Envisages Woken Broken

Two stories with unclear realities that are woken to life.

Ceahorse’s

Dave’s dilemma

I was going to write a love story, a great love story with a conflict of infidelity. It was going to contain all the passion and lust of a saucy drugstore paperback while maintaining the realism and agreeability of a proper contemporary – But I’m not. I decided not to. However, I feel the story was going to be so great that it needs to be let loose. I’ll tell you what it was going to be about.

It was going to start off with a dream. The main character, Dave Johnson, was to be going for a new job interview. The potential new boss was going to be an attractive woman in her early 40s, looking about 35 though. She was going to quickly dispense with the formalities of the interview then she would take him on a small tour. During this tour they would eventually find themselves in storeroom closest. The walls would be lined with glittering rows of bottles of assorted spirits. Every brand one could choose. She’d offer him a drink and then like any good porno-plot-line-influenced dream they would be kissing. After some steamy moments of great description, our character, Dave, would be waiting in the opportunity. She, naked, would be waiting on her hands and knees and he would be kneeling behind her – the tip of his throbbing erection rubbing the point of no return.

This was to be the point of conflict. For in the real world he is married – and if he would have known it was a dream he might have dove in. So, emotions would take over, he would contemplate the consequences of each choice. In he could go, and face the wrath of the guilt when he looked into his wife’s eyes. Or he could pull away, offending this older lady, and loose all chances of getting employment.

The ending was something of a mystery, and perhaps it’s the true reason that I didn’t will myself to write this story. I had intended on this story being relatable to all men, and perhaps even women. But how could I choose which side to go with. Many men would just walk away. They would prefer a story where he told the boss that he was sorry and that he couldn’t go through with it, and perhaps she would even understand, not be offended, and still offer him the job; perhaps not. However, there is the other half that would quote the “balls” saying and vote for the fling. They would want Dave to wake up a new man. A man who has set himself free, a man strong enough to bury the dream while looking at his wife but gloat it out to the boys, and perhaps, even, make an aspect of this dream come to reality.

I simply couldn’t and wouldn’t choose

Lion’s

Solar Love Storm

Everyday on the way to his desk Will would give a wink to the office secretary, Janna, and say, in an tone that was innocent only because of the truth in the words he was speaking, “If I had met you before I met my wife…” or, “You’re the love of my life…” or, “If the world were to end I’d want to spend my last minutes on Earth with you.” Little did he know, those words were going to be put to the test.

It was some sort of intergalactic negative-photon storm that ran a streak through our solar system, painting out a band of stars in the sky, running a course between Earth and the Sun. The sun was no longer shining. “The sun extinguished, reasons unknown,” “All in the dark, scientists baffled” and “Lights out, the world in wait” were all headlines in the newspapers the following morning.

Where Will lived it was mid-day when the storm hit. Like a bulb—blowing, a flash then darkness. He was in the break room, no windows to the outside, when the storm hit; but the sounds of confusion and shouts of unanswered questions brought him away from his cup of coffee and the business section.

Fluorescent bulbs and the blue hew of computer screens lit the building. Through the tint of the office windows, street lights awakened by the dark of day. Traffic was apprehensive of the unknown; drivers gazed, looking up, heads craned over their hands on the wheel. The office stopped. As if led by the hope that the view through the windows of the office were some how lying; Will, Janna, and all the other employees went outside to check if the reality through the glass was the same without a tint.

When they got outside things would not have seemed different then any other night, other than the fact that it was daytime and a band of black in the sky that looked like a negative Milky Way embraced by the stars. Will looked at Janna, she smiled. As the rest of the world was starting to be torn apart at the possibility of the end; Janna and Will were being brought together.

She walked to him, leaned to his ear, and whispered, “I hope that all this time you weren’t lying.” He looked and her, explained that he had a wife and kid, a wife he loved out of obligation, but if the sun was not shining in two days he would meet her at his cottage an hour away on Lake Erie. He gave her the door key from his key chain, and whispered “I hate to say it but I hope to see you there.” He did not speak to her again before they left.

Two days later the world was an orange glow of city lights and fires, humans trying to find light at any cost. Power plants were operating at capacity, and the only employees at work: first responders, miners, utility workers and grocery store associates. All others were told to say at home and stay in. The world kept turning but the earth seemed to be cut from the suns tether. The sun, so common its presence is hardly ever in the forefront of the mind but so important that mind could not exist without it, people were waking to life in its final days.

She told me the sun wasn’t shining anywhere on earth, but on the second day of darkness in a little cottage on Lake Erie it seemed warmer than ever. Will and Janna met, she was there with a fire going when he arrived. The statements that he once had refrained from acting upon were now taking form, from truths to reality. They loved each other to the end of time, and knew that their time would be ending soon. They took walks along the shore, knowing that, soon, they would die with true love in their hearts and in their hands.

However, the world did not end. When what’s now being called a negative-photon storm passed after six days of darkness, the world put it’s self back together pretty quickly. Employers called employees back. Busses , Ferries, Trains, and Planes all had passengers. There was hype on the news for sometime, but like most stories it started to fade, and the week without the sun became a history rarely talked about. And was moved into the lesser accessed portions of peoples memories.

When the sun rose on the seventh day Janna thought that she would live with true love in her heart and hand, but Will started to feel the guilt of a decision that he would not have to die with but live with. “It’s as if he woke up to live life when he thought he was going to die just to go back to sleep when he learned he wasn’t” she told me. He left her at the cottage, taking the key. And told her he loved her but couldn’t live in a fantasy.

They both went back to work, but their love was never spoken of again. He ignored her every morning, lunch, and evening as he passed her. He quit work when her belly started to show six months later. He quit, and sent checks; everyone signed by his wife, not him. But I’ve never seen him; I guess I’m just a negative-photon storm love baby.

Helping no one

Two stories about wasted potential.

Lion’s

The Solution

In the basement of Robert Sandoval’s house the world could have found many solutions they had long been looking for, solutions to the biggest of problems; but in the living room, the dining room and both bedrooms, they would find many smaller problems that had already been solved. Problems that, from what we have put together, are best contemplated at a summer cottage in the winter, at a funeral of a friend of which you are the decease’s only attendant, or a long road trip in a recreational vehicle, with a table, and a friend you do not care for driving. Yes, glued together on the walls, floors and in the halls are literally millions of pieces of cardboard placed together, with care, to form large images not intended for decoration but instead for relation to the other pieces which should surround it.

Unlike the puzzles plastered and pined to the walls on the main floor of Robert Sandoval’s house, Robert Sandoval was a puzzle that could not be put together. At least he could not be solved by any of us that found the contents of his house after “The Most Unfortunate Accident.”

Everything was found as the people had left it, but in place of the people there was only space. That, of course, after “The Most Unfortunate Accident.” It was only a year ago that “The Most Unfortunate Accident” occurred. From what we have learned in that year we found that the times were troubled, troubled so much that a capitol T was almost necessary to properly label how troubled the times were.

To escape these troubled times a man name Tim Hutchinson toyed with time and space. His goal was to move to a different time and place, teleportation of sorts. And with something to do with the beta waves in the human brain, we’re not quite sure, he was successful to a point but not to the point of a pin. In comparison to the size of a pin point, his success measured up to the tip of a Boeing 747. His intention was only to bring himself, but with him he brought everyone else. This was “The Most Unfortunate Accident.”

Our story, however, is not about Tim, for Robert Sandoval could have helped him. And in helping Tim, Robert could have helped everyone. See, below all of the puzzles pieced together, in the basement of Robert Sandoval’s house, are articles written in hand, bound, labelled, and placed under the only light on the only piece of furniture in the basement, an unstained maple bookshelf. There labels read, “The solution to economic strife,” “The solution to inequality and war,” “The solution to hunger,” “The solution to environmental inequality” and so on and so on.

These articles we praise not for their aspirations but for their ability to thoroughly and completely meet the definition on the label. This we know because we had the same problems that have confronted the human race when we came to this place, coincidently, three days after the “The Most Unfortunate Accident,” and these articles have solved our problems. When we first arrived we found no one here, but there were buildings and books, and art and beers. So we searched and searched hoping to find a person to explain the emptiness of the planet but no one was found. So, we searched all around. Luckily where we landed was not far from Robert’s home. We found his books with their writings and let our people know the solutions to the problems that have been plaguing us. With our new knowledge we put the solutions to the test. They were a success. However, we do have one regret not – we have not been able to share these ideas with anyone else, yet.

Ceahorse’s

Listening and sometimes hearing.

To whom it may concern:

I am writing this letter because I can’t think of anything else to do. I simply can’t stand back and watch such a gift go to waste.

I first met Jackson Banks on a Sunday 6 months ago. I was with my best friend Elijah Banks. We were taking Pete, my 1 year old son – who was 7 months old at the time – to my ex-wife’s house. On the way there, Elijah told me to stop off at his bro’s place. He said he needed to pick something up. We went to Jackson’s house, E’s cousin. I unbuckled Pete from his booster, and took him in my arms and followed E up the steps. Before he knocked on the door, he warned me that his cousin was a little weird. I thought nothing of it at the time.

The door was answered by Jackson, a man, who was topless and had a bunch of lather in his hair. It turned out to be what it seemed. He had been washing his hair. We dispensed with the greetings but Jackson lingered on my son for a long time, which I found strange being that my son could respond with anything more then Ga-goos.

Jackson let us in and took us to the living room where he found a spot on the couch and motioned for me to join him. E excused himself and went upstairs to look for the thing he had come to get.

I sat down beside him and glanced at the TV. It was showing a run of Days Of Thunder. It was at the part where Cole Trickle is afraid to get back in the car.

I looked back at Jackson, and asked him if he needed to go to the bathroom. He replied, nonchalantly, without any indication to the foam dripping on his shoulder, that he had been watching the movie and that he didn’t want to miss any of it.

At this point my son, Pete had burst out some Ga-goos. Jackson had looked down at him and turned to me and laughing said. “Your son has a dirty mouth.”

I dug around in my pocket and found a tissue and proceeded to search my sons face. Finding nothing, I turned to Jackson. “What you mean? There’s nothing on his face.”

He looked at me, scrubbed his hair a bit with his left hand – getting soap on the couch back – and then raised his eye brow. “What are you talking about?”

I told him that he had said that my son had a dirty mouth and that I couldn’t find anything on his face, to which he simply laughed, rolled his head back and then reached down beside the couch – without looking – and produced a squeeze bottle filled with water. With the water it then started to re lather up the soap in his hair.

I, feeling frustrated, pressured him further as to what he meant.

He told me that he didn’t mean that my son’s face was dirty but that my son liked saying dirty words. I looked down at my son, he was smiling at me I then looked back up at Jackson; he had a sideward grin on his face, the “I don’t know why” kind of grin.

I didn’t really want to, and if it hadn’t been my son as the topic I’d have let it go, but I had to ask. “What the fuck are you talking about? He can’t even talk”

“Sure he can, you just don’t understand him.”

“And you do?”

“Yeah that’s right. I understand them all.”

He kept looking back to the TV between sentences and sometime at the mid words of the sentences. He also kept at the hair.

“Let me get this straight. Are you telling me that you can understand baby talk?”

He reached over to the tea table, and annoyingly picked up the remote and paused the movie. Turned to me and said. “Listen man, I said I understood him, and I DO, now all I want to do it just wash my fucking hair and finish this movie so I can start it over again.”

He seemed quite irritated so I left it at that. About 30-40 seconds later E came back downstairs. He told me he was ready and tapped his cousin on the shoulder and headed for the door. As I was packing all my stuff I glanced over to Jackson’s side of the couch. Sitting on the floor beside him were hundreds of bottles of shampoo and squeezable bottles of water.

I’d have thought nothing more of this, excluding the conversation I had with my ex-wife where she demanded that I never bring Pete there again. However, yesterday was a day of epic proportions, in the life of a parent. It was the day my son said his first word clearly and accentuated. It just so happened to be “fuck!”

Looking through his glasses.

Two stories about an unusual way of seeing.

Ceahorse’s

Skins

Today is Tuesday. Nothing interesting ever happens on Tuesday, and today will end like any other. Tomorrow is going to be the mid week bipolar day. This Saturday, however, is going to be quiet intriguing. It is going to be the day I find out just how strange and carefree Kevan, my best friend, is.

On Saturday, I will wake up late, as usual for a weekend. I’ll get dressed; grab a breakfast of undercooked toast slabbed with peanut butter. The sticky knife will sit in the sink, and the crumbs will be left on the counter – no plate necessary. My shirt will hold a slight stink of a few days of usage, but not enough that it stands out like the obvious balled-up wrinkles.

When I get to his house, he will still be asleep. I’ll knock on his basement window as I pass by to the back door. He will meet me there, open then door with a lethargic hello, followed by a rub of the eyes. I will follow him down stairs into his gloomy bedroom. We will sit down on his folded up futon, the one that’s too troublesome to be unfolded to make a bed.

Then we will smoke. I’ll grab the bag off the tea table, without asking. I’ll reach in and take out a nice size bud for a satisfying early afternoon wake up tok.

After I finish cutting it up into tiny pieces, I’ll search and not find a packet of rolling papers. I’ll ask him, sincerely worried, but knowing there is always a bong as a substitute.

This is when I’ll get a taste of his insensitivity to what is common. His strange ignorance to what most would take for granted in knowing. He is going to point to a book on the edge of the table. I’ll look down at it leather cover and it’s single word title and grin and utter a giggle. He is going to raise his eye brow and tell me he is serious. I’ll open the cover and notice that a few pages will be already missing. When I see this, I am going to turn to him and ask him if he is worried about the consequences of using the pages of this particular book. He will respond with an unexpected answer along the line of the pages being ideal based on the thinness, and as for the ink, how bad can it be? This will cause pause in me. I’ll then ask him if he knows what book this in fact is after I end my assumption that he should. He will tell me that he found it in a box of paint cans, a used up sponge and a coil of RCA cable. We will then add that he tried to read it and that found it to be a messily written work. The main character not properly developed in the beginning but referred to a lot through out. He will tell me that he is not really interested in reading short stories, especially ones written in the strange form of English that he finds this one to be. I’ll pause before he reminds me that he doesn’t have any Zig Zags, and then I’ll tear a page of Genesis.

Lion’s

I Can See Orion

“I can see Orion”

“Where… I can’t find it.”

“See those three stars in a row just by the wispy cloud that looks like a guitar… and then the two above and below them.”

“No.”

“Right there!”

“Oh, there.”

“Yeah, there. That’s the belt.”

“What’s the belt?”

“The three, the three in a row, that’s the belt; and then the shoulders and knees of the Hunter are above and below it. And those three hanging from the belt, that is his sword.”

“More like a dong.”

“Is he tucking it up?”

“What?”

“Sure. What is Orion anyway? I mean how long have people been seeing that one figure in the stars?”

“Well, I know from Grecian times but I’ve got no idea of how long he’s been floating around. Why’s that?”

“I was just thinking they could use an update. I mean when is the last time you’ve seen a person hunt with a sword? Or a Medusa? Or a scale without a digital read out?”

“Well, what would you change it to? A man with a tuck up hunting beaver?”

“No, Look here: That Orion could be a rock star, extend the legs and turn the shield to the neck of an 60’s Fender Strat and have those stars above his right shoulder turn into an arm waiting for the right time to strike the cord.”

“Where?”

“See? There.”

“Awe, I see.”

“Cool right, a good up date?”

“That’s a good one but what would the rest of them be, stockbrokers, actors, directors, corrupt senators, and stacks of dollar bills?”

Tongues

Two stories about overcoming the barrier of language.

Lion’s

Foreign Poet

When you’re on a beach in the tropics with the sun going down and there is a person beside you that has a rolled cigarette and they offer a bump, you don’t ask what’s inside, you just smoke it. You do that, nod in agreement to whatever you’re smoking, and try to make small talk.

I pointed to the horizon and nodded, “pretty good one today,” I said not really knowing if my compadre on the beach spoke my language.

“The red sun falls good today” he said. When you don’t speak the language well, poetic language comes naturally. It’s a gift to be limited in the way that you speak but still know how to speak. I was once a poet until I started to study comparative literature. With all my knowledge I’ve forgotten how simple beautiful can be and how beautiful can be simple.

“I’ve never seen fireflies on a beach before,” I said.

“Yes the light bugs are beautiful on water moon light view.” He said and gave me another puff.

I thought of the world of simple language that I had left behind after all my study on my own. It was here that I decided that I would become a poet. I would learn a language by grammar and a base of the parts of speech needed to place and describe objects. Then, I would write. If I became too versed in one language I would move to a new area and start to learn another. I would be one of the few poets that wrote in a tongue other than their native.

And in the middle of my thought, he handed me the rolled cigarette and said, “The world magic and the mind are magic.” And right then I promised to start looking for it.

Ceahorse’s

The Translator

I met my wife when I was living in Beijing. She grew up there; I was there working. We married and I, or we, stayed there to remain near her family which was more important to her than my family is to me. Then we had a son; we named him John.

He was 8 when it first happened, or at least when he first mentioned it to us. He came into our room late one night, after we were all asleep. He told us that there was a person in his room. I freaked, thinking it was a burglar, and ran to his room, grabbing the first thing I could as a weapon – the hairdryer.

His room was empty, and there was no sign of a break in. My first conclusion was that he had confused dream with reality. I talked to him about it, but he was too afraid to contradict his hero, his pa.

The next time it happened I came into his room hearing him scream. I was watching a movie with the wife. As I entered the room he jumped up and ran to hug me. Safe in my arms he pointed to the empty corner. “She is there” was all he said before he began to sob.

I knew there was a problem. After consulting with my wife, we decided we need to take him to a doctor for a check up. Our family doctor wasn’t able to help so we found a specialist through the internet.

Late in the next week the three of us were sitting in the office of Dr. Wang, of Hong Kong. We went through the questions together, and the doctor ordered up an MRI. The week later we were back, the results in. The doctor diagnosed John with classic schizophrenia and encouraged a treatment with clopimozide. When I asked him for the side effects, one stood out alone, ringing loud my ear. “A lost in creativity.” I told him we needed to think about it.

Back at home, my wife asked why I didn’t take the doctors advice. My response was as follows. “He is our son. Perhaps he is mentally ill and in need of medication, but perhaps he is not” She got angry and asked what I was suggesting. I responded “I’m not saying I believe in ghosts. But clearly John does, for whatever reason. And I think we should face this problem not run from it with medication that will stop our boy from seeing anything.”

It made me think about my childhood. I used to see colors. Colors in everything. Not just the color of objects, but the colors of abstract things. Like blue for and intense math problem. And red for an angry girl that was frightened by a bully with a bug. My parents took the doctors advice, and my colors went away. I also became a bore.

The next time my son saw her I was ready. Safe in my arms I guided him. He told me she was back. I asked him to be strong and I told him I would let her hurt him. He stopped crying and asked what he was to do. I told him to ask her if she was ok. He told me she didn’t say anything that perhaps she didn’t understand, that she looked Chinese. I asked him to translate what I was saying in to Chinese. He did it, and told me she responded. She said that she didn’t feel good, and that she was lost. I told him to tell her that we might be able to help her. She smiled, and said thank you. I offered our help again, building her trust. Next I looked deep in my son’s eyes, intensely, and told him that the next part was very important. I told him that the next thing he said had to be worded and said very softly, like your talking to a puppy. He said he understood and then translated. “You appear to be a ghost to us”.

He never saw her again. He never screamed or came running into our room at night. But there were times when, on my way past his room to bed, I heard him whispering in his room.

Doctor Done

Two stories about a trip to the doctors office.

Ceahorse’s

Inheritance

I remember the day, like it was yesterday. The day I went to him, Dr. Faruk changed my life. Since that day, things have been clearer, entertainment has been more enjoyable, problems have been more welcomed, and friends more abundant. And now, there is also Sarah, my beautiful, intelligent, striving girlfriend.

However, things were not always this way. Before that day, I had problems. I don’t quite remember much of those days, but I do remember that they were not good.

On the day, I walked into his office. A friend of a friend had setup the appointment. I had taken the bus. I waited for quite a while, not sure but to think of it now, it was probably around 45 minutes.

In his office, asked me to sit in a chair. He sat behind a huge wooden table. His hands folded together and slightly tilted backwards in his chair. He asked me what my problem was.

I remember I started the meeting off with a lie. “It’s about my son. He can’t keep up.”

He was quick to interrupt when I paused for a breath. “Sir, you know that by law I’m not allowed to do work on minors, even with the parent’s or guardian’s full consent. I’d loose my licence”

I thought about it, and now that I think about it, he called my bluff; I decided to spill the beans. “Ok…Ok… It’s not my son. Really, I aint gots no son. No wife even. No life much good for nothing.”

He was calm and spoke in a reassuring way. “Mr. Reed, well then you’ve come to the right place. I’m sure we can turn everything around for you. But I do need some specifics. What exactly is or are your problems?”

“I’s seems to not remember much. Learning’s very hard for me. And my friends never seem to say things I can understand.” I remember the effect that those words had on me. It was like rifling through a stack of rusty pins, looking for a needle with a broken thread eye. I was too idiotic to feel shame.

“Well, I think I know what to do, but let’s make sure.”

He picked up the phone and called someone, and ordered me up a diagnosis.

The tests were quite similar to an IQ test. Questions about trains and passengers, speed and logic. I don’t remember any specific examples, but I do remember how hard they were at that time. I’d love to be given that test now.

After the tests, I was back in the office and he laid it out for me.

“You problem falls in the temporal lobes, as does it for most of our clients. In this area of the brain most of your memories are manipulated. However, there is also a large deficiency in the frontal lobe, where your interaction skills come from.”

At the time, all I heard was “blah, blah, blah” But now I understand the problems I had. I’d probably, now, be able to perform the procedure myself.

“We have two specific upgrades for your problems. They will turn your life around. Life will get better, everything will make sense.”

Making sense just made sense. I consented.

“Mr, Reed. I need to ask, how are you going to pay for these upgrades, no health plan will cover them.”

“My daddy died, and lots of money I get from him. Money no problems.”

“Ok then.” He paused, perhaps looking for the weakness, because money wasn’t it.

“You play basketball? You’re quite tall.”

“Nah, sports I is not good. I drop the ball.”

“Well sense you’re already getting 2 upgrades, we like to offer a third at half price. We just got in these new cerebellum upgrades from Intel. They will turn you into a star athlete, comparable to a professional. Although you will need to condition you muscles a bit, your mind will take care of the rest. You’ll feel like superman.”

I consented.

Today, I live a full life. I have a rewarding, challenging job, where I’m the cream of the crop. Twice a week I play basketball in a house league. Last year I got league MVP – age keeps me out of the pros. And my social life has become like a dream. I meet new people all the time, people who find me charming, witty and insightful. Life truly has turned around, and all for 35.76% of my inheritance. The best gift my father ever gave me.

Lion’s

We regret to inform you

I’ve spent the last three years cleaning bathrooms and mopping floors, filling coffee makers and ice machines, stocking shelves and refrigerators, and painting. In all that time the only thing I’ve cared for is painting. I’ve painted the sunset over 100 times in different light and different angles but all from the back of the convenience store that I work at. Looking past the propane tanks and with a clear view of the highway for customers, I painted.

I also painted self portraits and portraits of customers from the security tapes. I’m mostly work form memory on those, but it was a good reference for the feeling of the customer. I always try to put the persona of a person into their portrait. Even when painting myself.

A little while back I was looking at those self portraits; I was looking at the whole collection. That’s what has brought me here, to the waiting room of the only doctor in town. I could see a progression, or regression, in the portraits that I have painted. Not in the quality but in the character of the paintings. In the first few I was up right and willing and in the last few I was shades of grey and slouched.

I’ve sent out portfolios to a number of galleries all letters in response start with “We regret to inform…” and I’ve started smoking. It helps relieve the disappointment of a rejection and there free, I pilfer them from work. “Regret to inform…” that’s all I get. I have no connections and no advantages. So, I am here at the doctors seeking an advantage by getting a certification of being disadvantaged.

I’ve taken an IQ test once for real and a second time mislaying the answers to pad the results. But, it seems that if you don’t have a history of being a dim whit the art galleries seem not to care that you have become a dim whit. Unless, there was some horrific accident. Other then that, you have to have been a dim whit for the whole of your life for your art to sell because you’re a dim whit. I cannot be classified as a life long dim whit so the letters still read “We regret to inform…”

Now, I’m seeking certification by a doctor that I have some terrible affliction; I just don’t know how to get the doctor to agree. So, I sit here in a former farm house converted to family practice, with white washed floor boards and chicken wire sculptures of roosters.

“Just-in, Justin Reynolds,” the nurse read off the file on her clip board. I was the only patient in the waiting room. “I think that’s me,” I said and I walked back.

When I got off the doctor’s bench the sanitary paper crunched in relief of my weight, and I had a note in hand. He said that I couldn’t get any medication and if it were found out some how we would classify it as a misdiagnosis. I offered free cigarettes and gas as a bribe. He refused and said I should thank him for not letting Mr. Weston, the owner and Dr. Green’s good friend, know of how willing I was to part with my company’s stock without consent. But, he wanted a person to brush his horses once a week and thought that that it might help my Parkinson’s. He laughed after he said that.

Now I’m not one that ever thought I would do this, and I feel bad for those that have the disease for real. I try to rationalized this quick fix by the progressive degradation of my self portraits and the fact that if I didn’t try something now I might have to be dealing with a real affliction soon.

I have written a new cover letter, complete with Dr. Green’s diagnosis, and included it with my portfolio and sent it to a gallery in New Orleans. I just hope that the reply doesn’t start with “We regret to inform…”

Eclipsing today

Three stories about a major world changing event.

Lion’s

The Devil’s Workshop

It was the end of it. And some say that they don't know if it will be good for the end to be forever, or if it will cause more problems than it will solve. But one thing is for certain; all the tension built up over generations in the shoulders of men was released that day.

The celebrations were propelled by joy and music and drinks. Everyone, and I mean everyone was elbow deep in gratitude. The women, well, they could not really help themselves. It might have been forced upon the women, or coerced, but after the decision was made and carried through with that Devil, all that was forced from the women never seemed to be forced. Now, all that was just omitted.

There was a big movement before the change. Signatures were gathered, on petitions, from all the citizens in town. The women too. It's a funny thing about women: most have such a hate for other women that you could tell them some piece of gossip while asking for a signature and they'll sign whatever you have in your hand just to pay you off for the dirty news; others are just so nice and naïve that a man doesn't even have to ask for a signature just be pleasant and tell them "Everyone is signing this here petition. Your name belongs on this line, here." They always oblige, usually never asking what it's all about. Just trying to fulfill their duty, I guess.

And all the women in town were this way, all of them except Helena. That woman, well, she wouldn't give a petitioner the hour of night. She had the will of a camel with, the heart of a lion, and the sharpest of all the tongues in town. It was because of her husband the petition had been started.

It was because of me that she signed it. The only door she opened was to the pub, but once in there her defences developed a crack. In the pub Helena was a valve that had no off switch and once the flow started the only thing that stopped it was the floor. I was there, next to her, when she met with the floor. I got her to the can. Holding her hair back and all, pen in hand, and when she was done and I told her "Sign here." She let lunch go having already released her dinner, turned around and signed. I walked out of the john looking sombre. Then with a smile raised the petition and the bar crowd — all men — cheered.

It was a long walk to get to that Devil's workshop. I was the one to do the deed because I had gotten the hardest name of all on the petition. They figured if I could handle Helena then I could handle that Devil too. It was up in the mountains out of town and the once I got there there was line of young women waiting outside of the cave he called “The Devil's Workshop”. I didn't wait in line because my mouth needed not alteration; I walked right in. there were about fifty grinding stones each with the name of a town above it. I saw the name of our town and took the placard off the rock wall and continued down the line of stones to the current town he was working on.

He had the young girls tongue pulled out, further than natural, and spun the wheel with his foot. He was about to lay the young woman's tongue on the wheel for sharpening when I interrupted.

"I've got it. It's all over. And this erases your previous work too" I said. I gave him the petition and the placard with our towns name on it.

"That's what we said." He looked over the petition "Helena too?" he said.

"It's all in writing and it's all over," and I started walking out.

"You might as well take this," and he handed me the placard.

And I, without weight and the placard in my hand, ran. I got back into town and hooted and hollered posting the placard above the entrance of our community building and the celebration began. "The Devil's not sharpening our women's tongues no more!" I yelled, and all the men cheered.

 Ceahorse’s

Twisting

“Sit down, gentlemen.”

There were murmurs across the table.

“Listen up! I want to know what the hell is going on. Someone please explain to me why in the hell there has been 3 earthquakes 4 hurricanes and 5 tornados, all over the world in a span of 2 days.”

“Mr. President, we have complied a report. There is it, in front of you”

“Peters Shut up! Look at this shit. It’s the size of a phone book. I don’t have the convenience of sitting down to read this. Someone, please explain it to me, simply so we can figure out what the hell to do.”

“Mr. President, I believe I can do it. It’s quite technical but it can be summarized as the world is off balance.”

“What you mean off balance?”

“Well, our analysts have foreseen this, but not so soon. We figured we had about 5-10 more years before any signs would show.”

“If you knew about it, why wasn’t I told about it…Never mind that right now, what did you mean by off balance”

“Well it’s a physics problem. The earth spins as a sphere on the north south pole axis, normally. However, the spinning has been affected by population densities”

“Are you for real? Does anyone confirm this?”

“Ah, yea”

“Yup”

“Yes sir. That’s what the report shows”

“So you all telling me that the there are too many people?”

“Yes sir, but it’s not the conventional problem of resource consumption and waste production. It’s a mere factor of weight”

“Weight? Are you saying that man has knocked the world in whack because we are too heavy?”

“Simply said, yes. Mr. President, the problem isn’t the amounts of people. We solved the amount problems already, or are in the course of correcting them. It’s the densities.”

“Yes, Williams. You mentioned the density already.”

“Think of it like this. The heavy parts, or the heavily populated parts of the world are causing the lighter parts to seem lighter and the world is tilting”

“Ok, I get it. Too many people in small spaces. What are the trouble spots?”

“North America is pretty much ok. However, our north eastern seaboard is a small problem as is our south western. Canada is not a factor and neither is South America. Africa and the Middle East seem to be spread quite evenly, as does Europe, with the exception of Germany and Italy. This leaves us with the major contributors. India, China and Japan.”

“What are our solutions? Have we spoken to these problems areas, or informed the UN?”

“No sir, we have not, as of yet”

“Why not?”

“We thought it wiser to display ignorance for the time being”

“Ok, so what solutions do we have?”

“There are two choices really, sir. One, we tell the problem areas to fix it. And two, we fix them once and for all.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“China has know, as has India of their population problems, yet they have failed to correct them in more than a decade. They seem to just be letting it get worse.”

“I see what your insinuating, what do we have for plan two?”

“Based on the areas of problems we have separate solutions.”

“Europe, is on the decline, their problems are forecasted to be corrected within 2 years. As for Japan, we suggestion Projects, Saltfire, and China and India, Project Beaconpod.”

“What the hell are those?”

“Saltfire is described in your reports as is Beaconpod”

“Just tell me what they are”

“Beaconpod is nanobot extermination program Saltfire is virus. Basically, with India and China, we deploy a beacon which releases nanobots which kill every human within a set radius from the beacon. For Japan; Saltfire is a low airborne virus with is contained by saltwater.”

“Then what?”

“We wait them out then repopulate”

“Won’t the rest of the world take offence to action of this nature?”

“Not if they don’t know what has happened. The virus will disintegrate and the nanobots and the beacon will self-destruct.”

“What kinda of time span are we talking about”

“Three days, after 5 days we can begin to repopulate.”

“Hmm.. Do it!”

Beetle’s

my 9-11

“It’s a hoax,” I said coldly, as I walked away from my crying sister. She was planted in front of the television, a box of tissue on one side of her, a white mound of soaked up tears on the other. I didn’t know if the day could get any shittier. I had been up all night doing things that I knew I shouldn’t have. It seemed like such a good idea at the time. It is a great idea, until you find the thing that you’re looking for, but hoping not to find. Her email was littered with the oh-so-common conversations with friends and family. “How is life away from home?” “We miss you here.” “Hope Rhode Island is treating you well.” And then there it was, just as casual as all the other emails. So casually stated that I had to read it multiple times for it to sink in. “Hey Mom! Rhode Island is great! The boys are awesome, I’ve got so many chasing me, I can’t decide which one will be my new boyfriend.” New boyfriend? What an awesome way to find out that your girlfriend has moved on. I read the email over and over, sulking in hate, regret and remorse. I finally went to bed at five in the morning. It was September 11, 2001.

My sister woke me up around 10 am to take me to the television. It was all very surreal. So surreal, that I didn’t believe it. I went back to bed, more concerned about the newly found problem in my relationship than the catastrophic event plaguing the airwaves. When I finally woke up, I called her. She was responsive as usual, the same almost fake, loving voice at the other end of the line. “I just can’t believe how close it is to me,” she said. “That’s it? That’s all you can say? Thousands of people have just died. People jumping out of buildings. An attack on American soil. All you react to is the proximity of your city,” I replied. I was bitter with protection. Putting up walls with every word I said and with every sound wave that entered my auditory canal I found a new reason for hate. I was so nervous that I was shaking. I didn’t know how to bring up the email. Finally I just did. “I checked your email last night,” I said. “You checked my email?” “Yeah. Saw the one you wrote to your mother about your new boyfriends.” CLICK. So that was how it ended. I sat on the front porch and smoked another cigarette. I could feel the numbness creeping into my brain. The beautiful sunny day had become grey and my Technicolor life had fallen back a few decades and turned into a silent film in black and white. I got ready for class.

The drive to school was bizarre. It was like the entire United States was standing still. Everywhere you went people were vulnerable, lost without any sense of direction. Like their star quarterback had just broken his arm. Like they had just found out they had been lied to for their entire lives. America was not as safe or as strong as they thought it was. The lines to the gas station were a mile long and gas prices had skyrocketed five times. When I got to school, the classroom was nearly empty. Students were huddled around televisions, hugging and crying. It might have been the only day in American history that complete strangers felt comfortable hugging each other. I didn’t hug anybody, I was trying to be numb. I wanted to protect myself. A tidal wave of reality hit me that day. A reality that would take me years of painful acceptance to digest. A reality that told me that I was not as great as I had thought myself to be. I was not as strong as I had anticipated. I was vulnerable. That day I walked hand in hand with America, we cried together as we recognized our weakness and vulnerability.

Looking at it

3 Stories about relative perspectives.

Beetle’s

Seeing Red

Seeing Blue

The beginning of the end. The end of freedom, fiscal responsibility and morality. The first day or is it the last day? I still couldn’t believe what I was watching. The biting air outside made it feel like hell had frozen over and my gin and tonic was the only thing keeping me warm, numbing me enough to keep the tears from flowing like a faucet. I had been on the campaign for what seemed to be ages. Knocking on doors, passing out flyers, speaking at town meetings. All for this? The television blared with the sound of trumpets and the gaiety of victory as the presidential party filed out the door onto the capital building. There was our man, the man who worked so hard for the last eight years. It can’t be easy, being president. Fighting a war, trying to do what’s best for the country. He really got the shaft, ol’ Bush. He was forced to make a decision at a fork in the road. Hard decision, hard consequences. Now what does he have? He’s hated by most of the world, and even his own country can’t wait to see him out of office. Personally, I will miss him. I think he did what was best with what was given to him. As I watched the procession and the speech, I started reminiscing on the campaign. What had led us to this, why we were now watching a man, whose name is one letter away from that of a terrorist, take the most powerful job in the world. Some blame it on Bush, some on the age of McCain. Me? I don’t know. But the thought of increasing taxes and the power of the government has always scared me. My ice cubes clinked on the sides of my glass, while Yo-yo Ma played for the new president. As I finished my drink, I again wondered. Is this the beginning? Or the end?

The cold, crisp air rushed into my lungs with immediacy and promise. The sting of the wind on my face only pinched me to make me realize that it wasn’t a dream. The sea of smiles surrounding me was endless. All eyes were focused on one spot, on one future, on one nation. In the distance, you could hear the occasional “Yes we did!” or “We shall overcome.” For such a cold day in January, it was a warm day in history. As we waited for our future president to emerge from the capital building, the euphoric feeling of victory was in the air. Not only a victory for the country but for the world. A nation who had been in a deep cloud of fear and confusion for the last eight years had finally found light and a path to hope. A new era of equality and accountability was about to begin. My mind drifted over the history of the battle for progression. Abraham Lincoln, Martin Luther King Jr., Malcolm X, John Kennedy, Robert Kennedy. It seems that for every step forward, we had taken five steps backward. The ground was frozen, but hearts were melting as Barack Obama took his oath. Tears of joy glistened on the faces of the observers and gave proof of the incredible nature of what was happening before our eyes. The dawn of a new day had arrived. A day of hope, a day of truth. A beginning.

 

Ceahorse’s

Bobby’s mornings.

Erica’s listeners

His name is Bobby. Bobby likes basketball more than life itself. There is nothing that Bobby would rather do with his time. Everyday, with the exception of Sunday, —Church day—, Bobby wakes up early and heads to the basketball courts. Most of the time, there is no one there while he plays. For the first half hour, after he arrives, he dribbles the ball in a circle, making sure to switch his hands frequently so one hand doesn’t dominate. For those of you who don’t know what dribbling is, it’s the name used to describe when a player bounces the ball with one hand at a time. Dribbling is required in basketball anytime a player takes a step, so therefore good dribbling skills are essential. After he has finished his thirty minutes of dribbling, he steps up to the free-throw line and attempts fifty consecutive free throws. Free-throws, in a basketball game, are when the player stands at a line ten feet from the basketball hoop, or net, and is allowed to shoot without any pressure from his opponents. Bobby knows that free-throws are very common in professional basketball games, because he has watched many games on TV, however he never sees any of the older boys at his court shoot them. He doesn’t know why. Bobby has practiced his free-throws for many months now, and sinks about eight percent of them, that’s about four in for every five shots. After he has completed his free-throws, he practices lay-ups. These are shots taken while the player is running and jumps toward the basket. Bobby has found, by practice, that it is better to bounce the ball off the backboard rather than try to put it directly in. The only thing that Bobby really misses in his practice is defending, which is just as important as all the other skill already mentioned. Bobby can’t practice defence because he never has anyone to play with. He had asked his sister Erica one time but she doesn’t like playing sports, so she refused. He remembers he said that all she ever cared about was her silly dolls. She didn’t like the way he spoke to her. She told him to leave her alone and to stop bugging her. They started yelling and were stopped by their mother. She always says they shouldn’t fight and that they should be friends; even closer than friends.

Her name is Erica. Erica likes her dolls more then anyone she knows. There is never a time when you see her without one of her dolls. Even at school she always carries one of her smaller ones, either in the open, or hidden in her pockets. She has about fifty dolls right now; some newer than others and some as old as ten years old. They all have their own names. Usually she uses common names like, Jenny (her second favourite) and Sarah (her latest) but sometimes she gives them names that are totally unique, names like Rainbow, or Juebbles. Everyday, she plays with them. Sometimes she has a tea party and sets them all up in a circle around her low table. She likes the low table her father has bought for her because without chairs all her dolls can find a place around the table. Other times, she just needs someone to talk to. So, she sits down Betty, — her current favourite, with the red and white checked dress and the yellow braided pig tails— and tells her all about the problems she had had that day. Betty is a much better listener than anyone else she tries to talk to. Once, she tried to tell her mother about how she had lost a very important hair elastic, but her mother was too busy walking around in circles in the kitchen. Her father is no different, in fact, he is worse. When she said to him that she had lost her elastic, he didn’t even look up from his paper. He simply said that everything would be ok for her. Her brother is impossible to talk to; all he cares about is his silly rubber ball. He even bounces it around in the house making all sorts of horrible noise. Last time they had spoken, He’d asked her if she wanted to play with him, at first she thought it would be great to have him over for the tea party, but then she realized he wanted her to go outside and play with that orange ball. He lost his patience and started to make fun of her, she got sad and started to cry, they both began to yell. Mother stopped them, and separated them. She always says they shouldn’t fight and that they should be friends; even closer than friends.

Lion’s

Wake Up Daddy!

“Wake up daddy. Wake up. You got to see it. The snow, it snowed.” She said already wearing her boots and jacket on, pajamas underneath.

“Yeah, it’s bright,” he said and with his processor working a little slower realized “It snowed? It’s spring!”

“Look Dad, spring snow,” she yelled and pulled the cord to raise the blinds revealing the reflecting luminescence of a clear day after a good snow. He grumbled. “The snow, can we go play? And we’ll play, make snow angles, and play forts, and play jumping in the snow.”

The dad grumbled, and covered his head with the duvet, and said “Can Daddy play sleep for a little while longer?”

“Why don’t daddy play drinking co-ffeeee? And get your boots on. My boots are on.”

Dad peeked his head out from the darkness of his covers and into the shining open light that filled the room. He saw her in boots and a jacket, with pink pajamas in-between. He smiled and said, “I guess daddy can play drinking coffee.”

“And get on your boots?”

“And get on my boots.”

“And play, make a snow angle.”

“And play whatever you want?”

He made his cup of coffee, microwaved day-old coffee, and cut up bananas, the way she liked to eat a banana, for them to eat before going out. He took off her jacket and asked “What did you forget to do?”

She thought for a little while looking out the kitchen window at the bright world outside and said “Um, Make my bed?”

“You got your boots on and jacket. What else should you‘ve put on?”

“My… my… hat… and gloves. My hat and gloves?”

“What about your legs?”

She looked down and chuckled, “I forgot my pants. And I forgot my tee.”

“You want some more bananas?”

“No. Maybe you want to get some boots on?” she asked.

“Yeah, I can get some boots on. You want to get dressed, pants and all?”

“I’ll get dressed and you get dressed, and we’ll go to play snow angels.”

They both got ready boots, and pants, and gloves, and hats, and all. They got out of the house and he started shoveling the snow off the walk, and she was throwing snowballs at him while he revealed their concrete walkway. He finished, placed the shovel near the door, and scooped up snow and packed it into light snow ball and tagged her in the back.

“Dad,” she yelped and before she knew it she saw the sky and then the ground again, doing a flip and they both landed, butt-first in the snow. “Can we play make snow angels now.”

“Yeah, find some fresh snow,” and they did. “Now lay down face up and move your arms like me.”

They both laid in the snow looking up and at each other swinging their arms and legs sweeping the snow to reveal the silhouettes of angels hidden in the snow. They laid there and then she said “Daddy I think winter and spring are fighting, because it was really hot yesterday and now it’s… there’s snow.”

“No, they’re not fighting. It’s just a low pressure system from up north running into all that hot air from yesterday. It’s all very scientific nothing to do with a fight. See wherever there is low-pressure high-pressure tries to find it, and when it does they will run into each other.”

“Like a punch?”

“Well, I guess but it doesn’t hurt.”

“Well, I like when winter punches spring. It doesn’t hurt, it makes snow. And we get to play angels.”