porches, or Patios." Ten feet outside the store, Timothe rubbed his right eye with his right hand as he noticed a long green leaf of a plant with his left eye. Julia was walking on the corner by a different kind of plant 12.352 meters to the northwest of Tim. She lifted her left foot with a Nike shoe on it. The reason she was there was because she was looking for her mother, who

Little Green Coke People

[ Read this in the voice of a sick coughing person ]

Oh, I forgot the wax over the... sun can, and I pulled out the crane from the sidewalk, and she said...

Uh, I'm not even here right now, so I built a straight bridge perpendicular to the ground right in the middle of the road.

It was 30 feet wide and 8,000 feet tall, and if you got in a car, you could use your legs and walk straight up the bridge, and when you got to the end, you would just dip down into some crystal clear water, crystal cool water, and the water would eat your legs off, and your little bony nubs right under your butt would walk along the little bright coral Legend of Zelda, Sonic the Hedgehog beach front property, and two fish made of octopuses would attach to your bony thigh nubs, and you would be able to walk 3000% faster, and you would walk all the way to the store, where you could chop your left hand off and use it to buy a 67 ounce bottle of Green Coca-Cola, and you would unscrew the top, and the carbonation would melt your eyeballs, and so they would droop down off your face and also kinda freeze, or then they would become semi-solid and float and flap in front of your face like dog tongues, and then you could see 1700% better, and then you would pour the Green Coke.

You would stick the top of it in your bellybutton and drink it all through your bellybutton, and then your bellybutton would eat the bottle made of plastic, and then a little hole in your left side would open up, and a little factory would pop out and process the plastic and turn it into little people, who represent Lemmings from the video game of the same name, and they would be able to walk on the air and go anywhere, and they can create any type of matter, that does or doesn't currently exist, and they can replicate themselves, and so they can go anywhere, and they can get as small as they want to, but they can't get bigger than 6 inches tall and 2 inches wide, so they can go anywhere, though, and it only takes them 1 over X amount of time to get there, and they can turn their bodies - they start with little green bodies made of Coke plastic, but then they can turn themselves - they can produce anything real or imagined out of their bodies, and they do this about half their time, 50% of their time, exactly 50% of their time, and the other 50%, they're either resting or having social interactions for pleasure, and so that's basically what reality is for us, so, and these little green Coke people never die, and they never change, unless they want to, and they all waited in line to meet GOD HIMSELF, and they all grabbed onto the hairs of HIS long white beard, and they shake GOD'S hand 50 at a time.

50 of them shake GOD'S hand at one time, and GOD invites them back for some pasta salad and tuna fish, and then my legs grew back, but it felt like the blood inside was made of acid and lead, and so I just tacked them up to the sky, and all my insides spilled out of my mouth *burp*, and I just grabbed onto two birds, who were passing by on their way to The Watering Hole, which is the name of a night club on top of OPRAH'S MANSION, and I just grabbed onto their tail feathers, and I was ripped away and just floating, and each bird weighed about 1.1 pound, I mean, each bird weighed .1 pound, and I weighed .11 pounds, and my clothes all turned brown, very pale brown and became tatters, and my penis and I became about 3 feet long, and my penis was also 3 feet long, and I began to cry purple bubbly tears, and it landed on top of all the houses and everyone's yards and all the buildings everywhere and on all the land and the roads, and the bubbles popped up into everyone's faces, and there were these clear gases that were released all over the place, and it made everyone feel like they had just kissed someone, and they smiled and kinda laughed, because they knew they hadn't, but

it still felt like they had just woken up, and they all gave each other high fives and tapped each other on the butt and then just all held hands and walked in unison to the next thing they had to do today.

Goodbye

Sam and Thom

This is a fiction. Any similarities to real life is unbelievable and purely coincidence.

Arthur Milner drove a rusty pickup thru fog on a quiet Route 14 at 9 a.m. sleepily. Spring grass grew past knee height. Sam stood at her simple strawberries selling stand.

She waited for the buyers of her strawberries. She was waiting and looking out for cars coming. Arthur's eyelids dipped and bobbed. The tires hit the rumble strip; he jumped.

Sam watched and waited and grabbed the wooden counter and the handles of the baskets for her large red ripe strawberries, grown on a farm a few miles from here. Fog was beginning to lift, this would be a clear bright day. 16

Mary Thompson drove her beige F150 past the Plains Motel on state highway 9. Her family had owned it for 76 years. She was pretty blond and 32 years old, born January 2nd in the 2nd half of the 20th century. She was a character in this story, written by me, now. A grey day time,

The End

Ego-youthful

Friday, August 31, 2018

Should Po Em

Me in My Inside-out Day

Wednesday, August 29, 2018

The Fruit of Yours ( Walks at Dawn )

Saturday, August 25, 2018

Friday, August 24, 2018

Some Hemingway Free Write

Wednesday, August 22, 2018

Some Poem, Middle: Wednesday 8-22-2018

Wednesday, August 15, 2018

Monday, August 6, 2018

It All Happens

Stead Fast

Reply to Juan, Internet Is Great

Sunday, August 5, 2018