Monday, May 2, 2011
Voice of Cyntheia Proctor(as seen in Raymond's Run)
I'm just too smart for them. All of those low-life kids worry about tests and quizzes when I can just relax and watch television. None of them are as smart in the Spelling Bee as I am, especially 'Squeaky'. She thinks that she can barge into anyone's life and take over. She can't even play the piano! The nerve of some people. I could play with one hand behind my back, blindfolded. All she can do is run. What's the fun of that? You just get all sweaty an' tired. For what, a golden trophy? please, I have more piano trophies.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Midwest Miracle Session No.1
NOTE: There are two mini-section specials after the fictional story itself, one describing the Gatling Gun’s modern variants, and the other, a short biography about the life of R.J. Gatling. And although this is a small piece, I have broken into two chapters.
NOTES
~1861-1862 of testing
~Patented in 1865
~Orders from US, Russia, Turkey, Hungary, and many more.
~R.J. Gatling [Indianapolis, Indiana]
~Not big impact, very useful, jammed up a lot
~Remodeled and refitted new, sleek design at Cooper’s Firearms Manufactory in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.
~Modern Variant{s}
IN 1862, R.J. GATLING, A RESIDENT OF INDIANAPOLIS, INDIANA, CREATED THE WORLD’S FIRST RELIABLE, STURDY AND POWERFUL, MACHINE GUN, APPROPRIATELY NAMED THE GATLING GUN. THIS LOG IS SCAVENGED FROM MANY PAGES OF AN ADOLESCENT WHOM HELPED DR. GATLING AT THE TIME.
Chapter 1
FEBRUARY 22ND, 1862
"My name is Harold Marston. The date is February 22nd, 1862. I have recently turned 6 and 10 years old (16 years old) and I am visiting my friend, Doctor Gatling, in his workshop across town. He was ecstatic the other day, and stated I arrive at his barn immediately."
Harold walked out the door and took a left turn onto an old, drab dirt road, a very common sight in a growing America. Horses and buggies crossed every which way, waving and smiling citizens called out a greeting to Harold. The town of Indianapolis was small at the time. Not very many people had lived in it. Harold walked across the town, just as he wrote, and past two or there plantations, an amazing 6 miles! When he arrived, Dr. Gatling had greeted him outside.
“Harold! Welcome, my boy, welcome!” Shouted the Doctor.
“Hello, Richard. Say, what is this big news you’ve been talking about?”
“Oh, my boy, it’s only the greatest invention in all of time! Come! Come!” Smiled Richard as he motioned Harold into the barn. The barn was very untidy; there were cobwebs, dead insects, and an awful smell. In the center of the first floor, lay an oddly shaped object, covered in a white silk tarp.
“Ah hah. Here she is, Harold: the greatest contraption ever conceived by man.” Richard smiled.
“It all looks really quite intriguing, but, what is it?” Replied Harold.
“Harold, my boy, I give you- the Gatling Gun!” Said Richard as he pulled the tarp away.
Harold couldn’t believe it; there were two wheels, made of oak, holding up a colossal cylinder of steel, with six holes out the front. A crank-handle lay horizontally off the right side.
“My God! What is that?!” Shouted Harold in shock.
“This, Harold, is a multi-barrel automatic firing, mounted gun. Used for plowing down those Southern scum!” Replied Richard, ”I’ve already measured it: 1,200 rounds per minute! That’s 20 rounds per second!”
“Wow, this is very overwhelming.” Said Harold, in shock of disbelief and surprise.
“Quick! Let’s take it into town, and find a government fellow to patent it for us!”
“Sounds good!” Harold shouted.
The two inventors rolled the contraption to the outside of the barn, attached it to a rope, and attached the rope to two horses, whom carried it into town. Harold stood on an old milk carton, and prepared his speech:
“Ladies and Gentleman, of the wonderful city of Indianapolis! My name, is Richard Jordon Gatling. And with me today, my accomplice, and my successor, Harold, uh, Marston! We bring you good fortune today, in hopes of defeating the wretched place called the South. Harold, please, remove the tarp. As my successor is showing you now, I have created a weapon. A mass war machine, capable of firing 20 rounds per second!”
Murmurs and expressions of pleasure arose from the crowd.
“This weapon,” the Doctor continued, “will decimate the enemy, within a week!”
The crowd began to plummet towards the inventor, suffocating him with questions.
“How much will it cost?”
“Will you build more?”
“When will we see it in action?”
The crowd was very anxious to know the answers. All Richard could do was sit there and think of one answer.
“I plan to take it to Philadelphia, to Cooper’s Firearms Manufacturer. They will guide me through the next step towards victory!”
The crowd cheered, as Harold and Richard wheeled the war machine back to the barn. Once they reached the barn, the mosquitoes were beginning to come out, and night began to fall.
“Well, Dr. Gatling, I really must be heading home now.” Sighed Harold
“Okay, Harold! I will see you here in the morning. The break of dawn!” Shouted Richard from inside the barn.
“What do you mean?” Asked a confused Harold
“What do I mean? Harold! You are accompanying me to Cooper’s. We leave on horseback tomorrow!” Said Richard as he walked out of the barn.
“Doctor, I-I can’t. I must attend the schoolhouse, and feed the livestock. You can’t possibly expect me to-“
“I do and I will.” Interrupted the Doctor, “I will see you tomorrow.” He said as the barn doors slowly shut.
Harold let out a large sigh, and began to walk home. On the way, he walked past a fellow, who was heavy on drinking Bourbon and Scotch, two popular alcoholic beverages at the time. Harold had bumped into him, spilling the Bourbon.
“Hey! Watch where you’re walking.” Bellowed the man.
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry, sir. I didn’t see you there, in the dark.”
“Oh? Well, the name’s Clarence, Federal Bureau agent.”
“You work for the government?”
“Yeah. You got a problem with that?”
“No! No! It’s just, you seem so…so-“
“So what?”
“Never mind that, I must be going now.”
“Take your time, now!” Said Clarence, as he walked drunkenly away.
Chapter 2
Harold awoke the next morning, right before the sun came up. He got prepared in his finest silk suit, snuck out of his home via window, and met Dr. Gatling at the barn on the other side of Indianapolis. Again, Richard was waiting for him outside, with the gun already strapped to a pair of horses.
“Good morning, Harold. Let’s begin, Philadelphia is a long ways away.”
“Okay, can we just go now?”
Harold and Richard climbed aboard the wagon, and began to travel Southeast. The sun shone high above Lake Erie later that day. Unfortunately, Harold had no idea of the temperature that day. It was a scorching 102o, and he wore a heavy silk suit. Brown polyester did not help keep the sunlight out, either. The horses became worn out by the obscene weight of the gun. They stopped for a drink and Harold bathed in a nearby stream. After a refreshing swim, they were on their way again. It became close to nightfall when they reached Akron, Ohio. They parked outside a saloon/Hotel, and spent the night there.
Yet another morning came, when the Doctor and Harold awoke to the sound of clackity-clackity-clack. Harold knew these sounded like horse hooves. He looked out the window, only to see their buggy being taken down the street! Harold rushed to Richard’s room, and they got out of the hotel, carrying loose luggage and clothing.
“Stop! Thief!” Screamed Gatling
“Hey! Give it back!” Yelled Harold.
But they were too late, and the buggy had continued on, down the trail.
“What now?” Asked Harold
“We return home.” Replied a disappointed Doctor.
The two began to walk down main street as the sun rose over a cantina. Not much time passed, before Harold and Richard heard cries of help. Reluctantly, they investigated the source.
“Help! Help! Those men just took my horse! Can you get it back for me, please?”
“Of course,” said Harold, “which way did they go?”
“That way, towards Philly!” Said the stranger, as he pointed Southeast.
“We’ll be right back.”
“Bless you, sirs! Bless you!” Said the man, as he waited by a tree.
Harold and Richard had soon traveled for at least an hour, before they spotted a large, black mass some 400 yards down the trail. There were 4 horses, surrounding a centrifuge wagon, carrying many belongings that clearly weren’t theirs.
“Stop there! Stop, I say!” Screamed Richard.
“Doc, they’re not gonna’ stop!”
“Let’s see if they can handle- this!” Said the doctor, as he pulled out a nickel-plated revolver.
“Doc! What are you gonna’ do with that? Shoot them?”
“No! No, just some warning shots!”
*Bang!*
*Zing!*
*Wham!*
Went the bullets. One lucky shot, the last one in the chamber, hit the wagon wheel, spiraling it out of control.
“We got him,” Said the doctor, smiling, “Come, let’s go!”
They stopped right in front of the wagon, only to find it was completely abandoned! Harold and Richard had found nothing but a tarp on the wagon, made of silk.
“Harold! Harold, look! It’s the gun, Harold! The gun!” Shouted the doctor with glee.
“Excellent! We had better get going back to tell the man his horse was never here.”
“No, we must continue. The weapon expo is in three days! Hurry, Harold!”
Harold helped the doctor onto the wagon, as they continued down the trail…
To be continued…
MODERN VARIANT(S)
The M134 “Micro-gun” is the Modern Variant of the Gatling gun. Able to fire M193 5.56 x 45 mm NATO Hollow-Point Cartridges at a rate of 2000 to 6000 rounds per minute, this often used military weapon is most commonly found strapped to the sides of multiple fixed-wing aircraft and military helicopters around the world. It has six barrels for firing: One barrel fires, two others are in different stages of shell extraction and another three are being loaded. Its earlier variants, the XM214 Chaingun and the M61 Vulcan, were capable of firing at an adjustable rate of 1000 RPM to a dumbfounding 10,000 RPM. U.S. Special Forces equipped the minigun as an option during Desert Storm, but cut it due to the portable issues. If one were to carry a personal minigun holding 1000 rounds that would weigh in at 65lbs., then with the proper arithmetic, those 1000 rounds could be shot and emptied in a short, constant 16 seconds.
RICHARD JORDAN GATLING
Richard Jordon Gatling was an inventor, fisherman, clerk, and shopkeeper until he founded the Gatling Gun company and Manufacturer in 1862. Richard had over 48 patents, including his most famous, the Gatling Gun. He was born on September 12th, 1818, and died on February 26th, 1903. In 1911, the US military declared his machine-gun “obsolete”. Gatling was elected as the first president of the American Association of Inventors and Manufacturers in 1891, serving for six years.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
E. Frank Stephenson, Jr. "The Gatling Gun." 24 October 2006. The North Carolinian Museum of History. 29 March 2011.
McSherry, P. (n.d.). The Gatling Gun. Retrieved 4 1, 2011, from Spanam War: http://www.spanamwar.com/Gatling.htm
Hamill, J. (1998). Richard Jordan Gatling. Retrieved Avril 4, 2011, from Free Masonry: http://freemasonry.bcy.ca/biography/gatling_r/gatling_r.html
NOTES
~1861-1862 of testing
~Patented in 1865
~Orders from US, Russia, Turkey, Hungary, and many more.
~R.J. Gatling [Indianapolis, Indiana]
~Not big impact, very useful, jammed up a lot
~Remodeled and refitted new, sleek design at Cooper’s Firearms Manufactory in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.
~Modern Variant{s}
IN 1862, R.J. GATLING, A RESIDENT OF INDIANAPOLIS, INDIANA, CREATED THE WORLD’S FIRST RELIABLE, STURDY AND POWERFUL, MACHINE GUN, APPROPRIATELY NAMED THE GATLING GUN. THIS LOG IS SCAVENGED FROM MANY PAGES OF AN ADOLESCENT WHOM HELPED DR. GATLING AT THE TIME.
Chapter 1
FEBRUARY 22ND, 1862
"My name is Harold Marston. The date is February 22nd, 1862. I have recently turned 6 and 10 years old (16 years old) and I am visiting my friend, Doctor Gatling, in his workshop across town. He was ecstatic the other day, and stated I arrive at his barn immediately."
Harold walked out the door and took a left turn onto an old, drab dirt road, a very common sight in a growing America. Horses and buggies crossed every which way, waving and smiling citizens called out a greeting to Harold. The town of Indianapolis was small at the time. Not very many people had lived in it. Harold walked across the town, just as he wrote, and past two or there plantations, an amazing 6 miles! When he arrived, Dr. Gatling had greeted him outside.
“Harold! Welcome, my boy, welcome!” Shouted the Doctor.
“Hello, Richard. Say, what is this big news you’ve been talking about?”
“Oh, my boy, it’s only the greatest invention in all of time! Come! Come!” Smiled Richard as he motioned Harold into the barn. The barn was very untidy; there were cobwebs, dead insects, and an awful smell. In the center of the first floor, lay an oddly shaped object, covered in a white silk tarp.
“Ah hah. Here she is, Harold: the greatest contraption ever conceived by man.” Richard smiled.
“It all looks really quite intriguing, but, what is it?” Replied Harold.
“Harold, my boy, I give you- the Gatling Gun!” Said Richard as he pulled the tarp away.
Harold couldn’t believe it; there were two wheels, made of oak, holding up a colossal cylinder of steel, with six holes out the front. A crank-handle lay horizontally off the right side.
“My God! What is that?!” Shouted Harold in shock.
“This, Harold, is a multi-barrel automatic firing, mounted gun. Used for plowing down those Southern scum!” Replied Richard, ”I’ve already measured it: 1,200 rounds per minute! That’s 20 rounds per second!”
“Wow, this is very overwhelming.” Said Harold, in shock of disbelief and surprise.
“Quick! Let’s take it into town, and find a government fellow to patent it for us!”
“Sounds good!” Harold shouted.
The two inventors rolled the contraption to the outside of the barn, attached it to a rope, and attached the rope to two horses, whom carried it into town. Harold stood on an old milk carton, and prepared his speech:
“Ladies and Gentleman, of the wonderful city of Indianapolis! My name, is Richard Jordon Gatling. And with me today, my accomplice, and my successor, Harold, uh, Marston! We bring you good fortune today, in hopes of defeating the wretched place called the South. Harold, please, remove the tarp. As my successor is showing you now, I have created a weapon. A mass war machine, capable of firing 20 rounds per second!”
Murmurs and expressions of pleasure arose from the crowd.
“This weapon,” the Doctor continued, “will decimate the enemy, within a week!”
The crowd began to plummet towards the inventor, suffocating him with questions.
“How much will it cost?”
“Will you build more?”
“When will we see it in action?”
The crowd was very anxious to know the answers. All Richard could do was sit there and think of one answer.
“I plan to take it to Philadelphia, to Cooper’s Firearms Manufacturer. They will guide me through the next step towards victory!”
The crowd cheered, as Harold and Richard wheeled the war machine back to the barn. Once they reached the barn, the mosquitoes were beginning to come out, and night began to fall.
“Well, Dr. Gatling, I really must be heading home now.” Sighed Harold
“Okay, Harold! I will see you here in the morning. The break of dawn!” Shouted Richard from inside the barn.
“What do you mean?” Asked a confused Harold
“What do I mean? Harold! You are accompanying me to Cooper’s. We leave on horseback tomorrow!” Said Richard as he walked out of the barn.
“Doctor, I-I can’t. I must attend the schoolhouse, and feed the livestock. You can’t possibly expect me to-“
“I do and I will.” Interrupted the Doctor, “I will see you tomorrow.” He said as the barn doors slowly shut.
Harold let out a large sigh, and began to walk home. On the way, he walked past a fellow, who was heavy on drinking Bourbon and Scotch, two popular alcoholic beverages at the time. Harold had bumped into him, spilling the Bourbon.
“Hey! Watch where you’re walking.” Bellowed the man.
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry, sir. I didn’t see you there, in the dark.”
“Oh? Well, the name’s Clarence, Federal Bureau agent.”
“You work for the government?”
“Yeah. You got a problem with that?”
“No! No! It’s just, you seem so…so-“
“So what?”
“Never mind that, I must be going now.”
“Take your time, now!” Said Clarence, as he walked drunkenly away.
Chapter 2
Harold awoke the next morning, right before the sun came up. He got prepared in his finest silk suit, snuck out of his home via window, and met Dr. Gatling at the barn on the other side of Indianapolis. Again, Richard was waiting for him outside, with the gun already strapped to a pair of horses.
“Good morning, Harold. Let’s begin, Philadelphia is a long ways away.”
“Okay, can we just go now?”
Harold and Richard climbed aboard the wagon, and began to travel Southeast. The sun shone high above Lake Erie later that day. Unfortunately, Harold had no idea of the temperature that day. It was a scorching 102o, and he wore a heavy silk suit. Brown polyester did not help keep the sunlight out, either. The horses became worn out by the obscene weight of the gun. They stopped for a drink and Harold bathed in a nearby stream. After a refreshing swim, they were on their way again. It became close to nightfall when they reached Akron, Ohio. They parked outside a saloon/Hotel, and spent the night there.
Yet another morning came, when the Doctor and Harold awoke to the sound of clackity-clackity-clack. Harold knew these sounded like horse hooves. He looked out the window, only to see their buggy being taken down the street! Harold rushed to Richard’s room, and they got out of the hotel, carrying loose luggage and clothing.
“Stop! Thief!” Screamed Gatling
“Hey! Give it back!” Yelled Harold.
But they were too late, and the buggy had continued on, down the trail.
“What now?” Asked Harold
“We return home.” Replied a disappointed Doctor.
The two began to walk down main street as the sun rose over a cantina. Not much time passed, before Harold and Richard heard cries of help. Reluctantly, they investigated the source.
“Help! Help! Those men just took my horse! Can you get it back for me, please?”
“Of course,” said Harold, “which way did they go?”
“That way, towards Philly!” Said the stranger, as he pointed Southeast.
“We’ll be right back.”
“Bless you, sirs! Bless you!” Said the man, as he waited by a tree.
Harold and Richard had soon traveled for at least an hour, before they spotted a large, black mass some 400 yards down the trail. There were 4 horses, surrounding a centrifuge wagon, carrying many belongings that clearly weren’t theirs.
“Stop there! Stop, I say!” Screamed Richard.
“Doc, they’re not gonna’ stop!”
“Let’s see if they can handle- this!” Said the doctor, as he pulled out a nickel-plated revolver.
“Doc! What are you gonna’ do with that? Shoot them?”
“No! No, just some warning shots!”
*Bang!*
*Zing!*
*Wham!*
Went the bullets. One lucky shot, the last one in the chamber, hit the wagon wheel, spiraling it out of control.
“We got him,” Said the doctor, smiling, “Come, let’s go!”
They stopped right in front of the wagon, only to find it was completely abandoned! Harold and Richard had found nothing but a tarp on the wagon, made of silk.
“Harold! Harold, look! It’s the gun, Harold! The gun!” Shouted the doctor with glee.
“Excellent! We had better get going back to tell the man his horse was never here.”
“No, we must continue. The weapon expo is in three days! Hurry, Harold!”
Harold helped the doctor onto the wagon, as they continued down the trail…
To be continued…
MODERN VARIANT(S)
The M134 “Micro-gun” is the Modern Variant of the Gatling gun. Able to fire M193 5.56 x 45 mm NATO Hollow-Point Cartridges at a rate of 2000 to 6000 rounds per minute, this often used military weapon is most commonly found strapped to the sides of multiple fixed-wing aircraft and military helicopters around the world. It has six barrels for firing: One barrel fires, two others are in different stages of shell extraction and another three are being loaded. Its earlier variants, the XM214 Chaingun and the M61 Vulcan, were capable of firing at an adjustable rate of 1000 RPM to a dumbfounding 10,000 RPM. U.S. Special Forces equipped the minigun as an option during Desert Storm, but cut it due to the portable issues. If one were to carry a personal minigun holding 1000 rounds that would weigh in at 65lbs., then with the proper arithmetic, those 1000 rounds could be shot and emptied in a short, constant 16 seconds.
RICHARD JORDAN GATLING
Richard Jordon Gatling was an inventor, fisherman, clerk, and shopkeeper until he founded the Gatling Gun company and Manufacturer in 1862. Richard had over 48 patents, including his most famous, the Gatling Gun. He was born on September 12th, 1818, and died on February 26th, 1903. In 1911, the US military declared his machine-gun “obsolete”. Gatling was elected as the first president of the American Association of Inventors and Manufacturers in 1891, serving for six years.
BIBLIOGRAPHY
E. Frank Stephenson, Jr. "The Gatling Gun." 24 October 2006. The North Carolinian Museum of History. 29 March 2011
McSherry, P. (n.d.). The Gatling Gun. Retrieved 4 1, 2011, from Spanam War: http://www.spanamwar.com/Gatling.htm
Hamill, J. (1998). Richard Jordan Gatling. Retrieved Avril 4, 2011, from Free Masonry: http://freemasonry.bcy.ca/biography/gatling_r/gatling_r.html
Friday, March 11, 2011
The Day Diffusion Went Backwards
An ode to “Noisuffid”
There was nothing to do, nothing to say,
For Diffusion had left Mudville that day.
No-one spoke, no-one talked
Dust bowls scoured the sidewalk
Now Diffusion is a process
In which Salt affects Water
And the sun in the sky
Couldn’t get any hotter.
So what is diffusion, you say?
Diffusion is not in Mudville today.
Diffusion moves a substance, from area to area,
Whether high or low concetration,
The process is a slow frustration
Mudville was different
Or so it seemed
There was no more hope
No more dreams
All because, it seems
One process, slipped through our dreams.
Now Jean Jeanette
And his sister, Claudette
Brought out some water, they got from store.
Then they brought out another, more and more.
Then Jean brought some ink
That he made in the sink
And ten drops he placed
In the water
In the Jeanette Place
The water and ink sat
On a chair Jean called ‘Pat’
For seven straight days
The water and ink lay
Until one day
Claudette lay
She lay in the room
From Eve ‘till ‘noon
She noticed that night,
That the ink lay tight
And the water, no more
That was there before!
She called for Jean
Who was cool and clean,
Away in a dream
To find the ink
Had taken over
Diffusion had happened!
Jean and Claudette
Went to wake their Parent
And they rode into town
None wearing a frown
“Lookie here! Lookie here!”
Jean had cried
And cheers and hats had filled the skies.
Yes, Jean had prayed,
But for now,
There was Diffusion in Mudville that day!
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
The Fiance II
Here is the sequel to my hit piece, "The Fiance" published back in October:
The Fiance II
by Textutor
His friends were half mad. They couldn't possibly think of a more stupid way to spend Friday night. Giggling with a few hiccups here and there, they rushed up to the bar.
"Man, this is gonna' be the best prank ever." Said the driver
"Yea. We're totally gonna' mess it up."
"Guys, we really should think twice about this." Interrupted Mr. Hanson
"What? No way! We talked about this for years! It's time to get payback on those fascist pigs! But first...a quick shot or two."
Mr. Hanson sighed, as he pulled out a piece of scratch paper and wrote to his fiancè.
My sweet fiance,
I am sorry for this promise yet again broken. I sit here writing in the car. I am driving home in about an hour. Dave has gone too far. I sure can pick ‘em. I will see you soon.
-John
John thought how the marriage will turn out. Soon, he drifted asleep. But, right as his eyes shut, the car slammed to a halt.
"We're here!" Dave cried with a sort of sing
Dave, John, and Mike all walked into the bar. It was crowded. Nobody ever comes here anymore. It's too crowded, John thought.
"Man. There's like-chicks everywhere, man." Shouted Mike over the music
"No thanks," replied John, "mine's at home waiting for me."
"Whatever, man. Let's just grab a tequila and go." said Mike
The three men walked up to the bar.
"Evening, gents. What can I getcha'?" Said the bartender
"Three Tequilas" yelled Dave
"Actually, none for me. Two tequilas." John butted in
"Two tequilas comin' up."
"What the heck, John?" Scolded Mike "We were supposed to get wasted so it looks like an accident!"
"No way, Mike. I can't get drunk. I'm getting married in 2 weeks." John replied
"Then live a little," said Dave, "listen, buddy. I've been married 7 times. It's the worst thing that could happen to a man. We lose our cool. Our dignity. Our manlihood." Said Dave
"That's just you, Dave. You can't even keep a relationship together for 7 hours." John replied
After that, John didn't talk to Dave for the next 20 minutes. Mike was talking to some college girls, half intoxicated. Dave tried to stop him from wasting himself on the girls, he said. In fact, he said it right in front of them. All he got in return was a punch to the stomach and a smack to the face.
"I told you guys not to get wasted," Said John "now I have to drive you home."
"Awwwww, c'mon, bud. Pal. Friend. We're only havin' a few drinks." Blurted Mike
"Mike, 17 shots of tequila is not a few drinks." Replied John
"Was it really that many?" Mike thought out loud
"I don't know about you, but I have to get home. I'll see you guys on Monday." Said John
"Okay! Okay! We're not drunk! We're not drunk. Look. No more drinks." Yelled Dave
"Okay," said John, "if you're not drunk, follow my finger."
"Uh- I can't." Dave said
"And why's that?" replied John
"I'm drunk."
"That's what I thought. Goodbye, guys."
With that, John walked out the door, and began driving away. Dave and Mike had noticed this and sobered up immediately. Dave pulled out his cell phone as Mike started up a gray sedan, like that out of a 1970s factory, with dark tinted windows.
"Alan, hey, it's Dave. We're following John's car, plate number ABY-RD1. Did you forge the letter?"
*Static* "Yea, it's ready to go. I'm driving to the Hanson residence right now."
"Mmkay, we see 'em. Go to go."
The grey car pulled up next to John's. After two or three mile markers, it cut in front of John's SUV. Right about then, an identical grey sedan pulled into the driveway of John's house, with Alan walking up. He knocks on the door, as a woman answers.
"Mrs. Hanson?"
"Yes?"
Back in John's SUV, he is trying to navigate around the car.
"Oh, what the heck. This guy's crazy." Said John, muttering to himself, "He's probably drunk.
It was right about when John said drunk that Dave and Mike waved to him in the sedan. John lost control of the car as it spun off into the ravine. Flame and flesh grinded with metal as John screamed until no more. Dave and Mike pulled the corpse from the wreckage as a tow truck came to clear the car's crash course. After all was gone, Mike and Dave brought the body to the house where Alan was waiting.
Alan met up with them, "Here, put the body here."
"Great, he's really heavy. Aww, his blood's dripping."
After that, Mike, Dave and Alan got in their sedans and drove before they could hear Mrs. Hanson's shreiks pierce the sky.
"So, where to now?" Asked Mike
"Mexico, where else? They can't touch us there." Replied Dave
Mike smiled and said, "Alright! Horchata, Tequila, and girls, here we come!"
The car faded away down Cherry St. with a low, silent hum, when a police car pulled up to the Hanson residence.
The Fiance II
by Textutor
His friends were half mad. They couldn't possibly think of a more stupid way to spend Friday night. Giggling with a few hiccups here and there, they rushed up to the bar.
"Man, this is gonna' be the best prank ever." Said the driver
"Yea. We're totally gonna' mess it up."
"Guys, we really should think twice about this." Interrupted Mr. Hanson
"What? No way! We talked about this for years! It's time to get payback on those fascist pigs! But first...a quick shot or two."
Mr. Hanson sighed, as he pulled out a piece of scratch paper and wrote to his fiancè.
My sweet fiance,
I am sorry for this promise yet again broken. I sit here writing in the car. I am driving home in about an hour. Dave has gone too far. I sure can pick ‘em. I will see you soon.
-John
John thought how the marriage will turn out. Soon, he drifted asleep. But, right as his eyes shut, the car slammed to a halt.
"We're here!" Dave cried with a sort of sing
Dave, John, and Mike all walked into the bar. It was crowded. Nobody ever comes here anymore. It's too crowded, John thought.
"Man. There's like-chicks everywhere, man." Shouted Mike over the music
"No thanks," replied John, "mine's at home waiting for me."
"Whatever, man. Let's just grab a tequila and go." said Mike
The three men walked up to the bar.
"Evening, gents. What can I getcha'?" Said the bartender
"Three Tequilas" yelled Dave
"Actually, none for me. Two tequilas." John butted in
"Two tequilas comin' up."
"What the heck, John?" Scolded Mike "We were supposed to get wasted so it looks like an accident!"
"No way, Mike. I can't get drunk. I'm getting married in 2 weeks." John replied
"Then live a little," said Dave, "listen, buddy. I've been married 7 times. It's the worst thing that could happen to a man. We lose our cool. Our dignity. Our manlihood." Said Dave
"That's just you, Dave. You can't even keep a relationship together for 7 hours." John replied
After that, John didn't talk to Dave for the next 20 minutes. Mike was talking to some college girls, half intoxicated. Dave tried to stop him from wasting himself on the girls, he said. In fact, he said it right in front of them. All he got in return was a punch to the stomach and a smack to the face.
"I told you guys not to get wasted," Said John "now I have to drive you home."
"Awwwww, c'mon, bud. Pal. Friend. We're only havin' a few drinks." Blurted Mike
"Mike, 17 shots of tequila is not a few drinks." Replied John
"Was it really that many?" Mike thought out loud
"I don't know about you, but I have to get home. I'll see you guys on Monday." Said John
"Okay! Okay! We're not drunk! We're not drunk. Look. No more drinks." Yelled Dave
"Okay," said John, "if you're not drunk, follow my finger."
"Uh- I can't." Dave said
"And why's that?" replied John
"I'm drunk."
"That's what I thought. Goodbye, guys."
With that, John walked out the door, and began driving away. Dave and Mike had noticed this and sobered up immediately. Dave pulled out his cell phone as Mike started up a gray sedan, like that out of a 1970s factory, with dark tinted windows.
"Alan, hey, it's Dave. We're following John's car, plate number ABY-RD1. Did you forge the letter?"
*Static* "Yea, it's ready to go. I'm driving to the Hanson residence right now."
"Mmkay, we see 'em. Go to go."
The grey car pulled up next to John's. After two or three mile markers, it cut in front of John's SUV. Right about then, an identical grey sedan pulled into the driveway of John's house, with Alan walking up. He knocks on the door, as a woman answers.
"Mrs. Hanson?"
"Yes?"
Back in John's SUV, he is trying to navigate around the car.
"Oh, what the heck. This guy's crazy." Said John, muttering to himself, "He's probably drunk.
It was right about when John said drunk that Dave and Mike waved to him in the sedan. John lost control of the car as it spun off into the ravine. Flame and flesh grinded with metal as John screamed until no more. Dave and Mike pulled the corpse from the wreckage as a tow truck came to clear the car's crash course. After all was gone, Mike and Dave brought the body to the house where Alan was waiting.
Alan met up with them, "Here, put the body here."
"Great, he's really heavy. Aww, his blood's dripping."
After that, Mike, Dave and Alan got in their sedans and drove before they could hear Mrs. Hanson's shreiks pierce the sky.
"So, where to now?" Asked Mike
"Mexico, where else? They can't touch us there." Replied Dave
Mike smiled and said, "Alright! Horchata, Tequila, and girls, here we come!"
The car faded away down Cherry St. with a low, silent hum, when a police car pulled up to the Hanson residence.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Blood, sweat, and tears
He was in the heat of the moment. Blood ran down the right side of his face, with a thick consistency. Gritting his teeth, he takes another swing; miss, again. The club raged with fury, anxiety, and most imprtantly, a thirst for blood. Tyler couldn’t help but collapse. In the story “Fight Club”, by Chuck Palahniuk, Schizophrenic business agent Tyler Durden, aka the Main Character, faces psychological challenges throughout the story.
At the beginning of the story, our main character, meets a young, egocentric man on a nude beach named Tyler. After their greeting, Tyler compiles five vertical logs covered by sand. He describes it when he says that at exactly 4:30 pm, the sand will form into a perfectly crafted hand. The main character finds this untrue, but at 4:30 it does. The author added this to show that the main charcter’s subconsious has a brief side of perfection.
Later on throughout the story, Tyler and the main character transition in a fierce fist-fight in an underground parking lot. Every time the main character swings a punch at Tyler, he aslways ends up missing, resulting in the main character getting puched, kicked, or mauled by Tyler. On the parking lot’s cameras, it looks as though the main character is fighting nothing but thin air. Tyler eventually throws the main character down a flight of stairs.
The main character wakes up tied to a chair in an empty condominium. Tyler has him at gunpoint waiting to become “one step closer to financial equality". The main character has no idea of how to get out, until he remembers that Tyler was a figment of his imagination all along. And if he can do anything Tyler can do; he has complete control. Realizing this, he coverses with Tyler, “If the gun’s in your hand; it’s in my hand.” Using his newly attained ability, the main character takes the firearm, and shoots himself in the cheek, killing Tyler. The author may have added this to show that the term “mind over matter” really prevails, and that one can overthrow any form of terror with their wits.
Schizophrenia challenges the mind beyond unbelievably wild limits. The story ends with a cliché fade-to-black sequence, not to be a disambuigation with the movie. The main character learns that with the correct amount of will and mind power, you might just survive through anything, even Fight Club. Chuck Palahniuk describes the power of the subconscious mind and its raw power.
At the beginning of the story, our main character, meets a young, egocentric man on a nude beach named Tyler. After their greeting, Tyler compiles five vertical logs covered by sand. He describes it when he says that at exactly 4:30 pm, the sand will form into a perfectly crafted hand. The main character finds this untrue, but at 4:30 it does. The author added this to show that the main charcter’s subconsious has a brief side of perfection.
Later on throughout the story, Tyler and the main character transition in a fierce fist-fight in an underground parking lot. Every time the main character swings a punch at Tyler, he aslways ends up missing, resulting in the main character getting puched, kicked, or mauled by Tyler. On the parking lot’s cameras, it looks as though the main character is fighting nothing but thin air. Tyler eventually throws the main character down a flight of stairs.
The main character wakes up tied to a chair in an empty condominium. Tyler has him at gunpoint waiting to become “one step closer to financial equality". The main character has no idea of how to get out, until he remembers that Tyler was a figment of his imagination all along. And if he can do anything Tyler can do; he has complete control. Realizing this, he coverses with Tyler, “If the gun’s in your hand; it’s in my hand.” Using his newly attained ability, the main character takes the firearm, and shoots himself in the cheek, killing Tyler. The author may have added this to show that the term “mind over matter” really prevails, and that one can overthrow any form of terror with their wits.
Schizophrenia challenges the mind beyond unbelievably wild limits. The story ends with a cliché fade-to-black sequence, not to be a disambuigation with the movie. The main character learns that with the correct amount of will and mind power, you might just survive through anything, even Fight Club. Chuck Palahniuk describes the power of the subconscious mind and its raw power.
Friday, January 14, 2011
A Soldier's Cry
I'll walk alone
Because to tell you the truth
I am lonely
I don't mind being lonely
When my heart tells me to
They'll ask me why
And I'll say
That I'd rather
There are dreams I must gather
Dreams we fashion the night
So I'll walk alone
Because to tell you the truth
I am lonely
I don't mind being lonely........
Because to tell you the truth
I am lonely
I don't mind being lonely
When my heart tells me to
They'll ask me why
And I'll say
That I'd rather
There are dreams I must gather
Dreams we fashion the night
So I'll walk alone
Because to tell you the truth
I am lonely
I don't mind being lonely........
Thursday, January 13, 2011
The Speed of Sound Issue No.4
U.S. Pentagon
District of Columbia, U.S.A.
1100 Hours
D.E.F.C.O.N. 5
"Where are they? That's what I want to know! Where in God's name are they?"
"Sir, Waters' team SR-71a stalled en route and fell through the Troposphere. They- crashed in the Red River."
"What? Why don't they tell me anything anymore? Seriously! How could I know they crashed?"
"Sir, we got a reading from their E.D.B.!"
"Find their bird's serial number!"
"We can't find it; his E.D.B. crashed sometime around last night."
"But you said you got a reading-"
"A reading is different than the actual beacon. It's emitted from a satellite 12 hours after it's sent out. It doesn't mean he sent it now. For all we know, they could be past the Mekong into Hue or Khe Sanh by now."
ANNOUNCER: "Power level critical. DEFCON increased to: 6."
"Six? Is that even possible? I thought we only go to 5?"
"DEFCON 6 is a last resort level which implies that America has been intruded. Somewhere in the U.S. there are Communist militants. They could even be inside the Pentagon."
"You mean our security isn't even that good?"
"Yea, that's what I'm trying to say."
"Uh, Sir? There's an Unidentified Object En Route to the Pentagon."
"I wanna' know what kind, how far, and what present they sent us."
"It's an ICBM, serial number 3361."
"How far?"
"About 3000 meters."
"Okay, everyone! Into the shelter! Go, go, go!"
"Move, move, move!"
Channel 12 News
1900 hours
Pentagon Parking Lot J36
"Thanks, Tom. I'm David Walsh reporting for Channel 12 news. We don't have all the facts, but apparently, the Pentagon has been invaded by an unknown assilant. Right now, I'm standing 5 miles outside the Pentagon Blast Zone, where a Nuclear Bomb has been set off. The Pentagon has been reported to be completely demolished. Evac Teams are scoured about the perimeter of the building searching for survivors in the underground vault.Oh, here comes DCPD Chief of Staff, Bill Mandle. Mr. Mandle, can you verify if the president was inside the building at the time of the explosion?"
"We're not sure. We have S&R Teams about the area, looking for HVTs."
"Can you assure America will be safe from further attacks? Do you know the assilant? Mr. Mandle!"
"No further comments. And shut that camera off!"
District of Columbia, U.S.A.
1100 Hours
D.E.F.C.O.N. 5
"Where are they? That's what I want to know! Where in God's name are they?"
"Sir, Waters' team SR-71a stalled en route and fell through the Troposphere. They- crashed in the Red River."
"What? Why don't they tell me anything anymore? Seriously! How could I know they crashed?"
"Sir, we got a reading from their E.D.B.!"
"Find their bird's serial number!"
"We can't find it; his E.D.B. crashed sometime around last night."
"But you said you got a reading-"
"A reading is different than the actual beacon. It's emitted from a satellite 12 hours after it's sent out. It doesn't mean he sent it now. For all we know, they could be past the Mekong into Hue or Khe Sanh by now."
ANNOUNCER: "Power level critical. DEFCON increased to: 6."
"Six? Is that even possible? I thought we only go to 5?"
"DEFCON 6 is a last resort level which implies that America has been intruded. Somewhere in the U.S. there are Communist militants. They could even be inside the Pentagon."
"You mean our security isn't even that good?"
"Yea, that's what I'm trying to say."
"Uh, Sir? There's an Unidentified Object En Route to the Pentagon."
"I wanna' know what kind, how far, and what present they sent us."
"It's an ICBM, serial number 3361."
"How far?"
"About 3000 meters."
"Okay, everyone! Into the shelter! Go, go, go!"
"Move, move, move!"
Channel 12 News
1900 hours
Pentagon Parking Lot J36
"Thanks, Tom. I'm David Walsh reporting for Channel 12 news. We don't have all the facts, but apparently, the Pentagon has been invaded by an unknown assilant. Right now, I'm standing 5 miles outside the Pentagon Blast Zone, where a Nuclear Bomb has been set off. The Pentagon has been reported to be completely demolished. Evac Teams are scoured about the perimeter of the building searching for survivors in the underground vault.Oh, here comes DCPD Chief of Staff, Bill Mandle. Mr. Mandle, can you verify if the president was inside the building at the time of the explosion?"
"We're not sure. We have S&R Teams about the area, looking for HVTs."
"Can you assure America will be safe from further attacks? Do you know the assilant? Mr. Mandle!"
"No further comments. And shut that camera off!"
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
The Speed of Sound Issue No.3
メコン川 ストリーム
0700 Hours
Waters and team presumed KIA
Our sampan slowly drifted down the river. Mosely and I didn't really say anything to one another; there was really nothing to say. We were planning to go downstream 'till dawn to keep in the dark; we couldn't risk getting caught by a riverside patrol. Mosely and I took 3 hour shifts, while the other rested. Eventually, morning came, along with no breakfast. We grabbed some branches off a nearby tree, and whittled them with our K-bars to create somewhat authentic fishing spears. Unfortunately, the river was too fogged-up with mud and dust for us to see through. It really made me miss the transparency in streams back in Beale.
"Hey, Alan; closed trail. 3:00."
I turn my head sharply to the right. Up on a rigid cliff, lay a highway, occupied with multiple jeeps and military trucks. On the side in large Courier print, are the words: người có thẩm quyền chỉ.
"Authorized Personnel Only, it says. NVA"
As we whispered, large groups of Viet-Cong walked along side the river. We lay down and pray. Two soldiers stop for a smoke right on the edge of the riverbank. Of course, I had no idea what they were talking about. They were saying something about the "Ho Hoan Kiem"; a lake right by Hanoi Penitentiary. The only other word we could make out was "Sampan". The boat drifted down the river as the two Viet-Cong killed the cigarette butts. After the small encampment dilemma, I fell into a deep sleep as Mosely skippered the boat. I can't remember when I woke up, but it was night. The Sampan was lazily floating by a small village of huts. Gunfire and female screams were heard for minutes on end. I sat there in fear, wondering what could possibly be happening.
"They're killing the villagers."
Delirious, I began to re-shut my eyes, hoping to wake up in the daylight. Right before my right eyelid closed, a faint, whistling sound began to crescendo, as a large, cylindrical metal object tore the boat's port side clean off, forcing us into the water. Since we've been spotted, bullets created a stream of bubbles as they pierced the Vietnamese water. Swim, I thought, swim. I signaled Mosely a gesture to follow me, but he denied and began paddling in the opposite direction. Frustrated, I followed him as steaming lead surrounded me. Soon, the water became to muggy to see just about anything. I lost sight of Mosely. Bringing my head up for air, I waded to the side, under the brush.
"Mosely." I whispered. "Mosely!"
No reply. I continued downstream, where I could think anyone would want to go. Silhouettes of Sampans disappeared into the foggy night, with Vietnamese and Laotian fights breaking out over lost Americans. I spent the next couple hours looking for Mosely, or at least until the sun came up. Eventually, I wore tired of the Mosquitoes and the obscene humidity. I waded in a nearby 死の沼, as the locals called it. It smelt of poverty and death, explaining the 死 part. To this day, I could never figure out why it was in Japanese and not Vietnamese. Japanese settlers? I walked into some shallow ground right about the time I hit a soft log. Probably some dead wood. I kicked it out of the way. But then some more dead wood. I picked it up to guess how old this 沼 was anyway. But it had some odd twigs. But they weren't twigs. They were fingers. Immediately, I threw it into the water. From there I realized I was truly in a 死の沼. The Vietnamese. They did this. They killed the villagers along the メコン川. War crimes; inhumane. But why?
"Help! Oh, God, someone help me!"
Mosely was screaming. Pain. Agony. 死. I rushed through the 沼 to the nearest source of light. But as Mosely's screams grew closer and closer: boom. Gunshot. I stopped, and crouched behind the nearest tree. I watched as some NVA moved Mosely's body across a courtyard, and laid him next to a house. After harassing some villagers, they left. A group of children crowded around him as I pushed through the group. Mosely was sitting there, hole in his temple, spurting blood. He was unconscious, so I picked him up and started walking towards a stray Sampan. I set him down on it. However, something was different about this one; it was heavier. I found a tarp and covered Mosely. But as I moved the tarp, I noticed the previous owner of it was an arms dealer; assault rifles, sub-machine guns, sidearms, even a few grenades were riddled in the corner. It was Heaven. I pushed off as the crescendo of guns and screams came into hearing range. From there, we stumbled upon the attack of Hue City.
0700 Hours
Waters and team presumed KIA
Our sampan slowly drifted down the river. Mosely and I didn't really say anything to one another; there was really nothing to say. We were planning to go downstream 'till dawn to keep in the dark; we couldn't risk getting caught by a riverside patrol. Mosely and I took 3 hour shifts, while the other rested. Eventually, morning came, along with no breakfast. We grabbed some branches off a nearby tree, and whittled them with our K-bars to create somewhat authentic fishing spears. Unfortunately, the river was too fogged-up with mud and dust for us to see through. It really made me miss the transparency in streams back in Beale.
"Hey, Alan; closed trail. 3:00."
I turn my head sharply to the right. Up on a rigid cliff, lay a highway, occupied with multiple jeeps and military trucks. On the side in large Courier print, are the words: người có thẩm quyền chỉ.
"Authorized Personnel Only, it says. NVA"
As we whispered, large groups of Viet-Cong walked along side the river. We lay down and pray. Two soldiers stop for a smoke right on the edge of the riverbank. Of course, I had no idea what they were talking about. They were saying something about the "Ho Hoan Kiem"; a lake right by Hanoi Penitentiary. The only other word we could make out was "Sampan". The boat drifted down the river as the two Viet-Cong killed the cigarette butts. After the small encampment dilemma, I fell into a deep sleep as Mosely skippered the boat. I can't remember when I woke up, but it was night. The Sampan was lazily floating by a small village of huts. Gunfire and female screams were heard for minutes on end. I sat there in fear, wondering what could possibly be happening.
"They're killing the villagers."
Delirious, I began to re-shut my eyes, hoping to wake up in the daylight. Right before my right eyelid closed, a faint, whistling sound began to crescendo, as a large, cylindrical metal object tore the boat's port side clean off, forcing us into the water. Since we've been spotted, bullets created a stream of bubbles as they pierced the Vietnamese water. Swim, I thought, swim. I signaled Mosely a gesture to follow me, but he denied and began paddling in the opposite direction. Frustrated, I followed him as steaming lead surrounded me. Soon, the water became to muggy to see just about anything. I lost sight of Mosely. Bringing my head up for air, I waded to the side, under the brush.
"Mosely." I whispered. "Mosely!"
No reply. I continued downstream, where I could think anyone would want to go. Silhouettes of Sampans disappeared into the foggy night, with Vietnamese and Laotian fights breaking out over lost Americans. I spent the next couple hours looking for Mosely, or at least until the sun came up. Eventually, I wore tired of the Mosquitoes and the obscene humidity. I waded in a nearby 死の沼, as the locals called it. It smelt of poverty and death, explaining the 死 part. To this day, I could never figure out why it was in Japanese and not Vietnamese. Japanese settlers? I walked into some shallow ground right about the time I hit a soft log. Probably some dead wood. I kicked it out of the way. But then some more dead wood. I picked it up to guess how old this 沼 was anyway. But it had some odd twigs. But they weren't twigs. They were fingers. Immediately, I threw it into the water. From there I realized I was truly in a 死の沼. The Vietnamese. They did this. They killed the villagers along the メコン川. War crimes; inhumane. But why?
"Help! Oh, God, someone help me!"
Mosely was screaming. Pain. Agony. 死. I rushed through the 沼 to the nearest source of light. But as Mosely's screams grew closer and closer: boom. Gunshot. I stopped, and crouched behind the nearest tree. I watched as some NVA moved Mosely's body across a courtyard, and laid him next to a house. After harassing some villagers, they left. A group of children crowded around him as I pushed through the group. Mosely was sitting there, hole in his temple, spurting blood. He was unconscious, so I picked him up and started walking towards a stray Sampan. I set him down on it. However, something was different about this one; it was heavier. I found a tarp and covered Mosely. But as I moved the tarp, I noticed the previous owner of it was an arms dealer; assault rifles, sub-machine guns, sidearms, even a few grenades were riddled in the corner. It was Heaven. I pushed off as the crescendo of guns and screams came into hearing range. From there, we stumbled upon the attack of Hue City.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Mischief. Mayhem. Soap.
I'm sure many of us are familiar with the American actor, Brad Pitt. While he's appeared in some rather different films, he made his outstanding appearance in the David Fincher film, Fight Club. Starring Edward Norton and Pitt, Norton plays a man in his early 20s, who's name is never mentioned. After his IKEA and assorted furniture condo is set ablaze after an incident involving nitroglycerine, he contacts a soap dealer, Tyler Durden, whom he met on a flight the day before. Oddly, Norton's character and Tyler have the same briefcases. After rough-housing in a bar parking lot, Tyler and the Narrator form "Fight Club", a place where young men can relieve a day's stress by beating each-other to a pulp. From there, the Narrator realizes a set of spontaneous crimes around the city. Soon, Project Mayhem is commenced, creating a downfall towards oblivion. Watch the movie, read the book. But remember: The first rule of Fight Club is, you do not talk about Fight Club. The second rule of Fight Club is, you DO NOT talk about Fight Club! Personally the best movie ever.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
The Secrets of Vietnam weren't completely true...
Thursday, December 16, 2010
The Speed of Sound Issue No.2
SOMEWHERE OVER SOUTHEASTERN ASIA
SR-71
CODENAME: T.A.C.
"Mosely! Mosely! We're going down!"
"Yeah, thanks, I know!"
The plane nosedived closer and closer to the ground. As I look out the side window only to see a lush, vast, and not to mention green, area of jungle. Just as I covered my eyes, I heard the sound of fire and twisting metal.
UNKNOWN LOCATION
0300 HOURS
WATERS AND TEAM PRESUMED KIA
I awoke hours later, or so it seemed. The world was blurry, faint, vague. The smell of rotten, burning flesh consumed my nostrils.
"Mosely? Mosely. Psst! Hey, wake up."
"Ungh. Where are we?"
"I have no idea. C'mon, pull out your K-bar."
We walked among the foggy swamps and foliage for hours. We must have been dozens of miles from any type of civilization. But just as I thought we had been lost in the jungle forever, the low hum of a diesel truck became a crescendo of sound. God, that reminded me of being back in Los Alamitos. I could see the headlights. But something seemed wrong. Voices; not English. Ohmygosh, I thought; NVA. Mosely was at least 20 yards behind me, so I could not contact him from here. I lay down and let the NVA soldiers pass by me. After a couple minutes, two stopped on the side of the road for a smoke. Smelled like opium. Cigarettes? They talked for a long time; too long. I held my breath for the entire span. Just as it seemed they wouldn't leave, they started walking away. I let out a large sigh. Too early. One of the patrol guards turned around.
"Điều gì đã được rằng?"
"Đi kiểm tra. Tôi sẽ ở lại đây."
The first guard started pacing towards us, Walther in hand.
"Đi ra! Hoặc tôi sẽ bắn!"
"Mosely. Stay down."
"The guard is ready to shoot. We need to surrender."
I got up to surrender, heart pacing fast.
"Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" Yelled the other guard. Okay, I thought, he speaks English.
"Why no? The American's lives deserve no mercy!"
"Let's take them to base; get big reward."
"Good idea."
They walked up to Mosely and I and clubbed us with a, well, club.
SOUTHWESTERN VIETNAM
2200 HOURS
WATERS AND TEAM P.O.W.
I awoke to find myself tied in a chair. A faint light, swinging overhead; blinding me. I feel vulnerable; probably because my USAF patch was ripped from me hours ago. Faint Vietnamese voices behind the steel door in front of me. Screams. Sounded like-Mosely.
"Mosely! Mosley! Where are you?"
Two Vietnamese bookies stormed through the door, holding snub nosed revolvers.
"Where's Mosely?"
"Bring him in!"
Mosely was stormed through the door, tarnished and bleeding.
"Mosely? Aw, no."
"Alan. This time do it. Do it!"
The Viet-Cong bookie put one round in the snub nose, spun the casing, and slammed it down on the table in front of us. Russian Roulette. I couldn't do it. Mosely; he didn't care. A life was just a life to him; no point to it.
I knew Mosely didn't want to play Roulette, but he had to.
"Clear!"
A large burst of smoke and debris shot through the west corner of the room. The Bookie and his accomplice stared in shock and awe. Silence. Footsteps outside grew louder.
"Go! Go! Go!"
I saw the fear in their eyes. But before I could say anything, yellow tracers flew through the smoke, right into the bookie. Blood, flesh, and fear went right out his back, along with hot lead. His revolver dropped to the ground, as Large, alien-like figures burst through the hole in the wall. Then, they removed their gas-masks.
Marines.
"Get a move on, boys. We need men out on the front." Groaned a field commander, who looked like B.A. Baracus by the way. Immediately, we picked up the revolvers and walked outside. It looked dark, gray, depressing. Then, I knew, we were in the Hanoi Hilton: the most ruthless POW camp after World War II. American and Vietnamese chants flew from every corner of the courtyard.
HANOI PENITENTIARY FACILITY
2300 HOURS
WATERS AND USAF TEAM REBEL ON NVA
"Let's go Mosely. Mosely?"
Mosely wasn't there. He was probably off fighting. I couldn't leave my buddy. I searched every unoccupied room in the facility, while soldiers distracted the Viet-Cong. No sign. I sat down in the Western Courtyard; on a bench next to some bushes. Just then, a pair of hand reached up and covered my mouth from the bushes.
"Shhh." said Mosely.
"Mosely? Where did you go?"
"Thought I'd look around awhile. Nice digs. Hey, I found a back alley to the fishing area. There's a neat little sampan there. Let's go."
We crouched along the West wall until we reached an oak gate. Mosely pushed open the door, leading to a stone walkway. Down a hill, there was a river, with a bamboo sampan on the water. We hopped in, and started rowing, as the faint sound of explosions and screeches faded away.
SR-71
CODENAME: T.A.C.
"Mosely! Mosely! We're going down!"
"Yeah, thanks, I know!"
The plane nosedived closer and closer to the ground. As I look out the side window only to see a lush, vast, and not to mention green, area of jungle. Just as I covered my eyes, I heard the sound of fire and twisting metal.
UNKNOWN LOCATION
0300 HOURS
WATERS AND TEAM PRESUMED KIA
I awoke hours later, or so it seemed. The world was blurry, faint, vague. The smell of rotten, burning flesh consumed my nostrils.
"Mosely? Mosely. Psst! Hey, wake up."
"Ungh. Where are we?"
"I have no idea. C'mon, pull out your K-bar."
We walked among the foggy swamps and foliage for hours. We must have been dozens of miles from any type of civilization. But just as I thought we had been lost in the jungle forever, the low hum of a diesel truck became a crescendo of sound. God, that reminded me of being back in Los Alamitos. I could see the headlights. But something seemed wrong. Voices; not English. Ohmygosh, I thought; NVA. Mosely was at least 20 yards behind me, so I could not contact him from here. I lay down and let the NVA soldiers pass by me. After a couple minutes, two stopped on the side of the road for a smoke. Smelled like opium. Cigarettes? They talked for a long time; too long. I held my breath for the entire span. Just as it seemed they wouldn't leave, they started walking away. I let out a large sigh. Too early. One of the patrol guards turned around.
"Điều gì đã được rằng?"
"Đi kiểm tra. Tôi sẽ ở lại đây."
The first guard started pacing towards us, Walther in hand.
"Đi ra! Hoặc tôi sẽ bắn!"
"Mosely. Stay down."
"The guard is ready to shoot. We need to surrender."
I got up to surrender, heart pacing fast.
"Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" Yelled the other guard. Okay, I thought, he speaks English.
"Why no? The American's lives deserve no mercy!"
"Let's take them to base; get big reward."
"Good idea."
They walked up to Mosely and I and clubbed us with a, well, club.
SOUTHWESTERN VIETNAM
2200 HOURS
WATERS AND TEAM P.O.W.
I awoke to find myself tied in a chair. A faint light, swinging overhead; blinding me. I feel vulnerable; probably because my USAF patch was ripped from me hours ago. Faint Vietnamese voices behind the steel door in front of me. Screams. Sounded like-Mosely.
"Mosely! Mosley! Where are you?"
Two Vietnamese bookies stormed through the door, holding snub nosed revolvers.
"Where's Mosely?"
"Bring him in!"
Mosely was stormed through the door, tarnished and bleeding.
"Mosely? Aw, no."
"Alan. This time do it. Do it!"
The Viet-Cong bookie put one round in the snub nose, spun the casing, and slammed it down on the table in front of us. Russian Roulette. I couldn't do it. Mosely; he didn't care. A life was just a life to him; no point to it.
I knew Mosely didn't want to play Roulette, but he had to.
"Clear!"
A large burst of smoke and debris shot through the west corner of the room. The Bookie and his accomplice stared in shock and awe. Silence. Footsteps outside grew louder.
"Go! Go! Go!"
I saw the fear in their eyes. But before I could say anything, yellow tracers flew through the smoke, right into the bookie. Blood, flesh, and fear went right out his back, along with hot lead. His revolver dropped to the ground, as Large, alien-like figures burst through the hole in the wall. Then, they removed their gas-masks.
Marines.
"Get a move on, boys. We need men out on the front." Groaned a field commander, who looked like B.A. Baracus by the way. Immediately, we picked up the revolvers and walked outside. It looked dark, gray, depressing. Then, I knew, we were in the Hanoi Hilton: the most ruthless POW camp after World War II. American and Vietnamese chants flew from every corner of the courtyard.
HANOI PENITENTIARY FACILITY
2300 HOURS
WATERS AND USAF TEAM REBEL ON NVA
"Let's go Mosely. Mosely?"
Mosely wasn't there. He was probably off fighting. I couldn't leave my buddy. I searched every unoccupied room in the facility, while soldiers distracted the Viet-Cong. No sign. I sat down in the Western Courtyard; on a bench next to some bushes. Just then, a pair of hand reached up and covered my mouth from the bushes.
"Shhh." said Mosely.
"Mosely? Where did you go?"
"Thought I'd look around awhile. Nice digs. Hey, I found a back alley to the fishing area. There's a neat little sampan there. Let's go."
We crouched along the West wall until we reached an oak gate. Mosely pushed open the door, leading to a stone walkway. Down a hill, there was a river, with a bamboo sampan on the water. We hopped in, and started rowing, as the faint sound of explosions and screeches faded away.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
The Speed of Sound Issue No.1
INSPIRED BY THE INTERACTIVE INFINITY CHAMBER
MILWAUKEE ART MUSEUM
2010
Los Alamitos AFB, CA
"You ready?"
"As I'll ever be."
"Alright. C'mon, follow me."
The low hum of the diesel truck became a distant memory. Men in gray jumpsuits; saluting, yelling, preparing.
Now my heart was beating faster than ever. Captain Mosely and I walked up the staircase.
I stumbled into the cockpit.
"Rotors up to speed?"
"Check!"
"I'll get us up to 75,000, then hand over the stick."
Just then, I felt like the whole world was watching us; watching me. Slowly, I advanced the throttle, feeling the speed clenching me to my seat. After a couple minutes, the altimeter read 50,000 ft., which was my cue. The cO2 ignited the engines, creating G-effects. Black and red were all I could see. Blood, stress, gravity; all rushing through my body faster than the SR-71. Through the white wall of clouds, came a black and blue world, not known to the naked eye. By now, I had handed the stick over to Mosely, closely watching my monitor for movement.
Condron AFB & White Sands Missile Range, NM
"Sir! Message from Los Alamitos! T.A.C. is on their way."
"It's up to Mosely and Waters now. No matter what happens, they have to drop that bomb."
SOMEWHERE OVER NIGERIA, SR-71 BLACKBIRD, 102,000 FT.
"What happened?"
"Dylan! Come get ready for school!"
"Okay, Mom!"
"You're staying home today."
MILWAUKEE ART MUSEUM
2010
Los Alamitos AFB, CA
"You ready?"
"As I'll ever be."
"Alright. C'mon, follow me."
The low hum of the diesel truck became a distant memory. Men in gray jumpsuits; saluting, yelling, preparing.
Now my heart was beating faster than ever. Captain Mosely and I walked up the staircase.
I stumbled into the cockpit.
"Rotors up to speed?"
"Check!"
"I'll get us up to 75,000, then hand over the stick."
Just then, I felt like the whole world was watching us; watching me. Slowly, I advanced the throttle, feeling the speed clenching me to my seat. After a couple minutes, the altimeter read 50,000 ft., which was my cue. The cO2 ignited the engines, creating G-effects. Black and red were all I could see. Blood, stress, gravity; all rushing through my body faster than the SR-71. Through the white wall of clouds, came a black and blue world, not known to the naked eye. By now, I had handed the stick over to Mosely, closely watching my monitor for movement.
Condron AFB & White Sands Missile Range, NM
"Sir! Message from Los Alamitos! T.A.C. is on their way."
"It's up to Mosely and Waters now. No matter what happens, they have to drop that bomb."
SOMEWHERE OVER NIGERIA, SR-71 BLACKBIRD, 102,000 FT.
"Hey! How's our fuel?" I ask.
No reply.
"Mosely? Mosely, are you there?"
Still no reply. I sit there; waiting. I look to my left out the window. As I gaze out, I notice a majestic sight. Thousands of millions lights, weightless feelings. All those stars, running on thousands of tons of gases. Gases. Fuel.
"Mosely!"
"What? What?"
"What happened?"
"I fell asleep."
Just then the flickering lights of hazard flash continuously, creating a long, repeating, high-pitched noise.
"Fuel level! Fuel Level! How much time?"
Just then the flickering lights of hazard flash continuously, creating a long, repeating, high-pitched noise.
"Fuel level! Fuel Level! How much time?"
"Oh my God."
"Well?"
"We have about 20 minutes left."
"What? We're still two hours from our destination!"
"Looks like we're not going home."
Tears blur my vision. Anger and fury overwhelm my body, causing violent and rapid twitches. How is this happening I thought.
SOMEWHERE IN BEALE, CALIFORNIA
"Dylan! Come get ready for school!"
"Okay, Mom!"
"Honestly, Dylan, sometimes I don't know why you take forty minutes to get ready for pre-school."
"Mom! Phone! They say it's about Dad!"
"What? Hello?"
"Hi, Jane, it's Don."
"What's wrong?"
"We've just been contacted; Alan isn't coming home. His plane is on the verge of fuel."
"That's impossible! There must be some other way-"
"I wish there were, Jane. But Alan was ready to die for his country. You of all people should know that. Do you understand?"
"I think so."
"Goodbye."
"Hey Mom, I'm ready to go."
"You're staying home today."
"Sweet! Hey, when is Dad coming home?"
"I don't know, but maybe soon."
SR-71 ISSUE NO.1572, CHINESE AIRSPACE
SR-71 ISSUE NO.1572, CHINESE AIRSPACE
"Mosely. Mosely! Wake up!"
"What's the point; I'm already a dead man; doomed to die a slow and crucial death!"
"That's not true! We can still make it out of here if we just try!"
"Where are we gonna' go, huh? Float on down to Earth? How 'bout we fly this bird up to kingdom come? There's no point, Alan! No point!"
Just then, I heard the sound of fists, smashing precious intel. Smoke filled my side of the cockpit...
AUTHOR'S NOTE: THE SR-71 BLACKBIRD IS CURRENTLY THE FASTEST AIRCRAFT KNOWN TO MAN. MANUFACTURED IN AMERICA, THE BLACKBIRD CAN TRAVEL AT SPEEDS OF UP TO THREE TIMES THE SPEED OF SOUND. WHILE IT IS ISSUED TO THE U.S. MILITARY FOR RECONNAISSANCE OPERATIONS, IT HAS BEEN GIVEN A FICTIONAL PERSONALITY IN THIS PIECE AS LETHAL AIRCRAFT.
"What's the point; I'm already a dead man; doomed to die a slow and crucial death!"
"That's not true! We can still make it out of here if we just try!"
"Where are we gonna' go, huh? Float on down to Earth? How 'bout we fly this bird up to kingdom come? There's no point, Alan! No point!"
Just then, I heard the sound of fists, smashing precious intel. Smoke filled my side of the cockpit...
AUTHOR'S NOTE: THE SR-71 BLACKBIRD IS CURRENTLY THE FASTEST AIRCRAFT KNOWN TO MAN. MANUFACTURED IN AMERICA, THE BLACKBIRD CAN TRAVEL AT SPEEDS OF UP TO THREE TIMES THE SPEED OF SOUND. WHILE IT IS ISSUED TO THE U.S. MILITARY FOR RECONNAISSANCE OPERATIONS, IT HAS BEEN GIVEN A FICTIONAL PERSONALITY IN THIS PIECE AS LETHAL AIRCRAFT.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Penny Lane
On Penny Lane, my barber was showing me some photographs: one for each head he's had the pleasure to have known. Every time he shows me, all the people that come and go, stop and sey "Hello!" to me. As I continue around the corner, I see a banker with a motorcar. The funny part of it was the little children laughing at him behind his back. However, the banker never wore a mac in that pouring rain. Very Strange. Ever since that day, Penny Lane has been in my ear and my eye; all while under the blue suburban skies. So I sat, and meanwhile back in Penny Lane there was a fireman. And in his pocket, a portrait of the queen. He likes to keep his fire engine clean. It's a clean machine.
And again, Penny Lane was in my ear, my eyes, along with four of fish and finger pies. In Summer meanwhile back behind the shelter in the middle of a roundabout, the pretty nurse was selling poppies from a tray. Although she acted as if she were in a play, she was anyway.
And in Penny Lane my barber shaved another customer, who saw the banker sitting waiting for a trim. But then, I recalled the fireman rushing in from the pouring rain. Very strange. So I sit down again, with Penny Lane singing in my ears and my eyes. All while sitting underneath the blue suburban skies. Yes, Penny Lane was indeed in my ears and eyes, beneath the blue suburban skies. Penny Lane.
And again, Penny Lane was in my ear, my eyes, along with four of fish and finger pies. In Summer meanwhile back behind the shelter in the middle of a roundabout, the pretty nurse was selling poppies from a tray. Although she acted as if she were in a play, she was anyway.
And in Penny Lane my barber shaved another customer, who saw the banker sitting waiting for a trim. But then, I recalled the fireman rushing in from the pouring rain. Very strange. So I sit down again, with Penny Lane singing in my ears and my eyes. All while sitting underneath the blue suburban skies. Yes, Penny Lane was indeed in my ears and eyes, beneath the blue suburban skies. Penny Lane.
Monday, December 6, 2010
The Sea of Clouds
The car pulled away from the beige-white house as our mini-van lulled down the street towards the intersection. In Minneapolis, the cirrus clouds had a water-like curvature. Every time the cirrus' passed overhead, I would always picture being underwater, thousands and thousands of feet down. As a toddler, I tried picturing the scene: fish swimming about, coral creating mountains of meticulous colors and formations, seaweed, brushing against my leg. As usual, I held my breath for as long as possible. When we drove past the sea of clouds, I looked back, releasing the breath, blinking. And within one split-second of a blink, the sea was gone. We had risen to the surface.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
"Speak" by Laurie Halse Anderson
Socializing is a tough thing to do, especially around strangers. Traumatic events tend to create stress and pressure inside the human mind, making talking a hard thing to do, as well as some motor skills. When someone tries to reach out to you, it is hard to accept them as a friend, and open up your troubles to them. Speak by Laurie Halse Anderson proves that fears can be overcome by self-confidence.
Melinda Sordino was planning to start off freshman year in high-school with a bang. But for some reason, her friends and people she's never met hate her. As her reputation slowly sinks down the high-school ladder, she meets a bright, cheerful student, Heather, who is almost always optimistic, as well as mellow-dramatic. But when two opposites collide, chaos breaks out. Heather always insists that Melinda and her do every activity, meeting, and group act together. Naturally, Melinda's negative personality turns it down. Melinda describes her tormentor as IT a.k.a. Andy Evans, or "The Beast", the student who caused her life to rapidly spin downhill. The only savior in this excruciating building for Melinda, is her art teacher, Mr. Freeman; an open-minded man who doesn't care what the school board's teachers think of him. A very notable quote from the story takes place in art class, spoken by Freeman: "Ah-ah-ah, you just picked your destiny. You can't change that." This could mean that once you pick a certain path that affects the result of your life, you can't take it back, it's destiny. For Melinda, Freshman year was off to a bad start.
Self-confidence can overpower fear as proven in Speak by Laurie Halse Anderson. When terror strikes your life, talking and movement can become a real challenge. So is trying to release your problem to a stranger reaching out to you. When the human mind experiences fear or mental/physical torture, it is tough to cope with the fact that they will have to continue on as if nothing had happened.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
The lifespan of a gale
Within a home, the average storm rages on outside. With a wet bat and glove in hand, you walk amongst the family members, holding nary a light, but a candle. As you continue to the glass door, you see the other side; a brighter, much lighter side, with a fusion of mango and orange colored skies. As you wait in the silence, the warmth of dawn arrives, as the combination of colors sweep over your humble adobe. As you open the door, the crescendo of birds singing and a soft breeze blowing come into picture. You stumble upon the dew-infested green pillow that is your yard, feeling God's soft touch, mothering your mind. Finally, as the skies become riddled with night, you return from a nap in the woods, only to return to you adobe.
Monday, October 25, 2010
A Flowing Conversation
From first glance, a water bottle isn't the most interesting thing; neither are it's contents inside. What is so good about water? Besides hydration and electrolytes, it's just another drink in this world. For some avid athletes, paraphernalia. For others, an excuse to wash down salt, or other condiments of that sort. It is amazing that young authors of tomorrow can write about almost anything, such as a water bottle. As the last drips are drunk, the smile appears on the face of a lucky participant, knowing they helped themselves to a serving of hydration.
Friday, October 22, 2010
The Cremation of Sam McGee by R.W. Service
Normally, I would write original pieces of literature, but for now, enjoy this poem about the Yukon Gold Rush by R.W. Service
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way that he'd "sooner live in hell".
On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.
And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."
Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
"It's the cursed cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet 'tain't being dead -- it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."
A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.
There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say:
"You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last remains."
Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows -- O God! how I loathed the thing.
And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.
Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May".
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."
Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared -- such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.
Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.
I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; . . . then the door I opened wide.
And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "Please close that door.
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm --
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way that he'd "sooner live in hell".
On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.
And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."
Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:
"It's the cursed cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet 'tain't being dead -- it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."
A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.
There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say:
"You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last remains."
Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows -- O God! how I loathed the thing.
And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.
Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May".
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."
Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared -- such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.
Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.
I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; . . . then the door I opened wide.
And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "Please close that door.
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm --
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."
There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.
Vauge Memories
I remember that old place; that's where I learned to laugh, to love, to cry. I had my first birthday there. Now, it's gone. Nothing but a dirt lot with a "FOR SALE" sign in the front. That old house was wonderful. I remember the day I left him; my friend, my life, my home. For now, I've got to move on; can't let anything hold me back. If I stop going forward with my life, I'm going to lose track of what happens. I drive back there every now and then, to look at that old lot. I sit and socialize with some of the construction workers, tell them I used to live there. They just smile and continue working. The only thing that drives me away from there, was the day my parents left each-other. The world got all up into a hurry; I don't know what happened. It wasn't that way in that old place, then again, nothing was.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
A percussionist's view on the drum
The use of the drum, is to coordinate the fluency of one's tempo. All four limbs must be used: the left and right arms, for sound, and use of equipment. The right foot, for the beat-keeping, and the left foot, for constant tempo. The drum player, however, must be like a flowing river, one without an end. When you sit down, behind those cylindrical masterpieces, you are part of the music, the joy, the euphoria. As you go on and on with the wonderful sound that is glory, you realize you cannot stop, like the river within you. You try, but the feeling, too overpowering; too addicting. finally, as the last notes are drummed, you are free, free at last. You get up to walk away, for you shall be back tomorrow.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Red, White, and Blue; the Symbols of the Free
Yes, Patriotism does still matter in the United States. Almost halfway across the world, American men and women are fighting 24/7 around the clock against the Taliban. Not because they were ordered to or because they think they should make something of themselves, but because somewhere in their conscience, there's a part of them saying the have to finish what they started, for us, back home. While they fight over whether terrorism should be allowed in the Middle East, we Americans at home fight over why some aren't patriotic. Patriotism means we respect and honor the ones whom gave their lives, to protect ours.
So please, next time you see a veteran, an active servicemen, or even the flag; salute them, give them a shake of the hand, or just wave. Anything should do it, just show them how much they mean to us, because after all, America was founded on freedom. The tragedies of 9-11 did not destroy us. Crippled us? Sure, temporarily. But that's the American standard: When something tragic or upsetting occurs, we shan't groan and weep, we shall only rebuild, and grow stronger. The minute that first plane was hijacked, Democracy won.
So please, next time you see a veteran, an active servicemen, or even the flag; salute them, give them a shake of the hand, or just wave. Anything should do it, just show them how much they mean to us, because after all, America was founded on freedom. The tragedies of 9-11 did not destroy us. Crippled us? Sure, temporarily. But that's the American standard: When something tragic or upsetting occurs, we shan't groan and weep, we shall only rebuild, and grow stronger. The minute that first plane was hijacked, Democracy won.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Countdown
There was so much. It’s been like this as long as I can remember. It looked like snow, sure, but we all knew it wasn’t. I bet if I think real hard, I can relive the day. There was a sun, back then. The boy and I went to chop wood.
“Alright, now what you wanna’ know about choppin’ wood, is that it takes muscle, and patience. What you really wanna’ do is get the axe-“, *thud*, “deep into the wood. After that, all you really need to do is shake the axe out, and you got chopped wood.”
“Can I try Dad?”
“It’s all yours”
We chopped wood for about eight hours, no lie. The missus’ called us in for supper. It was Friday, so we had our annual T.V. frozen dinner. Some political show was talkin’ about some ICBMs reaching America. The states had been getting’ in to some trouble with the U.S.S.R. for some time now. They were tryin’ to see who could build more ICBMs. But does it really matter how many of the things a country has, once they have any? The men on T.V. sounded kinda’ worried, like somethin’ was gunna’ happen. They told us Kansas folk to get into our tornado shelters. We grabbed our blankets, our dog, Sparky, and all the food we could carry. We stumbled into the shelter, where we had turned on the crank-powered T.V. There was nary a signal. We heard some kinda’ whisperin’ on the T.V.
*We’re as good as dead. They launched ‘em.They launched ‘em. Pray. Pray for sweet, sweet life.*
The politician broke into tears. They must’ve done it.
“The poor, poor man. Those crazy foreigners, killin’ us like pigs. They must want us, eradicated.”
We sat in the darkness, for longer than a clock can keep track. It makes you worry, what’ll happen next. The smallest noise’ll make you jump. Sittin’ in the dark, with nothin’ but your thoughts. I’ve had some pretty long nights in Kansas, but this must’ve been the longest night of my life, and no one said a word. We awoke the next sunrise. It was cold as the poles. We opened the door.
“Snow!” the boy said.
“Wait. It’s not snow.” I replied.
I picked up a handful. God, it was hot as overcooked food! The land was rich with this substance. Not a building lay in sight. We looked for the SUV, which was nowhere to be found. How can the temperature be cold, but the ash was piercing warm? We traveled down the road to my friend who’s a meteorologist.
His home was demolished. Only the rafters from his basement were dangling in the wine cellar. I remember that old cellar. We used to watch football on Sundays there. We relaxed and dined, with some beer and wine. Those were glory days. Surprisingly, he had a curry bike in the basement. Biking, that was his thing. He was an athletic man, with a behind the desk job. If you don’t get out and about after work, you’re just a sittin’ duck. My wife and I carried the curry up the stairs and set it on the ash-infested soil. The tires wouldn’t budge.
“This is a road curry. Not meant for this kind of land.” I said
My wife broke down into tears. As she bawled non-stop, I helped her up as we slowly stumbled across the vast, barren terrain, with my son following behind. We kept going ‘till we reached the city. There were only a few buildings left, partially damaged. We stumbled up to what I guess was the twelfth floor. Ash and wood fell from the ceiling every now and then.
Now, years later, the sun is gone. All that’s left is a sky full of gray soot. The curry is still at my friend’s house, seeing we go there every now and then. I can’t remember the last time I was happy, it’s simply been too long. All that’s left is the boy and I, my wife committed suicide by gunpoint, with my .44 Revolver. My grandfather gave that to me on his death bed. We only got two bullets left in the thing: one for me, and one for the boy. It’s almost like that one McCarthy story, the uh…”The Road”. Yeah, that’s it. No more for me. I think I’ve had enough. It might be good to just, lie down and rest…for a little…while. How nice it would be, to never have to wake up to this world. If only, if only this wasn’t reality, and I was really some figment of an author’s mind.
“Ha! That would be good.”
I sat there for a while. I sat there for a long time. I was tired. When the boy finds me, he won’t know what to do. “Mankind has to end war, before war ends mankind” J.F.K. once said. It’s been a good couple of years. I’ve earned this haven’t I? I deserve to rest. Yeah, that must be it. I’ll just rest, if only for a little while.
As the wind whispered into the old man’s ears, he drifted off into a never-ending slumber. The story will pan out, with the decrescendo of the wind and soot, blowing amongst the withered Virginian trees.
“Alright, now what you wanna’ know about choppin’ wood, is that it takes muscle, and patience. What you really wanna’ do is get the axe-“, *thud*, “deep into the wood. After that, all you really need to do is shake the axe out, and you got chopped wood.”
“Can I try Dad?”
“It’s all yours”
We chopped wood for about eight hours, no lie. The missus’ called us in for supper. It was Friday, so we had our annual T.V. frozen dinner. Some political show was talkin’ about some ICBMs reaching America. The states had been getting’ in to some trouble with the U.S.S.R. for some time now. They were tryin’ to see who could build more ICBMs. But does it really matter how many of the things a country has, once they have any? The men on T.V. sounded kinda’ worried, like somethin’ was gunna’ happen. They told us Kansas folk to get into our tornado shelters. We grabbed our blankets, our dog, Sparky, and all the food we could carry. We stumbled into the shelter, where we had turned on the crank-powered T.V. There was nary a signal. We heard some kinda’ whisperin’ on the T.V.
*We’re as good as dead. They launched ‘em.They launched ‘em. Pray. Pray for sweet, sweet life.*
The politician broke into tears. They must’ve done it.
“The poor, poor man. Those crazy foreigners, killin’ us like pigs. They must want us, eradicated.”
We sat in the darkness, for longer than a clock can keep track. It makes you worry, what’ll happen next. The smallest noise’ll make you jump. Sittin’ in the dark, with nothin’ but your thoughts. I’ve had some pretty long nights in Kansas, but this must’ve been the longest night of my life, and no one said a word. We awoke the next sunrise. It was cold as the poles. We opened the door.
“Snow!” the boy said.
“Wait. It’s not snow.” I replied.
I picked up a handful. God, it was hot as overcooked food! The land was rich with this substance. Not a building lay in sight. We looked for the SUV, which was nowhere to be found. How can the temperature be cold, but the ash was piercing warm? We traveled down the road to my friend who’s a meteorologist.
His home was demolished. Only the rafters from his basement were dangling in the wine cellar. I remember that old cellar. We used to watch football on Sundays there. We relaxed and dined, with some beer and wine. Those were glory days. Surprisingly, he had a curry bike in the basement. Biking, that was his thing. He was an athletic man, with a behind the desk job. If you don’t get out and about after work, you’re just a sittin’ duck. My wife and I carried the curry up the stairs and set it on the ash-infested soil. The tires wouldn’t budge.
“This is a road curry. Not meant for this kind of land.” I said
My wife broke down into tears. As she bawled non-stop, I helped her up as we slowly stumbled across the vast, barren terrain, with my son following behind. We kept going ‘till we reached the city. There were only a few buildings left, partially damaged. We stumbled up to what I guess was the twelfth floor. Ash and wood fell from the ceiling every now and then.
Now, years later, the sun is gone. All that’s left is a sky full of gray soot. The curry is still at my friend’s house, seeing we go there every now and then. I can’t remember the last time I was happy, it’s simply been too long. All that’s left is the boy and I, my wife committed suicide by gunpoint, with my .44 Revolver. My grandfather gave that to me on his death bed. We only got two bullets left in the thing: one for me, and one for the boy. It’s almost like that one McCarthy story, the uh…”The Road”. Yeah, that’s it. No more for me. I think I’ve had enough. It might be good to just, lie down and rest…for a little…while. How nice it would be, to never have to wake up to this world. If only, if only this wasn’t reality, and I was really some figment of an author’s mind.
“Ha! That would be good.”
I sat there for a while. I sat there for a long time. I was tired. When the boy finds me, he won’t know what to do. “Mankind has to end war, before war ends mankind” J.F.K. once said. It’s been a good couple of years. I’ve earned this haven’t I? I deserve to rest. Yeah, that must be it. I’ll just rest, if only for a little while.
As the wind whispered into the old man’s ears, he drifted off into a never-ending slumber. The story will pan out, with the decrescendo of the wind and soot, blowing amongst the withered Virginian trees.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
The Fiance
It was late, and she was getting worried. He hadn’t come home yet. He was out with his friends. She told him not to drink. But he’s slipped a promise here and there time and again. The door rang. She was relieved. As she opened the door, there was a man, who’d arrived in a small grey sedan, like that out of a 1970's factory, newly furnished, still presenting forth the euphoric aroma of that infamous new car scent. Odd enough, the windows were tinted more than the usual suburban transport, but that didn't bother her.
“Hello?” She said.
“Mrs. Hanson?” The stranger replies.
“Yes?”
“It is my- deepest regret to inform you that-you’re fiancé has passed away.”
“What?”
“He was last seen leaving a bar downtown with some of his friends. Their car spun out of control off I-95.”
“He had this in his pocket.”
The strange man handed her a note. What could it possibly be? As she unfolded the paper, she could see his name in cursive:
My sweet fiance,
I am sorry for this promise yet again broken. I sit here writing at the bar. I am driving home in about an hour. Dave has had too many. I sure can pick ‘em. I will see you soon.
-John
She thanks and leaves the stranger as she hops in her car to the I-95. She has found the exit, but as she approaches, she sees no sign of a crash; no tire marks, no chassis, not even a flare from a possible fire. She parks and looks over the nearby ravine, to which the man had described. There was nothing. Puzzled and curious, she returns home about 20 minutes later. As she searches for that one key on that large aluminum ring, she could’ve sworn she heard a door shut. She backed away and called the police.
“I’ll send a car out there. They should be there in about ten minutes. Just stay outside.” The operator said.
She couldn’t bear the wait. She walked inside, the dark, serene room. When she flipped the power button on, she found that all her furniture and home items were all gone. She searched her room. But, upon entrance, she found John, her fiancé, sprawled out across the floor, with no life at all.
Frightened half to death, she sprints out of the house as the police pulled up. With tears streaking down her cheeks, she describes her problem. The two officers search the house but find nary a person.
"That can't be," she said. "my fiance's body was right in he-"
But as she looks into the master bedroom, she doesn't see John's body; only a trail of blood leading to the window.
“Hello?” She said.
“Mrs. Hanson?” The stranger replies.
“Yes?”
“It is my- deepest regret to inform you that-you’re fiancé has passed away.”
“What?”
“He was last seen leaving a bar downtown with some of his friends. Their car spun out of control off I-95.”
“He had this in his pocket.”
The strange man handed her a note. What could it possibly be? As she unfolded the paper, she could see his name in cursive:
My sweet fiance,
I am sorry for this promise yet again broken. I sit here writing at the bar. I am driving home in about an hour. Dave has had too many. I sure can pick ‘em. I will see you soon.
-John
She thanks and leaves the stranger as she hops in her car to the I-95. She has found the exit, but as she approaches, she sees no sign of a crash; no tire marks, no chassis, not even a flare from a possible fire. She parks and looks over the nearby ravine, to which the man had described. There was nothing. Puzzled and curious, she returns home about 20 minutes later. As she searches for that one key on that large aluminum ring, she could’ve sworn she heard a door shut. She backed away and called the police.
“I’ll send a car out there. They should be there in about ten minutes. Just stay outside.” The operator said.
She couldn’t bear the wait. She walked inside, the dark, serene room. When she flipped the power button on, she found that all her furniture and home items were all gone. She searched her room. But, upon entrance, she found John, her fiancé, sprawled out across the floor, with no life at all.
Frightened half to death, she sprints out of the house as the police pulled up. With tears streaking down her cheeks, she describes her problem. The two officers search the house but find nary a person.
"That can't be," she said. "my fiance's body was right in he-"
But as she looks into the master bedroom, she doesn't see John's body; only a trail of blood leading to the window.
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