orders are now being taken for the much anticipated paragraph novels gentlemen's reading jackets. due to the extremely high quality demands and product standards of the paragraph novels, every reading jacket is hand made by the singhalese people in the villages of lower ceylon and quality inspected on location by tribal elders in local drinking establishments before export. please allow twelve to eighteen months for shipping as we hand make every reading jacket to order, and only ship our product via lebanese steam ships and tahitian junkers bound for the atlantic, space willing. please note that our fabrics are of an exotic nature and have not been approved by any known safety organization, so we kindly ask that you specify on all orders if you have any known issues with coconut husk or himalayan monkey dander.
albert and the devilfish
lieutenant albert randle turned the large dial ten degrees and spoke methodically into the metal horn, "ship down ten degrees aye sir." the lumbering argonaut-class submarine "devilfish" listed slowly to the left and albert held himself steady by repositioning his weight to his right leg. the muffled chug of the twin meichenzer diesels gave the small iron command capsule all the vibrations of a bull-dike on the business end of a 12 inch strap-on. the senior petty officer placed his hand on albert's shoulder startling him. "at ease sailor" john said as he looked over the glowing gauges in the dark cabin. "you better get some sleep lieutenant, we still have a few hours before we reach the marianas trench." albert rubbed his strained eyes and shook his head, "aye that sir." he removed his headset and started down the small iron ladder. "oh, lieutenant" the officer said without looking up from the command console, "i'm sorry to hear about your wife." albert stopped and turned, "i know you are sir, and thank you." the officer sighed and continued, "it wasn't just me you know albert, we all fucked her."
how sweet was my subalpine fir
lewis and clark meandered through the tall engelmann spruce as the fragrance of the lodgepole pine and subalpine firs filled the afternoon breeze. "cheheecha, bring us water." clark said as he feverishly sketched a small drooping flower in his journal. "mombretia lewis! we got beaucoup mombretia all over this perimeter!" clark blurted out uncontrollably to lewis. cheheecha unfastened the small deerskin water pouch and brought it over to clark. clark held his cup out without looking up as the indian poured the water. lewis hurried over, "ah clarky my boy, thats a fantastic drawing, and i just spotted several yellow genetia on that cliff ledge!" lewis and clark were giddy over the botanous treasure trove that spread throughout the shaded undergrowth. "cheheecha!" lewis called out in excitement, "take down desk and tables from horses, bring color pencil sticks and paper, make camp on hill." cheheecha rolled his eyes as the other indians stood around looking at each other. after a few moments one of them said quietly in cherokee, "what a couple of fucking idiots."
the banshee's revenge
jenson lay motionless behind the wind swept dune that ran parallel to the foaming emerald coastline. the slow tumble of the beach breakers were followed by the gentle hiss of the receding surf. jenson rolled over and took another look over the dune. an ominous black frigate was trolling the island. there was no mistake about it, she was the pirate ship banshee. jenson had been dropped off on this inhospitable dot of land several months earlier with a few other captured men and left for dead. half starved and ragged, jenson was the only one left alive. they had come back, but for what? whatever the reason, if spotted, he would be hunted down and carved up by the banshee's merciless crew. he glanced up into the unforgiving tropical sun and vowed he would not be taken alive. he whispered a prayer that his powder was dry and pulled back the massive hammer on his rusted musket. jenson brought the heavy iron barrel up to rest on the dune's edge.
he squinted down the long barrel until his focus narrowed in on a dark figure standing at the helm of the black frigate.
there was no mistaking the bulky silhouette with furled captain's hat, it was the dreaded pirate jean moldeaux.
a crooked snear curled jenson's cracked lips as his finger tightened on the trigger. just then, a powerful hand grabbed jenson's wrist from behind, snatching him backwards to his feet like a rag doll. "are these your new school pants i told you not to play in?" the boy's mother demanded. jenson reluctantly began slapping the sand from his knees with his free hand. "you march inside and change this instant young man!"
jenson picked up his musket and trudged across the searing sands of the remote island. he paused and glanced back over the glistening ocean. the banshee was now a mere dot on the distant horizon.
"this shit ain't over moldeaux" he thought to himself, "this shit ain't over."
the gift of lars grundl
lars fastened the last of the lunar rabbit pelts together and slipped on his furry white creation. “you think that hideous thing is going to protect you from pluto’s radiation beams?” sheila said with a sarcastic tone, “you didn’t even tie off the seams right you idiot.” lars tried to ignore the woman as he cleared the dust from his photon blaster. lars grundl was a cleaning technician on space station 348-k when the meteor had struck the ship. lars just happened to be cleaning the toilet in the emergency ejection pod of billionaire heiress sheila morgan when the explosion ripped through the ship. the blast threw the young woman into his arms and he instinctively activated the blast doors. his quick thinking by hitting the emergency eject button had saved their lives, but now they were in a life or death game of cat and mouse on an uncharted planet with hostile inhabitants. the primitive race of brutal humanoids had unwittingly killed off all their females, and were now desperate to mate and repopulate their mongrel race. with bulging lust-filled eyes, they had spotted sheila, and would now stop at nothing to have her. “this is all you brought us to eat, a fucking dehydrated nutrition bar?” sheila grumbled eating the last bite of their food. lars walked outside of the cave and waved to the humanoids, “she’s in here!”
they rode english saddles
"i got no quarrel with you boys!" gage yelled out of the rotting window frame of the old farmhouse. the response was a volley of bullets that ripped through the faded lace curtains exposing the sunrays as swirling pillars of dust. gage pressed his back against the thin wall and pulled the ejector rod on his 44, releasing the heavy metal cylinder. damnit! there was only one bullet left and there were four of the tucker boys. gage snapped the cylinder back with a quick jerk of the hand and took a deep breath. "okay boys!" he yelled out in his gruffest voice, "i'm reloaded!" he could hear the subtle rubbing of the stirrup irons over the saddle flaps on their english saddles. "all those godamned tuckers rode english saddles." he thought rubbing the the sweat from his eyes. they were circling now, no doubt about it. this was it. gage pulled back the hammer with a heavy click and slowly pulled himself to his feet. "if i hit tom square between the eyes the others'll scatter to the wind sure as hell." he told himself. he took one last deep breath and belted a blood curdling scream as he ran full speed down the old plank hallway and leaped out the front door as the wall of bullets tore into his flesh from all sides. gage fell from the air as if in slow motion and never felt his body hit the dirt. the world went silent as he lay on his back as the blurry figures of the tucker boys emerged over him. there was no pain. it was as if he were submerged under a warm pool and dreaming. "so this is what death feels like?" gage thought to himself. a crow cawed in the distance and gage hudson drifted off and died right there on that grassy plain. chad and tommy tucker looked at each other and nodded in silence. it was chad who finally spoke up, "your mama's gonna have your ass gary." tommy popped the plastic cork from his yellow squirt gun and shook the last bit of water into his mouth. gary sat up and examined the dark green grass stains on his new school pants. "awww mother fucker!"
the rooster of st. pedro
juan followed the narrow dirt path through the winding back alley of st. pedro. the small village was nothing more than a sprawling cluster of crumbling shacks that were held together with little more than sun-baked mud and prayers. juan struggled to hold on to the burlap sack containing "tom cruise," his prize fighting rooster. juan was getting closer and could hear the roar of laughter and angry curses of the old men that had gathered to place bets on the weekly chicken fights. the closer he approached, the more tom cruise struggled to free himself from the dusty sack. "relax boy," he spoke calmly to the rooster, "soon you will taste the sweet glory of victory!" at last they reached the crowd and a hush came over the circle of old men. the crowd slowly parted as juan and his rooster quietly walked to the center ring of rusted chicken wire. juan paused for a moment scanning the crowd, then reached into the sack pulling out tom cruise and quickly raised him high over his head. the crowd gasped. tom cruise's glittering green sequined chicken fighting vest sparkled with brilliant rays as the mesmerized crowd of old men's jaws hung agape.
"the capital of california?" the teacher asked juan for the third time.
juan snapped out of his daydream as the classroom erupted in laughter.
"hollywood?" juan sheepishly replied.
the class now doubling over with laughter. "that's enough boys and girls!" the teacher scolded, "juan, please see me after class."
outposts of the heart
captain jake blyman sat nervously tapping his floral designed teacup. "is it too hot for you?" meg inquired without looking up from her magazine. "it's fine." jake responded through clinched teeth. the sun was high in the sky now and beginning to pass slowly behind mars. it was late autumn on the southern plains of venus. the two sat in silence at a small cafe table overlooking the vast green venetian valley below. "you're just going to let it go cold aren't you." meg said as she flipped another page. "i'll drink it when i'm ready, is that okay with you? can i drink my own goddamned drink when i'm ready?" a smirk crossed meg's lips and she shook her head mumbling something under her breath. "i'm sorry i didn't catch that last part." jake said staring menacingly at meg. "nothing."
meg was the latest lifelike "comfort-bot" sent out to federation soldiers stationed at remote galactic outposts. the "meg series," was equipped with updated breasts, a teasingly low cut space suit, a bitter scowl, and the latest t-75b sarcasm chip. almost indistinguishable from a real human female. jake stood up to stretch his back. it was getting late and he still had work to do. meg flipped another page of the magazine, "yea that's right, just leave all the dishes on the fucking table."
dinner with the blumes
ryan reached for the rye bread as he darted his eyes at carol. "this meal looks fantastic mrs. blume." had sent them a he said with all the maturity he could muster. "you're very welcome ryan, we knew your father well." mr. blume picked at his peas silently without looking up. "yes ryan, your father was a dear friend, he'll be missed at the plant." the blume's christmas card every year, but this was the first time they had been invited to their home. "did you know my father well mr. blume?" ryan inquired. "for 12 years son, and he told me alot about you." carol gently wiped her mouth with her napkin, "why don't you tell ryan about one of your work trips with his father dear." mr. blume sat back in his highbacked chair placing his hands behind his neck, a smile crossed his lips, "vegas, 1997. your father was on a winning streak on the craps table at the sands hotel. he won 3 grand that night and blew it all on six russian hookers. we got jacked up on coke and strangled one of them and dumped her body in the desert. you're five years old now son, thought you should know."
a gathering of beasts
dawn.
the thick morning mist was rolling slowly through the leaves like a crowd of dazed spirits. the great beast grabbed a damp limb and pulled his massive frame up and out of his treetop nest. he could hear the others gathering in the distance. the low guttural moans of the elders, the hoops and rapid yips and yelps of the younger apes as they thrashed about the lush wet undergrowth. he could smell the battle coming, and almost taste the blood on his jutting yellow canines. it was time. his body ached but he shut it out. his knees, old and tired. he shut it out. it was time. he clinched his massive brow and let the rage course through his veins as the growing primordial sounds around him accumulated into a pounding thunder. he started out across the winding limb to join the others as a deep grunt emanated from behind. he turned and looked back to see the smaller gorilla standing in his nest, outstretched arms gripping fistfuls of sticks. "so what, i'm just supposed to clean up all this shit? is that it? i'm just here to clean up after you everyday while you go off and do whatever?"
"but the war thing..with jerry and the guys, i told you on thurs..."
"no, fine! just leave me here again and go play your stupid little games with your idiot friends!"
the trapper's gift
"take my hand little one, we getting close now." the old man said as he led the little girl by the hand through the knee deep snow drifts. mr. kahloon had the weather worn face of an arctic trapper and the hands to match. his dark leathery skin was pulled back tight over his high cheek bones and his kind eyes squinted from the blistering cold. his stout frame and thick handmade fur coat gave him the appearance of a polar bear walking backwards crapping a catcher's mitt. "come little one, its close now." it was kaleena's birthday and she was excited to see what papa had instore for her. the wind whipped over the snow drifts throwing the powder into the air making the frozen plain look like a dance of a thousand ghosts. they finally reached the edge of the snow bank and the old man pointed down the sparkling vista as kaleena's eyes lit up. "oh papa!" ...and there they were, hundreds of newborn seals. kaleena began jumping up and down. the old man reached into his sack and pulled out his old hand carved clubbing stick. "have fun little one."
mon recollection magnifique
the lost memoirs: mon recollection magnifique.
superflywebpimp first started jotting down his personal memoirs and recollections on bits and scraps of paper at the tender age of three. although he was not yet literate, the crumpled bits of paper and paint smeared napkins held much wisdom and insights. they were later pieced together and translated by a reclusive hord of nordic monks, revealing the true genius that was to later bloom into what the world now knows as "the paragraph novels."
these are the early recollections of the wandering master...
"mon recollection magnifique"
#291 #650 #919 #715 #189 #340
night of the scavenger
thursday july 14. galapagos islands. area 278-c.
'the scavenger' rocked slowly on the rolling swells
as the sun rays danced on the rippling surface of the azure waters. dr. barbara crane stood on the aft deck pulling up a string from the deep that held a glass beaker. she held the small tube of water up to the light, "well, let's see what we have here gentlemen." the two deck hands flashed nervous looks at each other as the doctor carefully poured the saltwater into a small electronic device. a few moments later the machine began to beep and a series of numbers appeared on the screen. "8.44444." the doctor tapped a rapid sequence of buttons on the keypad, "this reading can't be right...it just can't be!" her voice trembling and confused. the levels were alarmingly high and she couldn't make sense of it.
"beep beep beep beep..."
the young marine biology student awoke from her dream and sat up in the small dorm room. the alarm was going off and it was 8:50 am, she was late for class. she reached over between the empty beer bottles and picked up the pregnancy test and shook it feverishly. "son-of-a-bitch!"
superflywebpimp's film reviews
film is an art that i hold dear and very close to my heart. yet just as an artist cannot pick just one favorite color, so do i find trouble picking just one film the stands out from the many. yet i have assembled a few of the gleaming jewels from which i have found to be the most touching and epitomize the transcendent nature of that which we call the human heart. but what is art after all? what man among us can say this is art and this is not? sometimes it is the things that we do not see that makes us feel the most deeply. and although i have not actually seen any of these films per se, i found out long ago that its better to judge a film by its cover art than to have to waste all that time actually sitting through it. there is just no point in that in this day and age. with that said, i bring you my picks for the best films of the year...
1. one more drink for senior 2. mounto! 3. wrath be a blue nun
4. farm of fuego 5. the whipsman's fury 6. muqabla
7. vengeance of fire 8. lust of the slut woman 9. rakhwala
10. not without my goat 11. the last lapdance
12. cry again, and yet again
voyage of the seadragon
the fog was beginning to lift now and sean could just make out the crest of a treeline above the emerald breakers. "tie off that bowline, and bring her about boys, this might get tricky." sean had sailed these waters before but felt uneasy about this whole trip. "take in that slack peter, we don't want that mast on our heads." peter looked out over the churning waters of tah'ua bay and spotted the others, "looks like we've got company boss." sean had lost the annual hawaiian schooner classic three years in a row. "i'll be damned if that bitch is going to overtake the seadragon!" sean howled as he fastened the forward lines. the fog had all but dissipated and the wind was picking up fast from the east. "boss, we need to let the lines out, the seadragon can't take this wind!" peter said as the ropes burned into his hands. "damn you boy, hold fast those lines!" sean bellowed over the whipping gail winds. "okay thats enough, time to get out sean, your hands are turning into prunes and your making a mess!" sean's mother said as she pulled the plug on his now luke-warm bath. "and take out all the boats, something is going to get sucked down the drain!" she said as she held out the towel. sean looked back at the seadragon caught in the swirling waters and thought to himself, "oh this ain't over bitch, this ain't over by a sight."
stones in the dust
dr. erwin roland blew the dust off the small fossil and held it up for debra. "grammysia?" she said hesitantly. dr. roland smiled as he adjusted his spectacles , "close my dear, try grammysioideas, devonian period." the pennsylvania geological survey group had been camped in eastern africa for three weeks now and dr. roland had impressed the young debra with his extensive knowledge and bookish charm. he had gained fame on a dig off the tip of southern australia in the summer of 1987 when he unearthed the only complete chilotherium skull to date, and made damn sure everyone knew it. "santos!" dr. roland called to the young chilean intern, "santos, take this one and date it, mark it area 32-b and make sure you put my initials under it. that's a good boy now be off." santos ran off to the tents holding the fossil as if it were the hope diamond itself. the school bell rang out and a large tennis shoe stomped on erwins rocks, grinding them into the dirt. erwin looked up from the playground, it was santos, the burly seventh grader with debra jenkins standing behind him. "nice rocks nerd!" santos laughed as he turned and walked back to the school with debra on his arm. "oh yea?" erwin thought to himself, "wait till i discover an archaeopteryx my dear santos, we'll see who gets the bitches then."
the cowboy and juan carlos
juan carlos sat in the idling el camino and nervously tapped the steering wheel. “it has to be at least 120 degrees in here” he thought as he lowered the window to get some air. the heat was rising off the highway blending the desert into the cloudless sky like the soft undulations of a country creek. the line at the border checkpoint of los nogelas mexico was long but he was almost to the front now. he spotted luis marcos on the other side of the fence, wearing a cowboy hat and red shirt as planned. the man held up his hand as to wave and flashed three fingers. that was it, that was the signal. juan pulled into bay number three. luis marcos had bought the customs agent and in just a few hours, he would be 5,000 dollars richer. the agent waved juan into the bay without looking at his face. “papers amigo.” the agent said bending down to the window. juan handed the handful of papers to the man as the agent opened the car door and motioned for him to step to the orange line. he casually looked over his shoulder to find luis but couldn’t spot the red shirt. the customs agent bent into the el camino and looked back at juan as he popped open a long red switchblade, “what do we have here amigo?” he said, flashing several gold teeth in a crooked smile. he jammed the blade into the black leather seat and a puff of white dust erupted. “it's a godamned double cross!” a female agent grabbed juan's arm, jerking him hard from behind. “you are going to clean up every bit of this mess young man! now put the powdered sugar down and finish your pancakes!” jimmy sat back down at the kitchen table as his mother got a rag and handed it to the young boy. jimmy slowly wiped at the dust covered table and thought to himself, “you’re a dead man luis marcos, a fucking dead man.”
connection speeds of destiny
ellen nervously peered around the corner at the young man stooping on one knee beside the desk in the cramped home office. mark was installing his first modem, and being a man, he certainly didn’t need any instructions. after all, this was guy stuff. mark’s back trembled and he raised his right elbow high as he struggled to pull on something that ellen couldn’t quite see. “what is it mark? is it the cable?” ellen said stepping slightly into the doorway. “i’ve got it, i told you i’ve got it.” he hissed through clenched teeth. ellen impatiently threw her hands on her hips and sighed, “i told you don’t pull on that, the guy at work said….” mark quickly cut her off, “can you please get me the god damned screwdriver from the tool drawer like I asked you ten minutes ago? i’m pretty sure i can fucking handle this!” ellen spun around on her heel and stomped down the hallway mumbling something about competence, respect, and a vague reference to the intelligence level of his relatives. mark picked up the can of beer on the desk and shook it slightly to gauge it’s contents, then took a long slow drink to finish it off. “and i’ll take another beer on your way back please!” there was a brief moment of silence, a car honked in the distance, then a muffled voice from the garage...“fuck you!”
albright's blue spruce
the crackling of gunfire in the distance woke the young man from his forbidden catnap and he sat up, cupping his hands over his mouth and huffed into his frozen gloves for warmth. chandler albright was a young man of nineteen years from a small ass crack in the world called anadarko county, which was just southwest of oklahoma city. with swirling dreams of combat and heroism, chandler had signed up with the infantry on valentine’s day in the february of 1942 with his best friend will hatchell in the hopes of winning the love of gail evansworth. one year later, he was entrenched in a snow covered forest in god-knows-where and will hatchell was working as a grocery bagger at evansworth’s market in downtown anadarko. it turned out the lucky bastard had flat feet. everyday ran into the next in a freezing blur of digging, marching, and waiting. chandler had overheard someone say they were in italy, but nobody was sure. there were three lines on the eastern front, the barbera line, the bernhard line, and the gustav line. private albright was on the bernhard line and was appointed as the sole lookout at the southernmost tip of the flank. his job was to watch for any movement that might try to cross the garigliano river. if he made contact, he would radio back to the main line, holding off any advancement as long as he could. “what the hell does that mean?” he thought to himself, “as long as I could?” he was to dig the standard foxhole and cover the opening with brush and snow, but when he got to his designated point, he found the ground frozen solid. he settled for a slight dip in the snow that had been formed by an uprooted blue spruce. chandler unfolded the bipod at the end of the twenty pound browning automatic rifle and checked the magazine for ice. the bar’s clip was designed to be changed within 2.5 seconds, but he had never been able to do it in under five, and in icy conditions during combat was a whole different ballgame. he breathed into the slide of the weapon to melt the ice that had formed in the metal. he looked out over the top of the snowy knoll and took in the beauty of the tall black pines against the gray european sky. he saw a small flash of light across the river. chandler albright never felt the round of the german kar98k sniper rifle as it tore through his head, sending his helmet flying five yards backwards into the snow. three thousand miles away on a dark deadend street in oklahoma, a young man sat up in the backseat of a dusty 1933 packard, “did you hear something?” will said in a panting breath. “no, now get back down here tiger” gail whispered, pulling the young man back to her lips.
the ring of fire
jay skipped the last of the four concrete steps in a full hurdle and he kicked open the rusted metal door to the roof of the u.s. embassy. a strong gust of tropical heat washed over him and jay briefly took a knee until his squinting eyes adjusted to the blinding mid-day light of saigon. the sounds of crackling gunfire penetrated the amber cloud of swirling dust as the huey hovered over the families waiting to be evacuated. jay couldn’t understand what the vietnamese official was yelling into the loudspeaker, but the urgency in his voice was apparent, the embassy was under attack and only a privileged few officials and their families would be evacuated, everyone else would have to take their chances with the approaching vietcong guerillas. “we got three at the gate that need to get through!” a man in a white linen shirt screamed to jay, holding his straw hat down tightly to his head. “evacuation plan "ring of fire" has been activated! hold down the embassy at all costs! you got that soldier?!” jay knew that he would be the last to leave, and it wouldn’t be on a chopper, that luxury was reserved for civilians. jay was fine with that, he was a marine. jay pushed the man aside as the overfilled chopper began to lift off. a heavyset man in dark sunglasses tried to wave him off, signaling with his hands that they were full. jay grabbed the man by the shirt and pulled him out of the helicopter and the man hit the concrete with a heavy thud. jay lifted a small boy by the back of the shirt from the waiting group and tossed him like a ragdoll into a woman’s arms in the huey, then did the same with three more girls. as they lifted off, the woman held onto her children and thanked jay with her tear filled eyes. "no need to thank me miss" jay thought to himself as the thundering bird drifted off into the deep blue saigon sky. “what in the hell do you think you are doing?!” jay’s mother said standing in the backyard with her hands on her hips. “you get down off that roof and i mean right now young man!” the six year old reluctantly descended the ladder into his mother’s arms and she lowered him to the ground. “don’t you ever get on that roof again mister, do you understand me?” jay quietly removed the canteen from his belt and took a long drink and thought to himself, "what the hell do you know about war baby?"
superflywebpimp's oscar picks for best picture
everyone knows that the oscars are all about politics and consumer commercialism. that's why it is my moral imperative to give you the real oscar picks for the films that
1.himmat 2.the devil's bargain 3.yes, we have no iguanas 4.weep not for the unjust
falcon one, watch your six
“major steven braumen, united states air force” he thought of himself announcing to his captors. thats even if he lived through the crash. the pave hawk was beginning to swing wildly out of control and the rear door gunner’s yelling and cursing were replaced with the roaring of wind and thick noxious smoke. steve pulled up hard on the collective control arm as he forced the cyclic throttle to a steep right. he began to pump furiously on both rudders without any resistance. “goddamned linkage failure!” he heard himself yell into his helmet. the hulking machine began to vibrate as it slowly pitched left like a 40 million dollar tugboat caught in a black whirlpool of smoke. “falcon one hit! repeat, falcon one hit!” he calmly forced himself to utter the next words, knowing full well they may be his last, “going down, repeat, falcon one going down.” he could feel the nose dipping low and the massive g force threw him violently against his seat. “what in the hell are you doing back there?” his father demanded as he glared at steven through the rearview mirror. “don’t you ever let me catch you holding that helicopter out the window again young man!” major steven braumen took a sip of his juice box as he calmly regained control of the mighty pave hawk. he focused his icey steel blue eyes on the cluster of russian tanks below. “falcon one locked on target, request permission to fire.”
the minstrel of the square
there once was a wandering minstrel who came upon a small village after a long journey. he walked to the center square and began to play his instrument and sing. after a few minutes, a small crowd had gathered to listen to the minstrel. when he had finished his song, a small boy stepped from the crowd and asked him, "minstrel, do you know the song o'lady of the morn?" the minstrel smiled and replied, "i know not the song you speak of lad, but after my many travels i have learned a few that might please you." he began to play another song, this one more lively than the last. when he had finished, an old woman asked, "might you know the hymn blessed be the sheppard?" the minstrel smiled and replied, "i know not that song my lady, but this one i'm sure you will like!" he began to play a spiritual hymn and plucked away at his instrument. the crowd became bored and moved on about their daily routines.
later that night, penniless and hungry, he was mauled by wild animals.
the stranger and the donkey
there once was a poor man whose only possession in life was an old donkey. one day while walking his donkey to a pond to get water, he was approached by a clever man wearing a velvet cloak with a silver cane. the stranger asked the old man if he cared to make a friendly wager. the old man being poor and simple, said that he had nothing to wager with. "well, you have a fine donkey right here!" said the stranger. "i'll wager these four silver coins against your donkey if you can solve my riddle." the old man thought about the food that four silver coins might buy, for he and his donkey were very hungry indeed."okay my friend," the old man said, "i will accept your wager." the stranger in the cloak grinned and began to draw a large circle in the sand with his silver cane. "now show me my good friend," he said handing the old man the cane, "where does the circle start, and where does it end?" the old man smiled because he knew the answer to the riddle. "if i answer your riddle, would you also give me your silver cane and warm cloak?" the stranger began to get nervous, but he knew there was no answer to his riddle. so he agreed. the old man pointed to the center of the circle with the cane, "well to begin with, every circle has an empty center do you agree?" the stranger was getting impatient. "yes yes, i suppose so, go on." the old man then beat the stranger to death with the cane. that night, the velvet cloaked old man traded the donkey for a pint of cold ale and ordered the 'four silver coin twins' at the village brothel.
the zen master and the scorpion
once there was a zen master who was walking alone near a quiet brook in the forest. the zen master decided he would sit down under a large oak tree next to the brook where it was shaded and cool. behind him in the brook, a scorpion had fallen into the water and was floating helplessly on its back at the will of the current. the scorpion, unable to swim, asked the heavens for a miracle to save him from drowning. the zen master, admiring the beauty of the rippling water, noticed the scorpion struggling in the swirling brook. the zen master lifted his walking stick up and held it gently over the scorpion. the scorpion grasped at the stick, but fell back into the water after much effort. again the zen master gently held the stick over the scorpion. with all its might, the scorpion once more grasped at the stick. the zen master raised the stick and immediately smashed the scorpion. "get the fuck off my goddamn stick!"
glimmer, sparkle, sweet gold of yonder hills
it so happened that duggan’s abandoned gold mine sat smack dab in the middle of 125,000 acres of prime northern blue gum timber. the old miners in this country had long since vanished after turning in their pick axes for chainsaws and began ravaging the endless miles of pristine wilderness until the emerging environmental laws had driven them out of work, and into the legends of a bygone era. these hills were riddled with tall tales of tragic fortunes, won and lost. now all that was left out here were the ever-watching eagles, the shadowy black bears, and the lurking of the ghostly timber wolves. the legend of duggan’s gold was thought to be just that, nothing more than rumor and campfire legend, but sure as a skunk’s teet, there she was. it was by sheer chance that danny had found her at all. he had just crossed the narrowed neck of the snake river just beneath the old mine and had glanced up the towering face of boar’s canyon at just the right moment. she sat squarely in the middle of the ancient granite cliff like a festering black mole on a lunch lady’s back. danny wiped his forehead and began working his way up the eroded path to the mine’s opening. the entrance sagged from years of neglect like the ass end of an aging plumber. the afternoon sun lit a few yards into the mine and he could see the various piles of rubble from decades of dusty cave-ins. he ventured cautiously down the darkened cavern and began to catch the glimmer of what appeared to be precious metal sparkling in the dust. his heart began to creep up his throat with a thunderous beat. he bent down and slowly reached his shaking hand around the old timber beam… suddenly a strong hand snatched his wrist. “after my jar of pennies again are you danny?!” his older bother snarled. with one mighty jerk, he pulled danny by his wrist from underneath his bed and pushed him out the door of his bedroom. danny stumbled down the hallway and fell crumpled to the carpet. he turned just as his brother slammed his bedroom door. danny picked up his spiderman flashlight and mumbled to himself, “oh i’ll have that gold damn you, i’ll have that gold.”
indulge yourself with these delicious time wasting pixels
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600 miles to the rio grande
ty flugal just may be the best coach hand in all the 24 states. "damned yer' eyes ya tethered nillysnicker" ty yelled at the lead horse as he cracked his weathered coach whip. it was almost mid day and the sun beat down on the creaking stagecoach carrying mrs. finny and her precious cargo. "how much further to the rio grande senior renaldo?" mrs. finny shouted over the thundering noise of the horses. "i recon 'bout 'nother 600 miles ma'am!" i announced without looking down. i didn't have the heart to tell mrs. finny and ty, but we were heading in the wrong direction and had been for days. "cut! That’s a wrap everybody" john called to the set. i climbed down from the dusty stagecoach and helped linda out of the cab, "you were fantastic baby." i said with a smile. "you can drop the cowboy accent now bill." linda said coldly, "and you might as well know, i'm fucking your brother."
damned be the hills
jebidiah never took his squinting eyes off the spotted yearling as he gently removed the lead ball from his hip sling and carefully slipped the projectile down the nose of the long lander’s smooth bore. “slow your breath jeb…don’t blink.” his thumb found the grooved hammer and he slowly pulled it back sending the sound of the heavy click reverberating across the rugged landscape. and with that, the yearling dashed. “damnit!” jeb leaped to his feet and followed the young deer over the long iron barrel as it sprang behind the red pine and into the weathered scrub thickets and it was gone. the phone rang. jeb let the heavy barrel of the brown bess drop to his side and he let his eyes fall across the immense colorado horizon. the pale blue white caps in the distance reminded him that winter was coming on fast and he needed pelts. the phone rang again and this time he sat halfway up on the couch and opened one eye and looked at the phone until it rang again, as if to make sure it was real. “hello?” he managed in a half choke. “what are you doing, sleeping on the couch?” his wife said over her crackling cell phone. “um, no…i’m just straightening up the dishes.” “yeah, you’re sleeping on the couch again! i’m on my way home!” the phone went dead. he laid his head back down on the couch cushion and closed his eyes. “okay, i need to get up and do the damn dishes.” he told himself flatly. he sat up and slowly stretched his arms then grumbled and rubbed his eyes. the embers of the night’s campfire were still smoldering as the morning sun painted the distant mountains with a rich golden brush. jeb picked up the metal pan and poured the black coffee into the tin cup. he didn’t hear the grizzly behind him at first, it must have been tracking him for days. the beast’s heaving breath sent chills up his neck and he slowly reached for his bear rifle. his wife kicked the corner of the couch and he sat up with a start. “so this is what you call doing the dishes asshole?!”
island heat
the h-53 sea stallion touched down on the steaming tarmac of the san andros airport at 11:15 am thursday afternoon. the pilot swung the nose around to face the tiny terminal. a hand painted sign read "andros island international airport," you had to laugh. there was one small white cinder block building and a grassy parking lot. the massive prop hummed like a ten dollar hooker on a textile salesman. the pilot muttered something into his mic as he began the tedious process of flipping a series of switches to shut down the mighty beast. "welcome to the bahamas" the co-pilot said in a strange accent. i grabbed my heavy ruck sack and slung it over my shoulder, "thank you" i mumbled as i jumped out of the now open gunner's door. the sun was blinding and cruel, but there was a warm exotic breeze that filled my lungs. "well" i told myself, "this is it, you're finally going to meet her." lucia de mulique was a dark skinned bahamian beauty i'd met over the internet. was i ready to meet her? you bet your ass i was, and i had a ruck sack full of sex toys and lotions to prove it. i took a long drink from the warm flask of gin... "gerald get out of the sandbox and wash up for dinner please, grandma will be here in ten minutes" mother yelled from the screen door. i reluctantly dropped the small plastic helicopter and stood up dusting the sand off my tuffskins. "damn!" i thought, "...lucia, you'll just have to wait my darling."
2 clicks from nowhere
"tango seven, come in tango seven" the radio crackled to life in the darkened foxhole. "this is tango seven over." i managed in a muffled whisper. "we got movement about two clicks southeast of your position captain." fuck. doesn't charlie ever sleep? i slowly poked my head up and gave the hand signal for the boys to sit tight, i was taking this one. i snapped in a fresh magazine and flipped my 16 to rock-n-roll. i unsnapped my k-bar knife and tested it to make sure the blade would slide out unhindered. oh it came out smooth allright, too smooth. i pulled the pin... "henderson, godamnit get off the floor and back to work!" mr. lend said over my cubicle wall. "and take those damn staplers back where you found them!" "yeah, i got your staplers baby," i thought to myself, "lets see what happens when i change all your log in passwords bitches."
untold pleasures await you
now you can get up to 5% more pleasure from the paragraph novels simply by clicking on the novel titles. because here at the paragraph novels, we know what you want, and we know how to give it to you.
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a million golden pieces
the glowing line of amber tail lights tapered off into the distance of the morning smog, reminding me of a cheap string of red christmas lights that refused to blink in proper sequence. i put the car into park and checked my watch again, “8:14 am…fuck.” the man beside me in the gold lexus sedan was laughing with someone on his cell phone again. “would you take a look at this bastard over here.” i thought shaking my head. probably telling some old ivy league college buddy about the “monster deal” he had just closed or the detailed graphic techniques of the beauty he had brought home the previous night from some exclusive uptown loft with a strict dress code and dimly lit leathered seating. “guy probably drinks manhattans with double cherries.” i huffed under my breath. a white van caught my eye in the rearview mirror as it slowly crept up along the emergency lane. “who the hell does this guy think he is?” i thought as i turned to look out the back window. the van had no visible markings and ominous blacked out windows. the van rolled to a stop next to the man on the cell phone and he turned as if to tell his old buddy, “catch you later sport, i have some asshole pulling up next to me.” four men exited the van wearing what seemed to be black s.w.a.t. style combat gear and carried automatic weapons held tightly at the hip. “holy…fucking…shit” i whispered to myself as the men approached the lexus. one of the men tapped his barrel on the driver’s window and waved him out of the vehicle with his weapon. the man inside the car lowered his window three inches and said something through the small opening shaking his head, which seemed to only anger the man who repeated to tap on the glass, only this time much harder, to the point i thought the glass would surely explode into a million pieces. the man hesitated, then reluctantly opened the door and got out, raising his hands at shoulder’s height and mumbled something in defiant protest as the second man in the ski mask shoved him several times hard in the back, causing him to skip a step and stumple to the edge of the highway. i began to roll down my window so i could hear what was being said as the sudden rapid popping of gunfire threw the man violently against the sedan, where he slowly slid down the side with a look of frozen shock, finally slumping into a fetal position on the road. one of the masked men darted a look over at me and gave me a gloved thumps up. a loud honking from behind frightened me and i looked up to realize the traffic had began to move once again. i placed the car back into drive and drove up beside the man in the lexus who was still talking on his cell phone and i thought to myself, “what kind of bastard buys a gold car anyway?”
the queen of hearts
the sun was beginning to rise from the east and the morning heat was sending shimmering ripples across the desert sands that bordered between saudi arabia and the vast lifeless areas due west of al jubayl. “e.t.a. twenty minutes!” twelve-pack yelled flashing two fingers up as we hit another bump in the desert that sent our helmets smashing into our knees. shit, you would think the 180 degree heat inside a bradley fighting vehicle is the worst you could possibly feel right? but it ain’t. it’s the stink. the god awful putrid stink. that was the worst. cannonball had a weak stomach and everyone winced and looked at him after every time we hit another dune in the sand. “you throw up…and you’re toast motherfucker.” bb-gun told him flatly with a cold stare. i felt bad for him. i happened to know it was cannonball’s birthday. but fuck, you didn’t dare tell anyone something like that over here, not to these mongrels. see, private moore had a real decent nickname once. we called him “spades,” on the count of he loved to play texas hold ‘em poker and all these other poker games that you never heard of in your whole life. i was pretty sure he was making the fucking rules up as he went too, till some other bastard from minnesota showed up and knew all the games too. anyway, spades made the mistake of getting teary eyed one night and telling someone in our unit that it was him and his girl’s anniversary, and boy that was it. he became known from then on as “the queen of hearts.” "five minutes everybody, lock-n-load!" twelve-pack barked with his normally jovial tone alarmingly absent. "hey, queen of hearts," bb-gun whispered loudly so everyone could hear, "when i get back home next month, i'm gonna make sweet-sweet love to your woman." we all laughed, and for the next precious five minutes, nobody could smell anything.
code of the vine weevils
“dr. brogan sir,” the secretary’s voice sounded over the intercom, “it is almost 8 pm sir, would you like me to stay any longer?” the startled mathematician quickly minimized the computer screen and composed himself, “no no miss engram, you may leave now, and thank you.” the man sat back in his leather chair in the darkened office and rubbed his eyes for a moment before picking up the straight ruler and pencil once again and going back over the crumpled print-outs that lay spread across his desk in cluttered piles. “my lord, the code, it's true!” he spoke in a trembling whisper. doctor paul brogan was a serious man of science who’s ideas and notions didn’t give in to the realm of fiction or fancy, but what he had inadvertently stumbled upon frightened him to the point where he had contacted the office of cardinal marsalis varivius, the head of the vatican’s secret code archives and second in command at the vatican library only to the pope’s albino gardener, "luigi." the phone suddenly began to ring and paul almost knocked over his coffee. dr. brogan’s hand shook as it hovered over the receiver, but something deep down told him not to answer it. after the sixth ring the answering machine picked up and a strange voice began to speak in a thick italian accent, “good’a evening dr. a’brogan, i hear you have a’some information to which you a’have recently come into a’possession, you see sir, i know all a’bout the j. lo code,” there was a long pause then the voice continued, “…please a’contact me immediately at the vatican’s office of a’gardening.” paul leaped from his seat and yanked the phone cord out of the wall before the voice could finish. ”my lord, they are on to me!” he quickly grabbed all the print-outs off the desk and stuffed them into his briefcase and opened his cell phone and nervously dialed his secretary, “miss engram, this is dr. brogan, i need you to listen to me very carefully my dear, if anything should happen to me, i need you to contact jennifer lopez and tell her…” his voice was suddenly cut off as a small bullet tore through the office window, striking the doctor in the neck and killing him instantly. a strange figure with pink eyes and white hair was later seen leaving dr. brogan’s office carrying a briefcase and a level-headed #14 forged bow rake. the strange figure spoke with a hushed tone into his phone in the back of the speeding taxi, “the j. lo code is a’safe sir.” “very good my son,” the voice said on the other end, “now get back to the base, it looks as though we may have vine weevils on the hydrangeas again.”
the sea and hank bartlet
hank bartlet woke with a start. he was almost thrown out of his bunk by the ships tossing. "my lord what time is it," he mumbled in his gruff irish accent. it was nearly 4 am and time for his watch. he poured himself a cup of cold turkish coffee from the rusted pitcher and held on to the walls of the ship as he lumbered down the gangway to the starboard aft. "secure the riggings on them damned staffs mr. richards!" he growled. mr. richards was a lanky seaman whos ribs showed through his salt sprayed rain slick, "aye cap'n securing the riggings!" hank bartlet looked out over the black wind swept sea as the sun cracked through the clouds like a plumbers ass through a pair of chinos. it was going to be one hell of a ground hog's day.
westward whips the whipping winds
jacob pulled back on the reigns in an upward motion causing the old mare to raise her head and a thick plume of breath escaped her flared nostrils with a heavy huff and a stomp. the aging cowboy had been traveling east for six days and nights and he carefully dismounted the wagon into the crunching snow, taking care to steady himself on the large spoked wheel. jacob looked out over the snow covered hills in a tired squint and admired how the crisp morning air seemed to freeze the untamed wilderness in time like the winter paintings he had seen hung on the town’s post office walls. he found it odd how the biting november chill seemed to dull the forest’s subtle hues into the lightest of blues and grays, and stark alabaster whites. the old cowboy reached out and felt the leaves of the sagging cliffrose shrub, its long and fragrant yellow flowers noticeably absent. “we must be gettin’ close old girl.” jacob said snapping off a brittle twig and holding it under his nose. in the distance he could hear the tussling of young coyote pups locked in mock battle on some unnamed hillside. the playful pups’ shrill yips and yaps echoed through the pines and reminded the cowboy of a drunken irish hooker running barefoot across a texas prairie fire. “yep ol’ girl, “ he said softly to the horse, “we’re almost home.”
ricardo! ricardo!
anne masterson positioned herself out of view of the rotating security camera in the corner of the elevator and quickly unscrewed the lens from the “minolta” and placed it carefully into the camera bag as ricardo hit the button for the top floor. “no one saw anything, i’m sure of it” she whispered as she replaced the lens on the false camera with the close range combat barrel with extended silencer. anne reached under the back of her model 153 world correspondent’s vest and pulled out one of the mini clips and snapped it into the weapon and sighed. “maybe it wasn’t them ricardo, the presidential palace has thousands of guests in trench coats with ear pieces.” ricardo was silent as he took off his armani sport coat, turning it inside out and replaced his angels baseball cap with a black stocking cap, making sure he stuffed the old baseball cap deep under the trash in the elevator’s small chrome garbage dispenser. “what did i tell you that day in
chapter 7, "riverside club"
once in a while, i feel the urge to give back to my loyal readers of the world in a show of my appreciation of your continued patronage of the paragraph novels. many of these loyal readers have often asked, "mr. superflywebpimp, we all know about your extensive literary accomplishments, but what about your periodical and semi-annual magazine based article publications?" good question. it may come as a surprise that over the many years i have secretly penned genius works of master paragraphisms under various pen names. to name a few..."the glass birdhouse of borneo" as sir edmond j. crane, featured in the december issue of "bird care for the blind" and the multi-issue saga titled "take the long trail to cleveland" penned as dr. renaldo pickeringstaff in the march and april editions of "midwestern small trail hikers guide." i have attached a signed copy of "living in a van down by the river" as a small token of my appreciation. and please don't forget to pick up a copy of my new novel coming out in may, "jimmy get your camel, we ride at lunchtime!"
jim banyard, a cobbler's cobbler
jim banyard lifted the heavy hammer and brought it down hard on the leather covered anvil. he repositioned the tanned hide and brought the hammer down again, sending a loud “thwank” that reverberated off the tool strewn walls of the darkened workshop. the aging cobbler spent the rest of the evening of december 12 1862 feverishly working on his latest masterpiece. he was putting the final stitching on the smooth elk hide garosh when he noticed the shards of light that were beginning to penetrate the cracks of the old workshop. he held the pair of half calf wellington boots up in the golden beams of the early morning light and a tired smile crossed his face as he realized he had worked through the night. real passion can do that to a man. jim had this feeling once before when he had come up with a revolutionary new design for mrs. bouliette’s birthday, a low cut marvel with a checked fawn upper that flowed into the tow with a lace trimmed enchantment that would send shivers up your spine. that little number had made him the toast of tea circles for weeks, not to mention the business that it brought in. he hadn’t been this inspired in years, and he took in the new feeling like a street junkie on bathtub smack. jim opened the heavy wooden doors and felt the warmth of the early morning sun on his face. the small town was still in a state of slumber but soon the dusty streets would come to life and would be bristling with business. “may take a few days for word to spread about me new design” the old cobbler thought, “but spread it will, like skank rash on a hooker’s bum.” jim banyard walked across brighton street to potter’s eatery. “well a good morn’n to ya sir” the elderly woman said as jim took a seat at the counter. “aye a good morn it is, a coffee if ya don’t mind please.” jim took out 2 coins and sat them softly on the counter as the old woman filled his cup. “the old woman doesn’t realize it yet” jim thought with a smirk, “but she’s now lookin’ at the famous cobbler to abe lincoln’s personal chef.” chef jeremiah dubois had greatly admired the two toned elk hide wellington boots, but had been given a blister on his heel after a drunken night of ballroom dance that eventually became infected, killing the president’s chef at the age of 47. jim banyard died of pneumonia the next fall. today, on the very ground where the old cobbler’s shop once stood, is downtown new jersey’s premier adult book store. A small sign in the blacked out window reads, “the new pocket vagina is here.”
i never promised you jupiter
kyle made the adjustments on his oxygen tank and handed the controls of the lunar orb over to valerie. "we almost made it didn't we baby" kyle said as he stared at the smooth chrome floor. "i'll see you in hell kyle!" valerie lashed out. kyle entered the ejection pod and gave val a sad smile, "i'm sorry its got to end this way baby, but we had a deal." kyle snapped the proton emulator to the on position and secured the radar valves. "your a selfish bastard kyle, why did i ever love you?!" valerie sobbed over the controls, her hands trembling on the vortex enablers. they were headed straight for jupiter's third sun and were burning up fast. "i never wanted to go to the crab nebula valerie, you knew that!" it was too late for regrets, it was over. kyle grabbed the dust-o-matic and tried to pull it into the pod as valerie took hold of the other end. "you son-of-a-bitch my mother gave me this!" she shouted. kyle finally let go, "fine! take all your stupid crap!" he slammed the pod's portal and hit the eject button blasting the small metallic pod into the vast silence of space. kyle watched the lunar orb spin helplessly into the sun and said to himself, "damnit val, i told you i never wanted a cat."
el guapo update: sold out
as they say in show business, the show must go on. as you may know, my original performance of “the entire indian nation attacks noah and his ark of wild animals” was scheduled for this coming weekend at the prestigious paragraph novels theatre in monaco. unfortunately, the local authorities have informed me that my performance was breaking almost every safety code in the book. so, after cutting several scenes and retooling the entire script, i found that the artistic integrity of the performance was being compromised. in keeping with my true artistic principles, i have decided to move the show to a more suitable venue were the local laws are not as restrictive on scenes featuring hundreds of live farm animals and high explosives. tijuana mexico. although not my first choice, the tiny rusted nail theatre and saloon in tijuana, with it's mexican back alley charm, will actually be a breath of fresh air and allow me the flexibility to incorporate the local thespian talent to which i’m sure is top-notch. i have loosely adapted the script to a local legend of a man known as “el guapo.” the tale is as timeless as the rolling dirt hills of tijuana itself. el guapo enters the scene on a lone mule as if sent by the sun gods as an answer to their prayers. el guapo falls in love with carlita, the beautiful daughter of the town’s dying elder. the elder challenges el guapo’s worthiness by giving him a mission with one simple objective, bomb pearl harbor! el guapo drew up the large scale assault plans using all of the towns forces in elaborate flank maneuvers, bomber runs and missile raids. the plans greatly impressed the elder, but he informed el guapo that the town was very poor and actually had no forces at all. el guapo was given two lamas and all the fireworks he could carry. a celebration was held in the town’s square to see el guapo off the next day. the children laughed and swung sticks at the colorful bull shaped piñatas and the women danced to the sounds of the old men and their spanish guitars. the next morning, the women and children wept as the old men tried fruitlessly to comfort them. el guapo loaded his lamas with the bags of fireworks and bid a fond farewell to the town's peoples. el guapo turned and waved his sombrero as he slowly rode off into the burning mexican sun. the town’s people waited for weeks for any news about el guapo and his mission of glory. the years went by and carlita eventually married a shoemaker and everyone forgot about the man and his firework laden lamas. some say if you’re very quiet, and listen to the winds of the desert, you can still hear the hoof beats of the gallant el guapo riding his lama across the sky, hurling fireworks down over pearl harbor.
we ask that all patrons in the first seven rows wear only nonflammable clothing. please do not attempt eye contact with the animals as they are live and untrained. don't miss it, this performance is scheduled for friday night only as saturday nights are the rusted nail's chicken fight nights.
el guapo! el guapo!
performance update: sold out
my interpretive dance performance of “apocalypse now” at the prestigious paragraph novels theatre in monaco was a resounding success. it seems the various diplomats and dignitaries of monte carlo have an unquenchable lust for the art of interpretive dance. in my appreciation for your continued patronage of the paragraph novels, i have attached a signed copy of the program.
signed program
last flight of the fortress
privates hanover and turner had orders to jump a quarter mile east of the la hong river in lower cambodia, but the smoking engines of the b52 bomber said otherwise. "we're thirty miles short of the drop turner!" hanover yelled over the whining engines and ear shattering wind. private turner shook his head while holding onto the straps over head. the thundering bird suddenly banked hard to the left lifting both men off their feet and hanging them out over the triple canopy of the cambodian jungle. they had seen this scenario on film reels in training, this was the begining of the plane's death role. the men looked at each other and nodded, both letting go of the straps and falling free from the burning fortress. they were low, too low. this was going to hurt. the parachutes began to open just as the spinning soldiers tore through the tree tops, barely slowing them down. the soft branches of the banyan trees felt like bullwhips at this speed, but somehow they survived. when they finally came to a stop, they were hanging merely feet from each other, but still nearly 20 feet from the ground below. "you okay hanover?" turner said checking the gashes on his face with his fingers. "i'm alive" he laughed as he grabbed his bruised ribs. a whistle sounded below, they had been spotted. "charlie" turner whispered. the men carefully unsnapped their pistols as the figures aproached. there were three of them, the leader in front obviously female, she blew the whistle again. they came to a stop in front of the men and she glared right at them. "daniel and steven said you boys won't let them have a turn on the swings" mrs. barker said. "let's go boys, off." the boys slumped out of the swings and walked over to the jungle gym and climbed inside the bars. "i've got a russian t-54 tank at 3 o'clock turner!" roger that hanover.
lindsey and the loco g's
lindsey clutched the large leather bag with both hands as she cried in the dark corner of the abandoned brownstone on thirty-ninth street. “what the hell have i got myself into?” she sobbed to herself as she leaned against the layers of spray painted gang tags that marked the boundary between the disciple’s turf and that of the loco g's. the cold january air blew unforgivingly through the rusted frame of the broken windows and lindsey shivered. “oh chavez…how did everything get twisted around like this?” her only real crime was falling in love, chavez just happened to be the wrong man. chavez didn’t have much luck during his brief seventeen years, lady luck seldom visits lower manhattan. now fate had dealt them a hand they had never imagined, it wasn’t a game anymore. “one big job and i’m out baby” he had promised her, “me and vato got it all planned, ain’t nothin’ can go wrong.” now chavez was dead and she was on the run from the law. lindsey was all alone in the world. the sound of approaching footsteps echoed through the hollow corridors and she drew her knees in tight behind the large bag. “it’s time to come out lindsey” her mother said peering into the couch cushion fort, “mommy needs the cushions back, and what did i say about playing with mommy’s purse?”
a summer afternoon
“get the fuck out of the way!” conner yelled at the van in front of him as he swerved through the afternoon traffic. the radio beeped and a nervous voice announced, “where the hell are you conner?” “i’m pulling up now!” the tires of the ford ranger squealed to a stop and conner grabbed the black tool sack from the passenger’s seat as he ran through the crowd and yelled, “coming through! get back, everyone get back!” a group of policeman pointed into the building where the bomb was. “okay, everyone get out!” conner said ripping open the bag and grabbing a pair of wire cutters. “fuck fuck fuck!” he mumbled as he noticed the way in which the bomb was rigged. a small red screen read, “00:27” and it was going down. conner wiped his forehead and took a deep breath as he went in to cut the wire:
green wire blue wire red wire
the last conquistador
don santos diago stood with the old men and children and watched as the slaves carried their massive loads up the wooden planks and onto the waiting fleet of spanish galleons. don was a young spaniard with great ambition and pride, but lacked the notoriety and funds of the conquistador desoto. “who does this fool desoto think he is? it is don diago that is destined for greatness!” he told himself with fiery conviction. don santos diago had an elaborate scheme for his place in history. although poor and unknown, he would volunteer as a deck hand on one of the ships, then secretly set off on foot once they arrived on the shores of the new world. when the king would hear of his discoveries, he would finally get the recognition he deserved and his name would be praised on the lips of beautiful women along side the great coronado, balboa and columbus. it took several years to cross the great expanse of the ocean, but they finally landed on a featureless stretch of beach that would later be known as florida. that night, diago and several slaves he had coerced into joining him with stories of golden mules and goats of pure silver, they slipped quietly off the galleon and into the warm shallows of florida’s shimmering coast. with his boots now wet, diago felt his journey into history had finally begun. over the next few weeks, diago and his small entourage of emboldened explorers criss-crossed the sandy marshes and shell strewn dunes that rolled on endlessly under the unforgiving floridian sun. diago’s apparent lack of navigational skills and constant demands that he be carried gloriously on the shoulders of the slaves eventually proved to be their downfall. after months of wandering aimlessly, the men began to die off one by one until only don diago himself was left alive. exhausted, diago knelt in the warm sand and mumbled a soft prayer for a quick death. hopeless and starving, don diago stretched his frail body out in a clearing by the beach and quietly waited for the end to come. “the fools will never make it past the horn!” diago’s grandfather said startling the young boy from his daydream. “we better be on our way now boy, your mother will worry.” the old man said taking don diago by the hand. the old man walked the boy back to the village passed the endless procession of slaves that carried desoto’s supplies to the waiting galleons.
the man in the flashlight shoes
bert lansing fancied himself an inventor. he had won second place in the invention contest in fourth grade with a submission he called “turtle neck socks.” the idea was that if you got cold, you could roll the socks up higher, keeping you two degrees warmer. through his adulthood he came up with several inventions that never quite got off the ground. the "edible necktie” for businessmen on the go. the “sunglasses chin strap” guaranteed not to slip. but the one that had the most promise was the “flashlight shoes.” he had built a 12 volt demo in his garage but underestimated the power of the battery. the shoes worked great and seemd to be a hit until the young man he hired to test the shoes walked into a puddle and was given a severe shock. although no life-threatening damage occurred, from then on the boy could no longer remember the names of farm animals. bert’s last investor had given up on him, calling his inventions as useless as a horn on a helicopter. that’s when bert came up with his best idea yet, “the helicopter horn.” it was brilliant he thought. no longer would the pilots have to put themselves in danger by removing their hand from the flight stick to give the thumbs up sign. they could simply honk the horn. bert went to work on the idea with a passion. six months later he had a demo version ready and had gambled his family's entire life savings on the idea. he hired a pilot in a blackhawk helicopter to hover outside the office window of steven herring, the special projects manager of lockheed martin as he pitched the idea. all went according to plan until bert came to the part where he said “now if you will just take a look out your window sir, you will see what I mean.” and he jerked open the curtains. that was the signal for the pilot to honk the horn. the pilot hit the red button, but it wasn’t the horn. the tow missile fired from the helicopter with a loud “fwoooshh” and ripped into the side of the minnie pearl sight seeing tour bus across the street. the tow missile is designed to explode only after it penetrates the side of it's target, incinerating the occupants. unfortunately it worked perfectly. the explosion was incredible. all 32 passengers died, including three elderly witnesses who fell down dead with heart attacks at the dairy queen next door, still clutching their dairy dips. the nurse now pushes mr. lansing around the mossy farm nursing home where he sits all day staring into space. but sometimes, when an aircraft is heard overhead, bert stands up from his wheelchair and mumbles “beep beep...beep beep.”
the ballad of benson o'hara
the muffled sounds of bombs exploding in the distance reminded gloria that the country was still at war and men were still out there dying. “i can’t take this any more miss betsy, i just can’t take it!” gloria sobbed into the arms of the field nurse. “it’s going to be okay ma’am, mr. o’hara is going to be just fine. dr. gambles is the finest surgeon in the south.” the nurse tried to sound convincing but her voice trembled with uncertainty. dr. gambles walked into the small tent with his clipboard, “gloria i have news about your husband. i don’t want to give you any false hopes, but it seems that my experimental surgery has been successful. but i must warn you, it’s still very early to tell.” gloria stood up and hugged the doctor with all her strength as she cried, “thank heavens for men like you doctor!” “now listen to me gloria” he said grabbing her by the arms, “his injuries were severe, he may not be the same man you remember. i’ve taught him some hand signals to communicate, but it’s going to be an uphill battle for him.” gloria’s eyes swelled with tears, “may i see him now?” the doctor looked over at the field nurse and sighed, “okay, but you must understand that he’s going to be different.” dr. gambles took gloria by the hand and led her into the post op tent. sergeant benson o’hara had been on the front lines at deer creek when the union army advanced on his forces just east of falmouth near fredericksburg virginia. he had peeked over the top of his dirt bunker when he was hit with a union cannonball, taking his head clean off at the neck. luckily for the soldier, a confederate medic was near by and tied a tourniquet around his neck and stopped the bleeding. gloria wrapped her arms around benson and pressed her cheek to his neck stump, “don’t you ever go scaring me like that again benny!” the soldier clapped his hands three times and snapped his fingers, then clapped two more times. “what’s he doing doctor?” gloria said looking puzzled. dr. gambles smiled. "those are the hand signals i taught him gloria, i do believe he just said i love you."
the battle of hannigan's hill
“sergeant hannigan!” the officer growled at the mud covered private, “when i say charge the enemy, i mean charge the god damned enemy!” private hannigan snapped a smart salute that flung several small chunks of mud across the dozens of shinning medals pinned on the officer’s dress blues. “goddamnit private!” the officer shrieked as he grabbed the private’s sleeve and franticly rubbed the mud off his medals in quick circular motions as the private’s limp hand flopped helplessly around. “now get back in the action soldier, i want that damned hill by zero seven hundred hours!” a woman’s voice interrupted the scene over the intercom, “mr. president sir, we have prime minister takahishi here for his 10:00.” the president put the plastic army men down on his desk and pressed the small red button on the intercom, “give me five minutes loraine.” the president reached across the large mahogany desk and grabbed a silver mont blanc pen and spoke in a muffled voice into his hand, “mayday bravo tango, looks like we got russian missiles in the air.”
a cold mountain wind
the snow crunched under terry's deer skinned boots. "i don't know if i can make it much farther jimbo" terry said with a puff of steamed breathe. he was loosing allot of blood. the wolves would pick up on our scent soon, it was only a matter of time. "if i don't make it...." i cut terry off, "dammit your gonna be fine, doc bradley is gonna patch you up just fine." terry was almost as white as a sheet now, fighting for every breath. "not much further to the trading post, doc's probably got on a squirrel stew." i tried to sound unconcerned but the words came out jumbled and wrong. terry fell to his side and rolled over holding his stomach. "i ain't gonna make it jimbo" he gasped. "tell sue-ellen i never meant no harm." "dammit terry, you gonna tell her yourself!" but it was too late, he slipped away right there on that mountain. i reached into his hand and pulled out the blood soaked paper he had held soo tightly. i opened the note and read the words, "bill of sale: 1982 nissan sentra, needs work." godammit terry, i told you never to buy a used car from a blind mexican.
mr. kindsley's papers
the summer thunderstorm rolled over head like a boiled ham falling out of a tin kettle onto polished tile. not the cheap tile either mind you, the good stuff...italian bicotura. she had the good stuff all right, and she knew it. mr. kindsley tapped on the dashboard nervously, "this is it, the third one on the left with the yellow porch light"...i reached over and tipped the cabby a twenty and mumbled something incoherent in spanish, my god why didn't i learn spanish. the rain stung my face like a fat kid swinging a fistful of half cooked spaghetti noodles. the wind was picking up in slow groaning wooshes as mr. kindsley reached into his rain slicked coat and handed me the papers. his face looked tired and old in the moonlight. "this is as far as i go amigo" ...and who could blame him, this was no place for a one legged pogo stick salesman.
data sequences of passion
captain ed davenport slowly scanned the black horizon as the sound of his breathing filled the vacuum of his mirrored space helmet. ed gave the tethered chord a soft tug and gently floated downward as he shifted his mass to the left, giving his bulky suit a slight spinning trajectory that positioned him directly over the southern tip of the indian ocean. with another soft torso twist to the right, he was positioned under the belly of the pale blue space station and he placed both hands softly onto the panels and he was still once again. “looks like i’m over the circuit interface judy.” captain judy monroe sat motionless with her hands folded at the command panel. she leaned forward and spoke methodically into the microphone, “so how did svetlana’s ass look this morning ed?” there was silence. “i’m over the control panel judy, requesting data sequences.” he spoke in a forced voice. “she works out right ed? i mean, to have an ass like that right? isn’t that what you said?” ed closed his eyes and tapped his gloved fingers on the ship. “request data sequences captain.” judy leaned back and jerked three levers downward causing a slight hissing noise that tapered off into silence. ed’s oxygen sensors began to blink. “that’s not what i meant judy and you know it. now turn back on the air and give me the god damned sequences!” judy was already down the command tube and was cursing in a muffled voice as she spun the red wheel counter-clockwise and slammed the large red button by the pod door. ed felt his hands slowly lift off the craft as he frantically pulled on the unhooked tether. judy lit a cigarette as she stared at the flailing astronaut drifting into space and quietly thought to herself, “well…i hope you got a real good look at her ass you bastard.”
what are the paragraph novels?
click on the blue words and novel titles.
"little surprises around every corner, but nothing dangerous."
-willy wonka
the bastard and the laundry
i never took warren for an informer. my family had taken him in at age 12. his parents had been killed in a cheap hotel room on carvel street over a crack deal gone sour. or at least that’s what we told him. "better double check that suitcase," i told warren as i folded my laundry, "ma won't like it if its not all there." warren looked over at me amused, "have i ever forgotten anything?" the truth is, he had forgotten something once. i had won a small glass mirror at a rodeo when i was 5. it had a picture of the duke boys leaning on the general lee. 9 years ago, on our return trip from jarleson florida, warren had left the mirror in our hotel room. i never brought it up again. warren carried the overstuffed luggage down the 4 flights of stairs, nearing the bottom he began grabbing his chest and searching his pockets fruitlessly. holding out his inhaler, i yelled down to warren... "looking for this you godamn duke boys mirror thief?" they never did find his body.
autumn breeze of terror
the wind gently rustled through the autumn hardened leaves of the immense elms as the carrol family settled in for the evening. sara carrol had begun to set the dishes of the night’s dinner in the sink as a loud knocking from the front door startled her. tom carrol looked up from his paper and took off his wire framed glasses, “are you expecting someone?” he asked sara giving her a concerned stare. “no, not at all.” she said removing the apron. “stay here, and lock the back door, do it now.” sara was afraid. the carrol family kept to themselves and lived at the lone two-story cottage at the end of a long country back road. if anyone was knocking at their door, it wasn’t by accident. “tom wait…” sara said in a frightened voice. “i said lock the back door!” he growled taking a large knife from the kitchen drawer. tom walked hesitantly to the front door and placed his hand on the door knob and took a deep breath. he jerked the door open and several small brown leaves swirled in on a cool breeze. tom looked down to see a strangely wrapped package on the stone porch. “hello!” he yelled out into the darkness. tom picked up the package and shut the large wooden door, quickly locking all three locks. “what is it?” sara said suddenly by his side. “don’t know.” tom said examining the package. the tattered red christmas paper had crazy writing on almost every side. one side read “get out carrols!” another read “boom!” tom held the package up to his ear, it was ticking. “oh my god” tom said in a shaking voice. “what? what?” sara said in a frantic voice. cindy was now at the top of the stairs, “what is it daddy? what’s going on? sara grabbed tom’s arm, “what are we going to do tom?” cindy came running down the stairs with her teddy bear and started to cry. “what do we do tom? sara pleaded. “ok look cindy” tom said trying to sound calm, “we are going to play a game okay cindy, daddy needs you to go upstairs and get in your closet okay? cover yourself with all your blankets. do you understand?” cindy stopped crying and wiped her tears with her pajama cuffs. “okay daddy.” cindy ran upstairs and got into the dark closet and sat down in the cramped space. she turned on her small barbie flashlight and illuminated the scraps of red wrapping paper and markers in the corner. an evil smile curled her lips, “put me to bed at 8:00 pm on saturday will you bitches?”
hymns in the wind
clayton leaned the heavy rifle against the boulder and took a drink of warm water from the old canteen. he smoothed the dirt on the ground with his hand and took care to brush away all the larger stones. there was a rustling in the sage thickets a few yards away and he paused to listen. “damned jackrabbits.” he thought to himself. clayton bigsby had spent enough time in the harsh desert country to know the difference between the rustlings of a white tailed jackrabbit and a western prairie hare. clayton had positioned himself between two large rocky ledges that overlooked the vast expanse of the inhospitable desert. hunkered down behind the large boulder, he had a clear shot through the massive walls of the granite cliffs. he gently cleared his throat…“the sun that bids us rest is wakin’, our brethren 'neath the western sky, an’ hour by hour fresh lips are making, thy wondrous doings heard on high.” clayton passed the hours by softly singing the old hymns to the banded gila monsters and the occasional white faced ibis that cared to stop and listen. mertle mcgentry had sent him a letter via pony express in the late september of 1892. the letter would have him believe that mertle’s love was for another man, a rancher by the name of pete dawkins. the letter went on to say that he might as well stay out in the western areas as far as she was concerned. “what a joke” he thought. “do they really think i’m that damned stupid?” clayton knew better, he never trusted this new “pony express” mail cowshit and was bound and determined to set things right with the lyin' bastard who wrote that letter. the vibrations of an approaching horse set off an idle canyon swallow and clayton instinctively put his hand to the ground. “she’s runnin’ at full gallop.” he picked the winchester back up and shouldered the rifle, resting the weight of the barrel on the large rock. he softly drew back the hammer with a heavy click. the mailman pulled up to the mailbox and he scanned the yard with anticipation and a wide smile. “eat lead you dirty lyin’ bastard!” clayton yelled as he jumped out from behind the large oakleaf hydrangea bush, releasing the small stone from his “billy the kid” slingshot. the mailman pulled off just in time as the pebble bounced down the cobblestone drive. “maybe tomorrow clayton!” he yelled out, laughing to the next mailbox. clayton walked back over to the hydrangea bush and sat down. “the sun that bids us rest is wakin’, our brethren 'neath the western sky…"
a soldier's tale
sergeant bivins cleared the slide of his m1 and fastened the pinhook. he reached under the cold metal and instinctively found the screw for the stock ferrule and secured it as tightly as his frozen hands allowed. "you want games you bastards? i'll give you games." he grumbled as he snapped the rivet guard over the catch scabbard. he tweaked the windage knob three clicks and popped the bolt to expose the brassy gold projectile casing. he took three deep breaths and slowly trained his eye down the fixed metal sighting, the silence broken only by the soft ticking of his wristwatch. it was probably twenty minutes before the mouse peeked his head out of the small crack in the kitchen base board. "crack! crack! crack!" the report of the m1 deafened his ears to a high pitched ring. the smell of gunpowder hung in the air in thick plumes of toxic victory. sergeant bivins picked himself up from his position behind the bunker he had made with the couch cushions and shouldered his smoking rifle. he took in a deep breath of the lingering gunsmoke, then calmly took a knee out of respect for the dead. "i never asked for this war damned you! but if war is what you want, than war is what..." "what in god's name do you think you are doing?!" mertle bivins scolded as she emerged behind the old soldier in her pink bathrobe. "there...there was a mouse dear" his voice trembled. "give me that damned thing!" she said yanking the rifle from his hands, "and after you've put back all my couch cushions, you can start repairing that damned base board!"
no need for apologies
nobody asks for this kind of call at 3 am in the morning. it was lou gibbens, the night watchman. "sir, i think you better get down here, we have a situation." his voice was shaky. not shaky like scared shaky, but more like katharine hepburn rolling down a steep hill on a bike with square wheels. "my god whats happened now?" lou gibbens met me half way up the stairs, "sir, i tried to stop her, but she..." i cut lou off mid-sentence. "its okay lou, get back to your post, i'll see her now." alura stood just inside the stone arch that held the massive marble walls. "you're looking well conrad." she said with a smirk. "mr. crandle sent me, he offers his apologies." mr. crandle was a burly hungarian fish trader who made his fortune in 1932 by shaping dog biscuits into little bone shapes. "my god, why didn't i think of that."
the mysterious mind of dr. thong
the doctor dug deep into his lab coat pockets searching for the skeleton key to the old iron lock which hung on the heavy wooden door like a gold medallion on a fifth street pimp. doctor ling thong was a serious man of hard science and study with a short temper and little time for foolishness. he was almost sure he hadn’t been followed but he took his normal evasive measures to be positive. he walked down decatur to third, crisscrossed over to the shelby avenue cleaners, then doubled back along the garbage can lined alley to first street. dr. thong had several confusing routes that he took home everyday, making sure he rotated them on a random basis to avoid any unwanted attention. “where you results thonger? where you big-time experiment?” the doctor said to himself tauntingly as he stepped inside the doorway to the cramped lab, locking the door behind him. ling had been given the nickname “the thonger” after a humiliating college prank on him by a group of neanderthals in the fall semester of 1963. the prank involved tequila, a hook, and a pair of ling’s ripped underwear. ling, being a man of small stature, was left hanging on the hook for hours until the dean himself walked passed. by then, ling looked like a world war two paratrooper hanging from a carolina pine. unfortunately for ling, the nickname stuck, and now, years later, he used it tauntingly to push himself to show the world that dr. ling thong was no joke. “thonger, why your inventions not selling?” he grunted as he set up the beakers and lit the small burner under the glass jar of blue liquid. the college quarterback who had hung ling on the hook later married the most beautiful woman on campus, who just happened to become the most influential fashion designer of the 1970’s. she danced teasingly in front of her husband in her latest creation, a pair of panties made predominately of string. the man rolled over holding his sides with laughter, “oh lord, please let me name it!”
ricoh, damned be thy name
"pc load letter error? what the fuck!" dan cursed as he hit the side of the ricoh ap505 laser printer. the phone rang again and dan grabbed it quick. "this is dan" he said impatiently. "how we doing back there dan?" it was susan from front office. i'm having a paper jam or some kinda shit, let me call you back okay. "mr. barton is here now, what the hell am i supposed to tell him?" she said obviously getting upset. "i don't know, what the fuck am i supposed to do? this goddamn machine is a piece of shit!" dan slammed down the phone and opened the front panel on the printer. he could feel the sweat beading on his forehead. this wasn't good. "you motherfucker!" he said ripping the sheet of paper from the grip of the devil machine. the phone rang again. "this is dan" he said a little too loud. "dan this is tom, we have a mr. barton here, are you ready with the presentation?" tom was the area supervisor and had little patience for incompetence. "um, well i...i'm having problems with.." the sweat was rolling down dan's neck now. "dan get down here with the reports, now. there are no excuses." the phone went dead. dan swung around to the ricoh looking for a miracle, the message came up "pc load letter error, remove paper jam." nora grabbed dan from behind as dan fumbled with the insides of the grand piano. "damn you motherfucker, there is no paper jam!" dan yelled with his eyes still closed. "Dan! wake up baby, you're having another dream!" dan opened his eyes looking around the mansion's great hall and began to sob. "its okay now baby, its okay now." she said holding his sweat covered shaking body. ever since dan won the lottery 8 years ago, he still had the flashbacks.
a reversal of quadrals
the sun’s gamma rays danced on the panels of the small orbiting craft as it slowly turned and entered the shadows of the martian canyon medussa fossae. steve looked over the emerging images that showed fresh details of a dark inexplicable opening that stretched over three meters wide in the side of the shadowed cliff. “ellen, you might want to come take a look at this.” steve called out from the observation pod. dr. ellen bryant appeared with a cup of coffee and steve leaned back in his chair flashing an excited grin. “tell me something good steven.” she said with a raised eyebrow. the budget for the mars orbital station dubbed “piñata” by the media for its bull shaped design and multi-colored solar panels, had been down sized in recent months due to a lack of public interest and the two scientists were desperate for a new discovery. ellen ran her finger over the screen and stopped on the large dark opening in the ridge. “good lord.” she whispered. “hold orbital pattern and mark coordinates zero five niner.” she said setting the coffee cup down. “reverse thrusters two quadrals and activate cameras seven and nine.” she said adjusting the zoom on the lens. “when did you first notice this steven?” she said typing feverishly on the keyboard. “well, just now. why, what the hell is it ellen?” he said nervously. “oh my lord! get us the hell out of here steven!” she cried out. just then a screaming horde of creatures wielding sticks ran out of the hole and began whacking the piñata shaped craft with squeals of delight. the two scientists tumbled out of the gaping holes and the martian children scrambled to get a piece of the tender scientists. the mother stood at the opening of the hole and turned to the father with a smile, “you planned this didn’t you dear?” the father shrugged, “I swear I didn’t.”
the pirates of easter island
luis coronado held onto the thick hemp ropes that hung just outside of the crow’s nest and closed his eyes as the warm tropical winds whipped through his long black hair. from the height of the galleon’s mast, he could see the entire cluster of small islands below him that nestled themselves between a spattering of rock formations that crept up from the sparkling sea like moles on the back of a lunch lady’s neck. “scale them yards mr. o’leary!” the ship’s captain called out to the young rigger. the spanish galleon was growing long in the years and her wooden hull constantly creaked like the swollen knees of an old man laying carpet in a cheap motel. “bring in them damned lines o’leary!” the captain called out impatiently to the boy climbing the ship's netting. the heat of the tropical midday sun beat down relentlessly on the crew like a border patrolman on a truckload of mexicans with a busted taillight. luis followed a pair of white crested seagulls with his eyes as they gracefully navigated the soft trade winds of the coastline. luis peeked down over the edge of the crow’s nest at the captain as the old man hid the last of the easter eggs for the crew. “damned your eyes coronado! no looking!” the captain yelled up to luis. luis smiled and quickly sat back down and covered his eyes. there was no doubt about it for luis, this was going to be the best easter egg hunt ever.
twilight of the shining moon
evans hopped out of the rolling jeep with his rifle and ruck sack as the muddy vehicle slowed to a stop in front of the remnants of task force kirkland. operation “shining moon” had taken its toll on the small unit and evans was called in from chumunjin to fill in one of the “gaps.” chumunjin was a tiny trading port about seven miles south of the 38th parallel where the best meal money can buy comprised of a few chicken feet and a little river rice. he didn't mind, they were soldiers, nobody complained. evans was itching to join the forces already in the field, and due to the recently unfolding events, the us military was more than willing to oblige him. evans was informed that task force kirkland was departing for nam-do that night. nam-do was a sparse island that hugged the low lying plains just north of p'yongyang’s forces. they were given explicit orders to take out the enemy command. how they were to achieve this impossibility was left completely up to them. here, victory was simply expected. the energy and excitement ran through the small unit like an electric current as the men hastily prepared for the impending assault. only absolute necessities were to be taken: ammo, weapons, radio. intel said the best entry point was through several miles of waist deep marsh during the cover of night. the enemy patrol and booby-trap elements were thought to be anywhere from light to moderate. it was never easy, you got what you got. intel here was about as shifting as the summer rains. nobody trusted it. “murray” a soldier said as he stuffed ammunition into his pockets for him. “evans” he replied. the man handed evans a black marking pen and turned around lifting his shirt, “type o positve.” evans removed the cap on the pen and began writing murray’s blood type across his back. “no sir mr. evans!” the nurse said taking the ink pen from the elderly man’s hand. “we do not write on others.” the nurse led the old man carefully back to his small room at the veteran’s nursing home. she helped mr. evans back into his small bed in the corner of the darkened room. “we'll need extraction teams on the ready.” he told the nurse as he held onto her arm. “i know you do mr. evans, i know you do." the nurse walked out and quietly closed the door behind her. evans slept with his rifle that night on the small uncomfortable cot in the corner of the sweltering tent. he didn’t mind, they were soldiers, nobody complained.
dinner at the florentine
josephine tried desperately to repress her smile as she positioned the cigarette close to her lips. harrington promptly snapped a flame from the slender onyx lighter and extended his hand as she lightly cupped the bottom of his wrist as if to help steady his strong arm. for a brief enchanting moment, the golden glow of the flame held their gaze and the two felt frozen and unable to move. josephine was the first to release her gaze from the light and flashed her sparkling brown eyes up to meet his. harrington regained his composure with a bit of embarrassment and returned the lighter to its home in his dark blue dinner jacket. josephine sat back in the posh high backed chair of the florentine restaurant and wondered what she had ever done in her life to deserve the love and admiration of such a man. although the florentine was filled to its gilded capacity, she felt as though they were the only two people on earth. he had a quiet strength and charm that made her feel completely safe from the mad world that buzzed relentlessly outside. a gentleman in a smart fitting suit noticed the couple and quickly approached the table and spoke softly and sincerely with a slight accent, “mr. harrington, very nice to see you tonight sir, very nice indeed.” the man leaned in towards josephine and she extended her hand to him. “mrs. josephine, you are looking wonderful this evening, absolutely dazzling. mr. harrington arranged for the finest champagne, but i absolutely insisted that it be on the house. but of course, mr. harrington would not hear of it. please talk sense to him mrs. josephine, he is too kind.” the doorbell rang with its hollow off-key reverberation and miss josephine opened her eyes and drew back the dusty drape that hung by her side. she struggled to stand in the small darkened room as she carefully balanced her fragile elderly frame with the majority of her weight on the short mahogany cane. the old dog sat up from the corner and managed a solitary muffled bark. “oh it’s quite alright mr. harrington, it’s just the postman.”
a call for monsieur dunaub
the warm breeze lifted the soft fragrances of the white gladioli and summer delphinium up into the dizzying heights over the sea, then silently pushed them back down along the eastern jet stream across the azure blue coastline of saint tropez. “monsieur dunaub?” the waiter called out over the vast stone balcony of the hotel le beauvallon. a dark tanned man in a white striped sailing jacket rose his hand up slightly without averting his gaze from the sea. the waiter steadied the phone on the upheld tray as he negotiated the labyrinth of café tables and various nonchalant guests until he reached monsieur dunaub. “a telephone call for your monsieur.” the waiter spoke as he leaned down with one white gloved hand firmly behind his back. monsieur dunaub reached into his jacket and casually removed a gitanes from a small silver case, tapped it twice on the edge, then placed the cigarette in his mouth. “who is it?” monsieur dunaub said softly without looking up at the young man. jim laughed. “who is who?” jim said as he shook dan’s shoulder. “wake up you poor bastard, your starting to burn.” dan opened his eyes in a daze and could feel the heat of his skin. his squinting eyes struggling to adjust to the blinding flashes of the children thrashing in the pool. “great.” he mumbled as he removed a cold beer from the cooler and walked over to a chair that sat in the cool shade of the buildings corner overhang. he opened the beer and sat it protectively under his seat without taking a drink. he folded his arms and rested his chin on his chest as the sounds of laughing and splashing slowly faded away. “i am so sorry monsieur dunaub, but she is waiting.” the young waiter said holding the tray a little closer to his reach. monsieur dunaub held his gaze on the distant white caps that danced on the sparkling french sea. “thank you sir, but i am not to be disturbed.”
sugar's bend
seth watched his feet as he walked the tight foot trail that ran along the eastern wall of the railway and he instinctively skirted the scrap metal heaps and rusted barrels without looking up from the path. he was making good time. there was a patch of pristine concrete canvas about twelve miles out of town and seth was getting an early start. it was only a matter of time before one of the other crews spotted the recently painted section and “owned” it. once a section was owned by a tagger, the ownership rights were respected. it was a certain “honor among thieves” code that was understood and almost never disputed. seth dropped the heavy sack strap from his left shoulder and repositioned it to his right side as the bag of spray cans clanked in rhythm with his step. it was late september and the bitter chicago wind rode the walls of the bleak tracks for miles like a team of ghosts on an endless luge run. he pulled his hood down a little tighter. seth had been with the west-shadow crew for eight months but he had yet to seal his place on the street with a breakout piece. seth’s handstyle and throws had been called into question by blaze and t-wiz and now his street-credentials were on the line. “prolly take 'least six hours, maybe five if the weather holds.” he thought as looked up into the dark gray chicago morning. seth started into the long curve around h-town known as “sugar’s bend.” sugar was a respected tagger from new york who got clipped by a freighter along the narrowing section of track between h-town and lowery heights five years ago. sugar had owned up to a “fresh concrete” at the center of the bend and had worked a full preliminary outline and started his first set of piecing on the fifty foot section when the freighter hit. they say you never hear the train that gets you. out of respect, no tagger ever touched the unfinished mural again. seth paused in front of sugar’s masive section and slowly read the faded outline of letters in his mind, “m-o-t-h-e-r-f-u-c-k-e-r.”
namibia's primordial game
stinson raised his hand and pointed left over the dull amber horizon of namibia’s primordial landscape and the driver nodded his head as he slowly began to turn the wheel of the open roofed vehicle directly into the rising african sun. mr. and mrs. hampton were seated in the back and hadn’t spoken a word to one another since the small hunting party had left just before dawn. stinson looked back over his left shoulder and gave mr. hampton a nod and motioned for the man to keep his rifle pointed away from the back of the driver’s head. the large bore .460 weatherby looked like a cannon in mr. hampton’s small hands and stinson gave the nervous man a confident wink. stinson lifted slightly in his seat and raised his hand, signaling the driver to cut the engine and they rolled to a stop to the soft sounds of gravel popping under the rubber tires. stinson motioned for the man to exit the vehicle and he removed his .450 marlin from the straps on the hood. mr. hampton fumbled to exit the car with the heavy weatherby rifle and stinson gave him an aggravated look to halt the noise. stinson whispered slowly and directly in the serious tone used by men when entering danger, “get behind me. stay behind me. and for god’s sakes, don’t shoot me.” mr. hampton nervously fumbled with the locking mechanism on the big bore and stinson impatiently reached over and pulled back the hammer for him with his thumb, then took hold of the barrel and pointed it away from his feet. the heavy throated breathing from inside the brush was turning the man white and stinson darted a look at mrs. hampton in the car. she was seated with her arms folded and rolled her eyes like a child sitting impatiently on a rollercoaster that was taking to long to start. Stinson gave the man a nod of confidence and stepped aside to let the shaking man in first. this was it. the men took a breath and simultaneously lunged into the brush, striking the beast in the rear. “okay damnit, that’s enough!” their mother yelled as she sat up from the bathroom floor with the spray cleaner and rag. the two boys ran through the house with mops and broomsticks raised in savage victory, “woooooo!”
artwork spotlight: tpn fan's "superflywebpimp"
"and so shines a good deed in a weary world." -willy wonka
third prong of the swingline
eric fumbled with the change in his pockets as he nervously waited outside the colonel’s office in the long cinderblock encased hallway of the underground base. at long last, the door opened, “i’m ready for you eric.” the man said without looking up. “go on and have a seat.” the colonel said as he sat a small white styrofoam cup of black coffee on the table in front of eric. eric glanced up at the man. “don’t worry, it’s clean.” eric noticed a large pad on an easel in the corner with elaborate diagrams and arrows and he briefly caught the word “swingline” before the colonel realized it was there and immediately flipped the page. the colonel folded his arms and kept his back to eric and sighed, “tell me what you know about project “swingline.” eric knew everything about project swingline, and the colonel knew it. “what the hell was he after?” swingline was a top secret three pronged population control project that had been ongoing since the late 60’s. it wasn’t a pretty story. the first prong dealt with a mild mind sedation. the agents found that a certain pesticide sprayed on the coffee beans in columbia was quite effective in numbing the imagination while giving the drinker a slight sense of euphoria. the euphoria was the hook. the second prong was a little something nixon had thought up himself, it was sheer brilliance. lighting. every office has the same long tubular lighting above their workers, and as the coffee numbs their minds, they never question their composition. anyone who has ever broken one of the long bulbs has almost stumbled onto the scheme, and never realized it. the white powder inside, pure columbian cocaine. it seems the low voltage of the bulb heats the coke to a dull bake, creating the world’s finest crack mist money can buy. the third prong was the part eric had been working on, and it didn’t go over so well. eric’s plan was simply called “chat bots.” eric’s idea was running smoothly at first, but he never thought the colonel would fall into the trap. “you wanna tell me what the hell this is eric!” the colonel cried holding up a print out with tears in his eyes. the paper read, “hey guys, wanna chat with a hot cheerleader, i’m lonely! sweetypie_38d” “please god tell me she’s real eric!”
a reckless youth indeed
professor vandelay pulled the small pear shaped device over the blue patch of rubber on the table causing the tiny arrow on the flickering light box to move and all the children erupted in giddy delight. “alright now, settle down children” professor vandelay spoke with a smile, “the ancient ones would use this clicking device to move the “cursor” over the bulking screen boxes they called “monitors.” the children laughed again. it was late september in the year 4892 and professor vandelay was giving a lecture on the dawn of computing systems at the early humanoid evolvement center. it was always a crowd favorite. “who here has heard of the spam brandings of the late 2000’s?” vandelay asked the hushed crowd. a teenaged boy in the front raised his hand, “was that when the virtual people would appear and tickle you?” the crowd laughed again. “no no, that came much later. the spam brandings began when the world became fed up with unsolicited “emails,” and began branding a hot iron of their spams into their bodies as an embarrassment for all to see. a boy in the third row stood up and asked about the burned words “ask me about my enormous girth” on the professor's arm. the professor pulled his sleeve down and the crowd laughed again. “let’s just say i lived a reckless youth.”
blue hull of the darian
winston didn’t know how he was going to get into the captain’s cabin, but one thing was for sure, the fate of his mission depended on it. the storm was beginning to break and the upper deck would be changing shifts soon. it was nearing 3:am, he would have to do it now. a shard of moonlight cut through the black clouds for a fleeting moment and illuminated the blue hull of the darian o’conner. winston waited until the moon slipped back into the murky abyss of the mediterranean night and made his way up a series of slippery iron utility ladders to the third deck. the darian slowly rocked from side to side over the black swells and winston was careful to stay in the shadows. a large swell crashed over the forward deck with a heavy “fwoosh” and winston closed his eyes as the salty spray misted his face. “i've been away from the sea too long.” he thought to himself. winston licked his lips and the taste of the sea brought him back to his boyhood. his father had been a longshoreman and he had spent countless nights on the open waters as a young man. his father had forbidden him to join the longshoremen, forcing him instead to leave the small fishing village and get a proper education. “go see the world” his father had told him, “the docks are no place for a boy.” winston heard of his father’s passing during his senior year at wellington military school. a nor’easter had howled up the coast and swept away several fishing vessels. they never found the wreckage. winston had started a private commando firm that contracted out to various governments and corporations. the business had taken off, making him a very wealthy man. winston made a point to go on one mission every year to keep his senses sharp. he closed his eyes and took in the smell of the sea. “tango seven, request mission status.” a voice crackled in his earpiece. “this is tango seven, vessel boarded.” “vessel boarded eh?” his father scowled over him, kicking his leg. winston sat up on the old couch and found his burly father standing with an arm full of drop lines. “sorry pop, must have drifted off there.” “drifted off eh? well tango seven your ass down to the boat with that bait, we leave in ten minutes.”
the odd world of dr. godfrey
adam unlocked the door to his uncle’s darkened lab and slid his hand along the wall until his fingers found the light switch. “I really don’t think we should adam.” evelyn whispered as she clutched the young man’s arm. “I told you he’s away for two weeks, it’s okay.” adam’s uncle godfrey was a reclusive man who had once been a skilled scientist at edenborough university and was notorious for performing all his strange experiments on himself. dr. godfey’s odd behavior had increased to the point where the university was forced to remove him from his position. after the fallout, he had gone completely undergound with his experiments, telling no one of his secrets. “look at that thing!” evelyn said pointing to a large wooden chair in the center of the lab with hundreds of multi-colored wires extending to several stacks of old car batteries. “wow, what do you think this thing is?” adam said flopping himself down in the strange contraption. “okay we saw it, now let’s get out of here.” evelyn pleaded as adam pulled her down onto his lap. “stop it, i’m serious adam! this place creeps me out!” adam ignored her pleas, “oh cool, this thing even has foot pedals.” adam pressed his foot on the pedal and a blinding white light filled the room and evelyn screamed. when the young couple opened their eyes, they found themselves on a dusty rock strewn landscape in front of a large open cave. the heat was incredible. “what the hell adam!” evelyn cried out in panic. a group of hairy ape-like creatures emerged from the dark cave and evelyn shrieked in horror. adam slammed his foot on the pedal again and the blinding light flashed once more and they were back in dr. godfrey's small lab. one of the ape-like creatures stood up and turned to the others, “okay, did everyone else just see that or was it my fucking imagination?”
poetry spotlight: king for a day
gleaming light of the morn' doth shine, brake riders united against my punctuality, my attention ye have gained, stay out of the fast lane you mini-van bastards.
"let's get one thing straight, i never asked to be king of the idiots." -superflywebpimp
p.s. love harlen kwaan
harlen rested his chin on his fingertips as he squinted at the liquid crystal display in his tiny cluttered living pod and moved the cursor back and forth across the virtual screen through a series of files using his thought patterns to guide it. “open document twelve dash b.” he commanded in a monotone voice. “twelve dash b now open.” a woman’s voice responded in a neptunian accent. the year was 5021 and harlen kwaan had been fired from his low level position at the galactic federation control headquarters. harlen had been working on a black-op federation project dealing with reverse time population influence. although time travel had never been achieved, they found that through the strange world of quantum mechanics, human thought patterns in the past could be effectively influenced through nano-waves and the events in time guided along accordingly. the process worked by first locating a specific time co-ordinance, then locating a receptive mind target, preferably someone of influence. his first project was on a mind target named william henry gates. the young man’s love of taxidermy and tinkering with small sewing machine motors had given him the idea to start the first line of fully animated stuffed pets. his first creation was a beaver that danced and sang the banana boat song. that was until harlen stepped in and simply copied and pasted his aspirations with a vision of personal computers. the rest as they say, “was history.” harlen had been fired for using the federations secret system on his laptop to doodle spyrographs on his coffee breaks, resulting in widespread crop circles throughout england in the twentieth century. harlen was disgruntled to say the least and planned to unleash a thought virus he had written into the earth's past in retaliation for his dismissal. “computer” harlen spoke in a monotone voice, "release thought virus “eighties hair.”
slumber of the glass birds
A dull gray light drenched the early morning landscape of the slumbering pines nursing home as a young woman sat beside an aging resident in room 204. jennifer carefully tucked the covers around her sleeping grandmother and gently placed her hand on her forehead. she was a bit warm and seemed to be wrestling with her thoughts in a dream. “no, no…conrad please no!” the old woman mumbled as she tossed in her sleep. she suddenly awoke and opened her eyes in a fevered panic and squeezed jennifer’s wrist. “it’s you! conrad sent you didn’t he, you’re azmarelda, you’ve come to kill me and steal my porcelain figurines!” jennifer placed her hand on the old woman’s cheek, “grandma it’s me, jenny.” her eyes were distant and glazed and she released her grip on jennifer’s arm. “how we doin’ in here?” a large framed nurse said sticking her head in the doorway of the small room. jennifer looked up at the nurse with tears welling in her eyes. “i see” the nurse said stepping inside and checking the drip on her i.v., the nurse leaned over the frail woman and spoke, “can you hear me mrs. banton? mrs. banton, can you hear me?” “azmeralda…the figurines…” she spoke in a drifting mumble. a long shrill beep sounded from the small monitoring machine attached to mrs. banton and then she was gone. jennifer sobbed and threw her arms around her grandmother, “nooo!” the nurse pressed the button on the intercom, “we have a code blue in 204! i'm sorry ma’am, i’m going to have to ask you to step out please.” jenny walked out crying as a doctor rushed in and they shut the door. the doctor removed his glasses, “what do we have here nurse?” “looks like the usual dr. conrad, a drawer full of hummels and a few porcelain birds.”
tiaras in the rue de castiglione
carlton dipped the exotic shrimp into one of the small brandied cocktail dishes that encircled the ornate ice sculpture in the main ballroom of the rue de castiglione hotel. the grande marbled hall was filled to capacity with the usual diplomats, generals, dukes and duchesses, and of course every multi-splendered socialite of the elite variety. carlton felt sick. “if there’s a tiara in paris, it’s on one of these dames heads tonight.” he thought to himself as he spit the imported tiger shrimp into a cocktail napkin, stuffing it into his cheap tuxedo pocket. carlton furlough was a gum-shoe detective sent on a top secret mission to find the agent at the gala who was sent by the mexicans to kill the ambassador of france. it seems the mexicans didn’t care much for monsieur laveau’s vote on the tequila import tax, and they planned to take him down, “mexican style.” carlton didn’t know how he would spot the imposter among the guests, but he relied on his street smarts to guide him. “money can’t buy street smarts” he thought with a sarcastic grin as the duchess of monte carlo approached him, extending her white gloved hand. “what a lovely tuxedo you have there.” the woman said examining his couture, “is it lacroix?” “i do believe it is lee brand.” carlton spoke trying to sound regal. “oh i see.” the woman said quickly removing her hand from carlton’s. “might i inquire a question upon you madam?” carlton asked, “do you have any children?” “oh yes, i put the darlings to sleep at seven pm sharp every night, and the little angels go right to sleep.” carlton quickly pulled his revolver from his coat pocket and yelled “everyone get back!” and fired six shots into the woman as the crowd erupted in screams. a general came running up, “what the hell do you think you are doing!” carlton was reloading his pistol, “excuse me sir!” carlton lashed at the general, “but this woman is a mexican agent sent to kill monsieur laveau!” “that is the royal duchess of monte carlo you imbecile!” carlton laughed as he snapped the last bullet into the chamber of the gun. “sir, i have children” carlton said to the general, “and anyone who really has kids knows that the deranged monsters refuse to go to bed at night, much less at seven pm!” just then the dark skinned man with the large moustache in the mariachi outfit and sombrero threw down his shrimp plate and ran out of the back door. carlton placed the revolver back into his coat, “shit.”
the old man and the dog
the old man removed a pine log from the dwindling stack of wood beside the stone hearth and showed it to the small white dog. “this here’s what gets a man through the winter.” he said as the small dog tilted his head and lifted his ears. “ha ha, that’s right boy, that’s right.” the old man laughed and rubbed the dog’s neck. he was a good dog, and he was all the old man had left to keep him company in the remote log cabin. he walked over to the heavy wooden door and cracked it open and the dog jumped up and went into a barking frenzy. the old man laughed. the small dog did this every time the old man ever opened the door. he assumed it was the dog protecting him from the certain death of walking out into the snow drifts at his age. “ha ha ha, i’m not going anywhere ol’ boy, don’t you worry.” it had snowed for the last seven days and the old man began to worry about their food situation. it wasn’t good. “beans alright with you boy?” the man said taking the last can down from the shelf. he always made a point to feed the dog before himself. it gave him a sense of peace knowing he still retained his manners in the midst of an untamed wilderness. after all, he had been a gentleman once. he spooned out half the beans into the bowl on the wooden floor and ate the rest himself. “well, that’s it” he thought to himself as he scrapped the last bite from the bottom of the tin can. he couldn’t bring himself to say those words aloud. either because he didn’t want to admit he was in trouble, or because he didn’t want to let the dog know they were out of food. the snow continued for the next several days and the old man’s mind started to play tricks on him. starvation was setting in. “don’t worry ol’ boy” he said in a raspy voice to the dog, “can’t snow much longer, and we’ll have ourselves a proper feast.” that night the old man dreamed of when he was a boy. it was thanksgiving and his mother had made the best roasted turkey dinner he had ever tasted. his father had told him he would get a stomach ache if he didn’t slow down on the turkey, but his mother beamed with pride in her son’s appetite for her cooking. it was absolutely delicious. the old man woke in a cold sweat and found himself sitting at the table holding two raw turkey legs covered in white fur. “boy? where are you ol’ boy?”
gentle breezes over bravo sector
jackson took hold of the chrome handle and swung his spurred combat boot onto the bottom rung of the ladder, pulling himself into the towering camouflage attack vehicle and was careful not to spill his beer. he placed the lager in the cup holder and slid into the plush command chair and removed a long cuban cigar from the humidor. jackson lit the robusto and tapped the tiny remote control that brought the twelve speaker sound system thundering to life. he stood up through the open roof of the vehicle and took in the beauty of the endless rolling muddy hills and all-terrain vehicles that buzzed across the horizon. the wonderful aroma of grilling meat filled the air and jackson smiled. life in bravo sector was good. the year was 2162 and the world was divided into two territories. the men’s side called “bravo sector,” and the women’s side, “gentle breezes over autumn meadows.” it all started during the fall of 2149 when the great doctor zeigerland had made the first reasonably priced artificial mindless supermodel clones and the world was thrown into complete chaos. the women were forced to counter with the artificial shirtless firemen clones, capable of stomping on small bugs and listening to problems with a thoughtful look while vacuuming for extended periods of time. the great battle of the sexes ensued and the world was divided accordingly. everything seemed to finally be going right in the world until several years later, when most of the small appliances in gentle breezes over autumn meadows began to fall into disarray, and the men began to fall ill from their diet of bear meat and beer. “you call this mowing the lawn?” tina said as she violently shook jackson’s leg. jackson sat up on the couch and rubbed his eyes. “i go to the store for twenty minutes and you go to sleep on the fucking couch?” jackson took the last sip of his beer and reluctantly went downstairs and put on his green stained lawn mowing shoes.
button hooks in the elephant grass
sergeant chambers hadn’t slept in 32 hours and his mind was starting to play tricks on him. his recon unit had been on a prisoner snatch just north of the phnom penh border when all hell had broken loose. there wasn’t going to be any rescue choppers coming for them, after all, they weren’t suppose to be in cambodia. the standard operating procedure in the event of enemy contact was to return fire only if fired upon, then fall back, regroup, and hump it the 24 miles back through the jungle to the extraction point. sergeant chambers had been in country 8 months and had been on countless missions, but this was his first one in charge. he squatted behind a thick patch of elephant grass and held up his fist without looking back. he flashed two fingers up, then three down and the soldiers behind him silently rolled to their sides, disappearing into the tall reeds. something was moving, something was breathing. chambers crept forward in a stooped attack posture and slowly bent the tall grass to the side with his barrel. it was evans, he was hit and it didn’t look good. “can you hear me evans?” he whispered. he was unconscious, and bleeding bad. he would have to be carried. a whistle sounded in the distance and he slung his rifle over his shoulder, heaving the limp soldier in his arms and struggled to stand up. the unit jumped into the small clearing beside them with a panicked look. “okay boys, attack and evade procedure, two to the left and three to the right, button hook pattern, barns and conner fall back on my command, go go go!” the howling of dogs meant they were getting close and the hounds had picked up their scent. “aaahhhhhh!” he screamed out running with private evans across the kitchen floor. “i don’t think so mister!" his mother said as she removed the large wooden spoon from the boiling pot of spaghetti, “you put your little brother down and go wash up, dinner is almost ready.”
death yodel of the caveman
nobody gets this lucky, especially not dr. wormsly. but sometimes, fate has a funny way of twisting the stars of chance. the old ford truck rumbled to a stop on the long dusty highway between indian springs and winnemucca nevada. dr. kirk wormsly got out and steadied himself against the vehicle and noticed something odd about a clump in the roadside sediment. he bent down and carefully brushed away the red dust from the strange bones that lay half exposed in the sun baked mud. “great heavens above! kelly! come quickly my dear! you of course know my theory of the yodeling cavemen…i think i’ve found it! my lord i’ve finally found it!” dr. wormsly had been ridiculed at the university about his theory of the yodeling cavemen, but never wavered from his belief, even after they forced him from his position. that was almost eighteen years ago. kelly opened the door and knelt down beside the doctor and was almost bowled over by the strong stench of whiskey and dead dog. “grandpa you poor drunken fool, that’s a week old dead coyote. now please get back in the truck so i can change the tire.” kelly helped the old man back into the ford and she shut the door. “ladies and gentleman, i give you the great dr. kirk wormsly and his fantastic discovery, the yodeling caveman!” dr. wormsly stood up in his tuxedo and smiled to the thundering applause of the university.
the runner on monitor 49
eric kept the rolled up paper snug under his left arm and buried his hands deep into his pockets as he briskly walked the four block loop from his forty-eighth street apartment to feldman’s corner newsstand. it was his typical weekend routine, a black coffee, the saturday edition of the herald, and a short walk to get it. the landscape of eric’s world was column upon column of brown buildings and gray cracked sidewalks that were tied together with endless rows of rusted chain link fences and dotted with the occasional malnourished red sunset maple. eric walked with his eyes to the ground and was careful not to step on the cracks. he lived alone and felt uncomfortably anxious in his solitary and uneventful existence. he often wondered if his entire life was an elaborate charade, and he was the only one not in on the sick joke. he walked passed the same businesses everyday and wondered what went on behind the meticulously designed facade. the run-down pawn shops, the jewelry boutiques and the family owned watch repair shops. everything seemed to fit perfectly into the drab life story of eric. everyone he came across seemed to be a typical “nobody special” character in a bad movie of his life. the jogger with the typical gray sweatshirt, the bank teller with her typical blue blazer, the elderly mailman and his typical satchel of letters with random addresses, on his typical route through the shadows of the hulking brown buildings. eric’s life had become so routine that he wondered if he were to suddenly go off his schedule it might throw his writers off balance. “okay, now you’re just thinking crazy.” he thought. just then a jogger ran by in a gray sweatshirt. eric stopped walking and removed his hands from his pockets. he turned and ran as fast as he could across the street into a small inconspicuous korean market, running past a surprised old woman and through the doors marked “storage” into the back room. he found the shelves empty and a cardboard cut-out of a korean man with a broom leaning in the corner. “holy shit!” the angel said spilling coffee on his lap and jumping up. “we got a runner on monitor forty-nine!” the angel’s supervisor came over and leaned in for a better look. a man was yelling in a vacant storage room on the small flickering screen. “nice going carl! eric's punchline doesn't come up for another twenty-three years! what the hell were you doing, sleeping?!” the supervisor yelled at the angel, “looks like the eric joke is over, back up his life five seconds and..." "oh oh, can i do a dropping piano?" the angel said getting excited. "no you idiot, just bring in a speeding bus, and clean up this damned coffee!”
the tugboat and thurston gibblet
thurston grabbed the large spoked wheel of the tugboat as the chugging vessel slammed into the side of the empire state building. the jarring impact sent him crashing to the deck and his pet monkey “nicole kidman” screaming up the flagpole. thurston r. gibblet had been working on an experimental machine he had designed to turn air into water, which to his amazement, worked perfectly. he had fastened the motor of an old vacuum onto the brains of a toaster oven, then reversed the electrical currents to flow backwards in a dc/ac configuration, then wired the whole damn thing with magnets. unfortunately, he had painted the banana shaped “on lever” bright yellow, and before he could mount the water limiting governor switch, the monkey had instinctively jumped on the lever like a junky on a crack pipe. it was ten minutes before he could reach the emergency off switch, but by then, over half the earth was under water. thurston was fortunate enough to live next door to an old crusty sea-bastard who had a 1953 tugboat up on blocks. he didn’t have time to check if she was seaworthy, but he soon found out. “nicole kidman!” thurston yelled to the monkey as he franticly dumped buckets of water over the side of the boat, “secure the tow line and tie off the mast!” nicole kidman shook her head yes and jumped overboard. “godamn stupid monkey!” thurston howled as the tugboat grinded along the 37th floor of the empire state building, sending a shower of sparks into the air. “what the hell do you think your doing!” jimmy’s dad yelled in astonishment as he stepped into the puddle of water on the bathroom floor. “you do not pour water on the floor young man! now you get out of the bath right now mister!” jimmy frowned as he sat in the tub holding his plastic monkey, “well thank you nicole kidman!”
the luke warm kools of dr. simmons
cole’s hands trembled as he read the ransom note to billy, “we have your precious father dr. simmons, if you want to see him alive again, wait for our call.” billy burst into tears, “those bastards!” he sobbed. “pull yourself together billy!” cole commanded his younger brother, “you know damn well father wouldn’t let himself be taken without leaving us clues to his whereabouts!” “but what if he’s already dead!” “look billy” cole continued, “we can’t even think things like that yet, papa always told us to stay focused in times of trouble, and i’ll be damned if we’re going to fall apart now.” “we have to think like papa would think, what would father try to tell us billy? now go gather anything that might contain a clue!” the men spent the next hour combing the house and yard for any trace of evidence that might lead them to their dear father. doctor simmons had burst onto the scene several years ago with his groundbreaking study on luke hanson. his experiment was to finally put to rest the theory that people named luke were any more luke warmer than the rest of the non-luke named population. his conclusion was dead on the money. it had rocketed him to instant fame and fortune, drawing the attention of the world’s elite intellectual community. unfortunately, he also gained the attention of the ruthless guatemalan organization of nuclear arsenal destructionists, or g.o.n.a.d. as they were known and feared. dr. simmon’s sons laid out every possible clue they had amassed on the kitchen table. “okay, lets start with this candy wrapper, a hershey’s kiss.” “i don’t know I can’t think anymore!” billy said breaking down crying again. “damnit billy pull yourself together and think! what does this wrapper tell you?” billy wiped his eyes, “that…um, they took him to hershey pennsylvania?” “that’s it billy!” cole said. “now this cigarette butt you found in the backyard, what brand is it?” “kool?” “yes billy! and who is cooler than cool?” “um, michael jordan?” billy said sitting up, becoming more excited. “that’s right billy, and how many cigarettes come in a pack?” “24 i think” “excellent billy!” “now what does all this tell us?” “that they are holding papa 24 feet under ground in michael jordan’s back yard in hershey pennsylvania!” “bingo!” within an hour the boys were on a flight to hershey pennsylvania with every digging tool they could find in their father’s tool shed. later that evening, the phone rang and rang at the empty house of dr. simmons as the boys argued with a cab driver in downtown hershey, demanding they be taken to michael jordan’s house. “you idiots, he doesn’t live here!” amhad said as he opened the trunk of the cab and dumbed the duffle bags of garden tools on the sidewalk and sped off. no one ever saw dr. simmons again.
the tenor of san como
carl woodsbury was a level three agent and had been undercover on the covert op "speakerbox" as sly whistler, international motivational speaker. his mission was to get close to julia thurmond of the international speakers union. this was carl’s fifth mission with the agency and the years of anonymity were wearing him thin. “this was the life you wanted carl” he kept telling himself, “the life of an international spy.” carl’s one true gift was the ability to completely submerge himself into his cover story. unfortunately, he found it wasn’t so easy to come back out. in panama, he had been a tenor named ernesto valancia in a choir at the holy father of our lord church in the small province of san como. he had fallen in love with a spanish tap dancer named roselita. roselita’s father was holding documents that were going to bring down the ukranian government and expose the united state’s financial relationship to the chechen’s black market chia pet scandal. he left without ever saying goodbye, but not without the documents. he left in the middle of the night to guam to pose as a nail technician with the bogus group “manicurists without borders.” he set up a nail salon in the trendy tamuning district and had given thousands of manicures to the homeless. everyone knew the ambassador to guam was a kgb double agent who happened to have a nervous tendency to bite his nails. it was only a matter of time before he came into the shop, he never tasted the arsenic on the clear coat enamel. carl was on an island hopper to malaysia before the ambassador’s body hit the ground at his luxurious hilltop villa. he had all but forgotten what it was like to have a normal life, or even to be known by his real name. carl smiled as he thought of roselita and her annoying habit of popping her toes while they drove around the island in his convertible. langely was ending "speakerbox" and wanted carl back at hq for debriefing. But in his mind, carl was long gone. to make things worse, carl hadn’t checked in with langley at the designated rendezvous point. carl had dropped off the radar six months ago in toledo after a seminar at a textile convention. he had covered his tracks the best he could but it was only a matter of time before the agency sent out a recovery team. “i hope to hell you know what you’re doing carl” he told himself. but he didn’t, or maybe he didn’t want to know the truth. “gin and tonic please” carl said as he sat down at the bar in the posh marriott vip lounge in west palm beach. “this ones on the house sir” the bartender responded with an ear to ear smile. “and to what do i owe this pleasure sir?” carl said accepting the drink. “its an honor to meet you mr. whistler, i attended one of your seminars in reno and it really changed my life!” the man said beaming with excitement. “i’ve just purchased my first home with no money down and diverted the closing costs to the lender, and tomorrow i’m closing on my second property using the buy down equity principle you taught me!” carl smiled as he took a long slow drink of the cold gin and tonic. “i’m sorry sir, you must have me confused with someone else.” carl took out a twenty and laid it on the bar. "and by the way..." he said picking up his one way ticket to san como, "the name is ernesto."
felidae in the iboga
professor conrad knelt beside samantha under the thick iboga brush and tried to catch his breath. “what is it professor?” samantha asked in a panicked whisper. “felidae, of the carnivorous order i’m afraid” he said as he dug his fingers into the sand, searching for anything that might be fashioned into a weapon. “a what?” samantha inquired again. “genus panthera massaieus!” conrad said in a loud whisper. "now please ma'am, sshhh!" “ooohh okay, i see” samantha said shaking her head. she removed a small tube of chapstick from her shirt pocket and carefully applied it to her pursed lips, "are monkeys dangerous?" professor conrad's face turned red with frustration, “it’s a godamned lion woman!” he finally shouted. the 500 pound masai lion burst through the iboga thicket and instinctively grabbed conrad by the throat, leaping twelve feet off into the darkness with his limp body in tow. samantha calmly stood up while she replaced the cap on her chapstick and softly brushed the sand off her khaki safari trousers, “the first law of the desert my dear professor conrad, i don’t have to outsmart the lion, i just have to outsmart you.”
terror in quadrant four
adam placed his palm over the glowing security metabolizer and the large titanium doors immediately slid open. “good morning steven” adam said as he stepped into the large control pod. “just made some fresh coffee adam, help yourself.” adam filled his space mug to the rim with the black gold and checked the proton equalizers on the main circuit console. “looks like we’ve got an elevated level of nanotrons in sector seven.” adam said as he tapped on the spectrometer. “i checked that out already adam, i think its just a flux in mar’s orbital gyros.” adam took a sip of his coffee and hit a series of multi-colored buttons and flipped the autogyro switch. “autogyro switch enabled” he said looking back at the spectrometer. “hmm…that’s odd, i’m picking up a large blip in the lower quadrant.” steven got up from the command seat and walked over to the console, resting both hands on the cool steel as he leaned in for a better look. “that’s a level nine blip there adam, better get the boss on the communicator.” adam picked up the space phone, “this is adam in control pod five, come in commander.” steven flipped the neuron switches and turned the atom dial to eleven degrees, “i’m not getting a response on the neuron thrusters!” steven said sounding a bit alarmed. “turn the atom dial to ten degrees and recheck the vortex screen” adam replied. “its already at eleven!” “jesus!” adam said as he put the space communicator back to his ear, “space center zulu this is adam on starcraft niner five niner, we have a level twelve emergency, come in space center!” an ear-shattering noise blasted into the command pod and the ship rocked hard to the right, throwing both men to the ground as they held their ears. “damnit adam turn that down!” adam’s father said switching the stereo off. “what did daddy tell you about touching the stereo?” adam grabbed his spaceman steve action figure and ran to his room and slammed the door. “damnit steven we’ve been over run, activate the destruction beams!”
the servant's umbrella
james pulled the linen cloth tight across the small wooden frame and tied off the coarse twine. he held the square construction up in the candlelight with pride so edwards could get a good look at it. “I do believe that’s the ugliest hat I’ve ever seen.” edwards laughed as he took another sip off the brandy. “it’s an umbrella you old billy goat” james quipped. the wooden shutter blew open and a gust of wind swirled into the small room, blowing out several of the candles. edwards jumped up and secured the windows as james held up his creation and admired his handiwork. “my son is turning nine on the morrow edwards, and is in bad need of an umbrella for his long walks to the schoolhouse.” a rumbling sound was heard and the men stopped and looked at each other. a horse's whine in the distance sent the two servants scrambling to hide the brandy and relight the candles. james opened the large wooden doors and shielded his face from the stinging rain, “by heavens he’s blind drunk again.” “may the good lord help us.” edwards said cowering behind the door. ben franklin stumbled into the corridor holding a thick woolen blanket that draped his plump frame and clutched a sloshing crystal decanter of french wine. “attend the horses damned ya bastards!” he slurred as he flung his velvet hat down the hallway, “and prepare my meal or i’ll have all yer hides so help me!” edwards ran into the darkness and grabbed the reigns of the horses as james scurried to clear the large wooden table. “he’ll have my head for sure if that turkey burns” james thought as he franticly set out the plates. edwards emerged behind him out of breath and soaked to the bone, “he’s out there in the thick of it james, and damned my eyes he’s naked as the baby jesus!” james ran to the front door stepping over a large pile of wet clothes and saw ben’s nude body stumbling around in the howling wind and rain. he was laughing hysterically as he held onto the tugging line of twine that stretched up into the sky, the square umbrella that james had made for his son now flying at the end. james clenched his fists and softly said a prayer, “lord may ye please strike that fat bastard dead.”
wilfred & the brain of mr. duncan
“scalpel” dr. wilmington said as he pressed his finger onto the lower left cerebellar peduncle of mr. duncan’s brain. “scalpel” janet replied placing the instrument in his strong hand. dr. wilfred j. wilmington had gone to brain school in the fall of 2089 with the plans of doing his internship at the prestigious “outer space medical brain center and doctor studies building of saturn,” or “o.s.m.b.c.d.s.b.s.” as they called it for short, but he never planned on love. “i need suction on the right temporal gyrus nurse” wilfred said as he made a small incision to the upper medulla. “and that should do it” he said removing his medical brain surgery gloves. janet spoke softly as she arranged the delicate instruments, “congratulations doctor, another excellent surgery.” wilfred grabbed janet by the shoulders, “damnit janet, I never wanted to fall in love, do you hear me! i wanted to work on brains and be a serious brain doctor!” janet began to sob as he pulled her into his embrace, her lips meeting his in a long passionate kiss. “i love you janet, damned everything else.” “oh wilfred, i’ll never leave you again.” a light clapping of hands startled the two as they turned to see mr. duncan sitting up on the gurney. “looks like you two are going to be just fine.” mr. duncan said with a smile. everyone began to laugh as dr. wilmington looked into janet’s eyes, “i think we all are mr. duncan, i think we all are.”
rolling thunder
james rubbed his eyes as he stared out of the small kitchen window. it was early, “too early for an old biker like me” he thought. james was getting old and all the late nights and booze were beginning to wear on him. he popped a pain pill and washed it down with a cold glass of whiskey from the night before and he placed the dirty glass in the sink. he shook his leg and ran his hand down his thigh in a fruitless attempt to stop the pain. james had laid his hog down on interstate 29 about seven years ago and was still paying for it. the pain came and went, today wasn’t going to be a good day. james grabbed his helmet off the table and walked outside. “gonna be a cold one” he thought as he lit a cigarette and took a long slow drag. he threw his good leg over the monstrous bike and brought his heavy boot down to rest on the metal crank. “gimme some music baby” he said as he cranked down hard with all his weight. the chrome beast rumbled to life like rolling thunder across the gray sky. “that’s my baby” james thought with a smile. “james douglas bender you get back in here right now and put on a jacket, it’s freezing outside!” his mother called from the porch. james put the kickstand down on the little blue bicycle and ran up to the porch, grabbing the small winter coat from his mother’s hand. “and watch for cars!” james slid the heavy leather jacket over his tattooed arms as he cranked the chopper back up and revved the machine high enough to shake the windows for blocks. “don’t you worry about me baby" he said flicking the cigarette into the street, "james bender’s gonna be just fine.”
sometimes, the dead lean
the sweltering heat was begining to make frank sick. about the only thing still holding up his gaunt frame was his pride and the need to make a statement to "the rabbit," we would not be broken so easily. the rabbit was a nickname the men had given to the vicious japanese guard who had single handedly killed several of fank's men already. there was private martin, jennings, carlson, and of course oscar. he had come to know oscar like a brother during the six days of the marching hell. oscar was a pilot in the british royal air force and had daringly flown a supermarine spitfire over bataan before fate had intervened and brought him here. dizzy from thirst, oscar had dropped to his knees one evening to sip from a small puddle when the rabbit jumped on his chance to prove his bloodlust, lopping off his head with his menuki sword. frank tried to put it out of his mind, it was war. adam and bowdin were marching a few yards in front of him. they had come up with the idea to lean on each other so that one could sleep and the other could guide him. although it was really never sleep, it was more like a dazed dream. he reached out to touch adam on the cheek to see if he was still alive... "franklin stop it! you do not touch your brother's face while he's sleeping! now we're almost there so just settle down!" franklin crossed his arms and looked out the window of the car and watched the blur of the speeding houses go by. "the rabbit's intimidation would not work on me" he thought. franklin took a straw from his pocket and slowly put it in his sleeping brother's ear.
how cruel were my captors
eva vonderwerner held the sparse plate of food just out of the starving prisoners reach. "you will not talk eh? okay, we see if you will not talk." eva relocked the cell and cut the lights. how long could he stand the cold darkness? how long had it been already? his fragile mind was already starting to play tricks on him. the hours past, then the days. a woman had emerged behind him once, running her hand through his thick hair and whispered something in his ear, he turned quickly to find no one there. he couldn't stand this much longer. he clawed at the door, sobbing in quiet agony. at last, he gave up. he lay his broken body down and waited for the end to come. at length he heard the metal click of the lock opening, a shard of light broke the darkness and he turned his head from the pain of his squinting eyes. it was eva. "you will talk." she said in her evil monotone voice. "you will put this on now" she said coldly as she held up the blindfold and advanced towards his cowering body. "ellen! you leave that dog alone and let him out of that closet!" ellen's mother said as she grabbed her husbands underwear off the dogs head. "and do not play with your father's clothes!"
attack of the crackalack ding dongs
dr. simmons peered into the darkened office and slipped inside. he was almost positive he hadn't been noticed. he found a small green lamp on the bookshelf and switched it on. "the papers have got to be here somewhere" he thought as he rifled through the drawers of the large mahogany desk. his heart raced as he finally found the document, cleverly buried under several files in the bottom drawer. "you almost pulled it off didn't you algy" he thought. algernon p. razzmatazz had started a small factory making "crackalack ding dong" biscuits that were taking the light breakfast snack world by storm. there was one small problem, dr. simmons knew the secret ingredients, and planned to expose the whole diabolical scheme in a tell-all story on the front page of his father's paper. the office lights suddenly came on and there stood algernon p. razzmatazz. "lets not make any sudden movements dr. simmons." the man said as he flashed the revolver under the newspaper. dr. simmons pulled out his lighter and held it just under the document and lit the flame. "no, you don't make any sudden movements mr. razzmatazz! did you really think you would get away with this?" go ahead and burn the paper dr. simmons, you won't be leaving this office alive. "ha ha ha, the same old algy...we both know if you fire that pistol the whole building will be down here in seconds!" "okay okay, you win dr. simmons" he said placing the gun back in his pocket and removing a ding dong from his coat, "well maybe this will buy your silence." dr. simmons approached mr. razzmatazz and took the light breakfast snack from his hand and gave him the document. "you got yourself a deal algy old pal, nobody knows nothin'."
terror on lot 13
the driver grabbed the gear shift and slammed the vehicle into reverse, sending the tires of the sedan into a high pitched squeal as the burning rubber erupted in a thick cloud of smoke. the drivers eyed each other like drunken gunslingers who's horses had been insulted. the other driver hit the accelerator and lunged forward, only to immediately slam on the brakes again. "oh you bitch!" the huge sports utility vehicle came to a stop in front of the tiny parking space and started to inch its way in, the driver nervously checking both sides of the truck as she strained to see over the high framed doors. the occupants of the sedan regarded the scene with the quiet anticipation of schoolboys watching a wedding cake being carried across a frozen parking lot by a fat lady in high heels. "damnit" she said. the truck had made it in without a scratch. the driver looked back and gave a sarcastic smile of victory. "yeah, thanks a lot bitch!" the lady yelled out of the sedan as she furiously rolled the window back up. "and if you kids don't settle down back there mommy is going to have an accident!" she continued through the toy store parking lot searching for a space in the endless rows of parked mini vans. a woman pulled into the line up and darted her a cold look as they both noticed a family leaving the store with bulging bags of holiday gifts. "oh i don't think so bitch!"
curse of the pocelain monkey
thurston blankenship stretched for his gun as duke bremmer tightened his strangle hold around his neck. "i'll be damned if you'll get away with this blankenship" duke growled out. the pistol was almost at his fingertips. "just...a little....further” he thought to himself as his mind begin to fade to black. thurston’s fingernails finally caught onto the handle of the snub nose 38 and he pulled it tightly into his palm. raising the pistol high in the air, he brought it down hard on dukes head, knocking the man backwards into the large wooden cabinet that held the priceless porcelain monkeys. duke felt the back of his head and looked at the blood on his fingers. a snarl curled his lips, he lunged at thurston with all his power. both men tumbled over the table sending plates and glasses shattering to the floor. “damnit whats going on in here?!” their father said standing in the kitchen doorway. the boys jumped to their feet and pointed at one another. “so help me god if you two break any of grandma’s things….” his face red with anger. the boys looked at the floor and nodded. “this is thanksgiving now stop it!” father walked back into the den and turned the tv back on. thurston blankenship looked around the room and grabbed the broom stick in the corner as duke bremmer pulled a spatula from the drawer. the men began to slowly circle each other, ”dad said stop it chad!” “you stop it will!”
trouble at shark harbor
professor von hormel grabbed the young man and pulled him into the shadows. he could see the flashlight of the assassin searching the docks. professor prichard von hormel had narrowly won a grant at the geraldine ferraro community college in 1992 with his study on age reversal. he had walked backwards for a year and had carefully documented the study and came to the conclusion that if any age reversing had taken place, the results were too small to register. the other professors never fully accepted prichard and held his theories as highly questionable. with his new study on the young will tanner, he hoped to settle any doubts about his credibility once and for all. will tanner had what prichard called, a “ying yang” personality. on one hand he had a perfect photographic memory, and on the other hand the worse case of turrets syndrome he had ever seen. “damn fucker gypsy monkey!” will yelled out uncontrollably as prichard put his hand over his mouth. “sshhhhh, he’s getting closer.” all the trouble had started last july on a field trip to the pentagon. the young will tanner had wandered off to the basement and had accidentally seen the top secret missile designs for the xj-903. now the chechens wanted the plans and the government wanted them dead. they had been chased all night and now they were hiding at duggan’s wharf on shark harbor. “will, what have you got in that backpack?” umm, nothing, just some books and a sack lunch. “what’s in your lunch?” just a sandwich and a banana professor. “give it to me, I have an idea.” the professor spotted a long narrow jetty that stretched out to the middle of shark harbor. the professor grabbed a bucket of chum and they silently ran down to the end of the jetty. he quickly peeled the banana. “get down behind this barrel will” he said as he placed the banana peel about five feet from the edge of the plank jetty. he grabbed the bucket of chum and dumped it into the shark infested black water and bent down beside will. “hey jackass, over here!” he yelled out to the thug with the flashlight. the dark figure heard the call and came running down the old plank walk. he stopped right before the banana peel and looked around, remembering he couldn’t swim. “psst, over here dung face!” the professor taunted. the man looked down and carefully stepped over the banana peel, shooting both the men and kicking their bodies into the water. the man took a cheese sandwich from his coat pocket and took a bite and mumbled, “crap, now where did I park?”
the thief in cell block twelve
the metallic buzzer sounded signaling the final call for lights out. the night guard yelled something down the long drab corridor of the louisiana state correctional center as he hit the lights. he took in a deep breath to calm myself. this was the big night, it was now or never. tom had spent the last six months building up the idea that he was a prisoner to be trusted and was content on doing his twelve to fifteen without incidence. he volunteered at the prison library and had even made christmas cards for the warden and the bulls. tom spent countless hours researching locking mechanisms in the small library and tonight he would put that knowledge to the test. he waited a good forty minutes before sliding out of bed. he would bring nothing, speed and stealth were of the essence. he placed his hands on the cold iron bars and said a quick prayer. the heavy door slid open with a heavy click that seemed to echo though the entire cell block. "my god it worked" he whispered shaking his head in disbelief. he crept down the hall as several inmates sat up on their bunks, giving him the thumbs up. he looked at no one. there was a light on at the end of hall four, the guards were playing poker. tom waited to cross the hall until a hand was won and the room erupted in laughter. he held his breath and darted to the other side. they hadn’t seen him. he came to the prison kitchen and slipped inside. prisoners in cell block twelve were forbidden desserts until their second year. tom had once bribed a guard for a piece of oatmeal cookie, and here was a sheet pan of freshly made chocolate chip. he picked up one of the warm cookies and softly took a bite. it was almost heaven. the lights of the kitchen suddenly flicked on and he spun around in horror. “you put that cookie down mr. and get back in bed this instance! this is the third time now and i’m not joking! you have school tomorrow now lights out!” tommy ran back to his bunk bed and hopped in, yanking the covers up to his chin. “it’s going to be plan b then” tommy told himself. a little bit longer and the bulls would be asleep.
into the eye of the storm
kurtz woke up gasping for air. he was having the nightmare again. it was a vision he couldn’t get out of his head. and the sounds were even worse…the god awful sounds. the children screaming, the insanity. he held his head and told himself “its not your fault, its your job kurtz, you weren’t responsible!” but in a way it was, he signed up for this. “its this damned uniform!” kurtz leaned over and removed the half empty bottle from his sack and took a quick drink. alcohol was forbidden in his line of work, but his sanity required it. in just a short while he would be stepping back into the hurricane, and he would be at the eye of the storm. it wouldn’t be much longer he thought, he would get out and find a good job. a real job. its almost over kurtz, just get through another day. and now he had a job to do. a job with no rewards. it had a promise of anonymity, and maybe a free bus ride home. he slid his high black leather boots on and pulled the laces up tight. he placed the hat on his head and adjusted it with honor. his joints creaked as he stood up and fastened his belt. this was a job for a man half his age he thought. he took another drink. he grabbed his gear in the black bag and slung it over his shoulder. there was one thing for sure he thought, “this is the last godamned year i volunteer to be a department store santa.”
the rise of lars lasher
lars lasher’s blistering solo atop the twelve foot marshall amplifiers brought the sold out crowd at the yankee stadium to a fever pitch. the deafening roar of the crowd had turned into one constant “hhaaaaaaaa” and for the first time in his life lars had the feeling he had finally made it. his hit single “toker’s fog” had scaled the charts like a starving socialist up the berlin wall and his brief affair with gweneth paltrow had guaranteed his face on the cover of teen beat magazine. “you want more?!” lars screamed into the microphone as the feedback from his flying v curled the toes of animals for miles. lars jumped from the towering amp with a flying round-house kick as he tore a lick off the nine thousand dollar guitar. the pain shot up his spine as he hit the stage sending a shockwave through his 23 year old frame. the doc had told him that anymore amp jumps might result in permanent paralysis. but fuck it, this was rock-n-roll. he grabbed the lighter fluid and sprayed his guitar to the delight of the screaming cheerleaders in the front row… “five minutes lewis, then its lights out” his father said through the locked bedroom door. “okay pop.” lewis climbed back up on his desk with his sister’s tennis racket, “i can’t hear you new york!” "hhaaaaaaaa!"
waiting for jo-jo
carlos took a long swig from the 40 and passed it to cooley-d as he wiped his mouth with his over sized sleeve. "get you some an' pass that shit" shantay said as she reached for the half empty bottle. "takn' all night n' shit." it was a quarter passed 2 am and still no sign of jo-jo. "if that muthafucka don't show..." shantay said. "if that muthafucka don't show what bitch?" carlos blurted, "he said he was goin' be here an he gonna be here, now stop yo bitchn' ho." carlos was getting more and more unstable as the night wore on and the bottle got lighter. "but what if he don't show" cooley-d asked. carlos reached behind his back and pulled out his nine pressing the barrel hard to cooley's temple. "bitch i'll pop you right here, you got me homey?" just then the doorknob turned as the room fell dead silent. it was jo-jo, carrying an armfull of christmas gifts for all. "damn you had me worried fool" carlos chuckled as he slipped the nine back in his waistband. shantay emerged from the kitchen with fresh eggnogg as cooley put on the bing crosby christmas album. jo-jo turned to the audience and said, "god bless us, everyone." the children stood up, held hands and bowed to the sparse crowd at the whispering meadows nursing home. a spattering of applause filled the darkened cafeteria. looks like it was another successful christmas play by the middle school drama troupe quartet.
durny glenn's mulligan
morgan's knee creaked as he bent over to tee up his ball, then it creaked again as he righted himself. he stared down the 9th fairway of the durny glenn golf club as the early morning wind misted his face. he glanced over at the 3 men standing behind him as he drew back his $250 over-sized clubhead, "waiting for me to fuck up are you boys" he thought to himself, "well not today baby...not today" morgan swung down in a long controlled arc that nailed the ball dead center with a satisfying "noook." all eyes followed the tiny white ball as it soared up and drifted hard to the right, nailing an elderly woman in a wheelchair square in the head. when the men finally reached the old woman, all hope was lost. morgan's caddy held up the small tool shovel in his golf bag, another "mulligan" sir? he asked timidly. yes jimmy, another "mulligan," just make damn sure this one is deeper than the last "mulligan," and meet us on the thirteenth hole. and here's 12 bucks, bring us a couple of cold ones.
