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Sitting at the table beneath the bedroom window, he sees nothing as his open eyes look inward for the elusive answer. He props his elbows on the table and interlaces his fingers, save the indexes which extend upward. A dying cigarette dangles limp between his lips. Smoke swirls from his mouth, mimicking the churn of his mind. He appears to be praying for divine intervention to give him the final puzzle piece.
This is the church. This is the steeple.
With the outstretched pointers, he snuffs the cigarette and rolls his eyes around to face forward.
Kill all the people.
I wish that wrinkled clothes were in style. Through the years, there have been many clothing styles that are atrocious, but without fail, the style of clothing has been ironed smooth. Wrinkles would give clothes uniquity. I say this because I hate to iron. I have a feeling that most people share my sentiment. I have never had someone tell me that they love, or even like, to iron. If you do like to iron, contact me. I live right next to a tailor, and I'm sure I could get a straightjacket to fit you. Yes, it will be wrinkled.
Why is a shower curtain so scary? Countless movies use it to produce suspense and terror. Did
really have that much of an impact on the human psyche? The fear can be created from being on either side of the curtain. Maybe it has something to do with being afraid of the unknown, but doors, window shades, or even dark veils don't have quite the same intensity. I think it's just the reclusiveness of the bathroom as a whole. The things that go on in there aren't popular topics of conversation. It's easy to fear things that aren't discussed.
"Hey dad, this is my new friend Joey."
Bill turned to look at his son and a boy he had never seen before.
"Hi Joey. How are you?"
Bill smiled. They must be playing FBI agents and aliens.
"Blitzleforp to you. Do you go to school together?"
"No dad. He's brand new. I did what you said."
"What did I say?"
"Not now Joey. You told me to pretend I had an imaginary friend and he appeared. I just can't understand him. Can you help?"
"I don't think so. Go ask your mother."
"OK dad. C'mon Joey."
It's a good thing there is not a disease that spreads as fast as a secret in a small town. Otherwise, monkeys would be ruling the earth tomorrow. I don't know if there has been any scientific research done on this, but if it has been investigated, I wouldn't be surprised if it was discovered that the size of the town is inversely proportional to the spread speed. I'm sure the significance of the secret is directly proportional to the spread speed. For those who are mathematically inclined, the formula would look something like this:
Spread Speed= Significance/ Town Size.
While walking down the street, I spotted an old man sitting on a bench. I would have passed him by, but his oversized ears caught my eye. Really, they did. Hit me right in the face.
I said "Pardon me sir. I couldn't help but notice your large ears."
"Yes they are impressive, and smart too."
"Ask them anything."
"OK, what purpose do earlobes serve?"
They sat there, stumped.
The man said "Ears you should not mock, they give you Bach."
And that's when I knew he was wise beyond his ears.
Thank you. I'll be here all month.
Sun shines. Alarm beeps. John wakes. Dream ends. Eyes open. Arms stretch. Coffee brews. Razor nicks. Bladder eliminates. Water rushes. Soap lathers. Drain gurgles. Iron steams. Clothes adorn. Belt buckles. TV drones. Cat meows. Toast digests. Keys jingle. Door closes. Heels click. Birds sing. Car cranks. Engine rumbles. Radio blares. Roof retreats. Hair blows. Trees blur. Light changes. Phone rings. Horn honks. Lungs gasp. Madness ensues. Tires squeal. Metal bends. Airbag deploys. Fire crackles. Sirens wail. Stranger comforts. Voices shout. Dog barks. Silence envelops. Needle injects. Paddles shock. Efforts fail. End begins. Sun shines. Alarm beeps. John wakes. Nightmare ends.
If there is a good reason for beginning yard sales at the crack of dawn, I don't know it. Who came up with the idea of selling unwanted belongings before the sun beams? I think it was some brilliant entrepreneur who discovered that people are more apt to buy things they don't need when half asleep. The Rotato is for sale, not because someone has upgraded to the Ultra Rotato, but because they bought it at a yard sale in a drowsy state of mind.
Rest easy. Ultra Rotato does not exist. Society has not sunk to those depths. Yet.
He had lived in the small town of Theory for most of his life. He had his share of problems and was able to deal with them, but he always had a hard time figuring out how to fix them. Most of his trouble with solution had to do with his mind—both overactive and imaginative. Small voices in the backyard of his mind suggested new angles and pruned any clarity attempting to cultivate. Maybe a change of scenery would allow him to achieve some concrete answers upon which he could build a new life. He hated living in Theory.
There is something that is bothering so much that it's hard to talk about. The situation makes my eyes water, but they are not tears of sadness. It's the irritation caused by the circumstances that makes me weep. The more I try to push it away, the more its claws dig in trying to anchor itself into my heart. The resulting sting from ripping it off quickly like a piece of tape will hurt, but it can't be as bad as this. OK, I'm going to get it off my chest now.
Sorry dog but it's really hard to breathe.
Words to live by:
A blanket will keep your feet warm at night, but so will socks, and they are made with less material.
Don't break any rulers in school; you'll end up with a cracked foot.
If you ever find yourself in an uncomfortable situation, put your feet up.
Duct tape should not be played with, unless you use it to fix a toy.
Don't sweep the floor unless it is dirty.
Stare out of windows only when no one is looking. If someone sees you, they might think you're weird.
Sometimes, words to live by are just words.
Someone asked me if I would like to be a fly on the wall—witness to an interesting confrontation. "Yes" was my reply, and I included a thumbs up for emphasis, but I'm having second thoughts. Who would want to be chased with a fly swatter? Even the name is frightening. And have you seen fly paper? What a treacherous way to go. Don't get me started about the bills from the optometrist. The worst would be having humans sealing off your food supply in plastic bags all the time. A fly on the wall? No, the grapevine works fine.
She wasn't looking for anyone special. Someone who would listen when she talked and talked when she listened; the only two prerequisites she had. The local bar was not the ideal setting to find her normal someone—loud voices and louder music one upping each other until her ears withered—but it was the lone place open at an hour when only stars should be awake. She sat down with her drink, and watched as the vulture leered. She had hung a Do Not Disturb sign on her heart, but he couldn't read. It seemed like none of them could.
Not much is happening.
Somewhere along the line, either a clog has formed or a vice is crimping it tight. The clear sky above is bleak with
naught so it will take a mighty second wind to blow in a brainstorm and deluge ideas from mind through word. Magic might be
of use—create birds from an empty hand or move mountains with a flick of the wrist—but it's only an
illusion; seeing is believing, not realizing. So come another day. The forecast calls for cloudy with a chance of creative (emphasis on
He was stuck in a rut, though it had become borderline canyon. Sleep, eat, work—not necessarily in that order or proportion. The point when the erosion began was unclear, but the multicolored striations in the soil told him eons had passed. There was a time when a simple step would have removed him from the monotony, but now, leaps and bounds proved futile. He finally became frustrated by his limited view of the sky and planned his escape. He had never learned how to climb, but decided the best method to use would be one foothold at a time.
Higgledee, Hoggledee, Hee
Come sit down on my knee.
I've a story to tell
Make sure you listen well.
Higgledee, Hoggledee, Hee
Tippity, Toppity, Too
A girl went to the zoo.
She saw a chimp
With a very bad limp.
Tippity, Toppity, Too
Zibberee, Zobberee, Zang
She said "Dang.
If my leg was sore
I'd be mad much more."
Zibberee, Zobberee, Zang
Baffity, Boffity, Brum
Monkey said "Don't be dumb.
I'm a happy species.
Look, I'm throwing feces."
Baffity, Boffity, Brum
Dibbely, Dubbily, Doint
This rhyme has no point.
Its only jazz
Is for words such as
Dibbely, Dubbily, Doint
I was sitting in a bar enjoying myself, and saw a woman sitting across the room who seemed to be having much more fun.
"Excuse me miss. Wanna join me?"
She didn't hear me. I tossed a balled up napkin at her, and she looked up.
"Please come here. I'd like to get to know you."
She waved me off, so I decided to walk over to her. On the way, I met many interesting people with many interesting stories. Upon arriving at her table, she welcomed me. I wouldn't have met happiness if I had stayed in my seat.
"I gotta pee."
My captors exchanged looks. I knew they were trying to decide whether or not I had conjured a plan to escape, but I was no magician. I really did have to pee.
"I don't have any weapons. Even MacGyver never did anything dangerous with toilet paper, so unless your gun stash is in the john,
let me go
They backed away from apprehension and untied the ropes. I waddled across the field and into the cinder block depository. With my mind focused on relief, I didn't notice any movement behind the opaque plastic covering the shower stall.
My window is crying. Condensation began as imperceptible droplets—a haze that dims the light trying to get through. As the night pressed on, they joined together and became more visible, tilting the light even more. They are now too big to hold their place on the glass. They release, and the weeping begins. They clear the window one rivulet at a time. In the morning, when the sun shines and warms, the streaks will be gone, but I will still know they were there. I want to wipe the tears away, but somehow, the slow cleansing process seems necessary.
"Hurry up Billy. We're going to be late."
As he came down the stairs, shock rose in his mother's face.
"You can't wear that!"
"Your clothes don't match."
"Of course they don't. It's a shirt and pants. You want me to wear pants on my head to match the pants on my legs?"
"What I mean is, the colors don't match. Green polka dots and purple stripes? We're going back upstairs."
When she finished, earth tones shrouded him. At the party, no one noticed him as he sat on the ground and blended in, but the clown awed.
This is a filler sentence. Its sole purpose is to increase the word count of this entry. The sentence that follows the filler sentence, also known as the sentence before this one, can also be considered filler, but it explains the filler sentence, so it deserves a little respect. Filler sentence this is. Now we have journeyed into the realm of the fancy filler sentence. It does not mean more than your standard filler sentence, but it is pretty. This is not a filler sentence. Aha! The lying filler sentence. Beware of these. It's easy to be fooled by them.
I can't remember the last time I used an umbrella. The main reason is because I don't own one, but even if I did, I wouldn't use it. The rain isn't so bad. It falls and wetness ensues. It can be uncomfortable, sometimes miserable, when it's cold and the wind is blowing it horizontal, but it's only water. If I were a sugar cube, I'm sure my feelings would be different, but clearly I'm not because I can type. As a sugar cube, tremendous effort would be required to jump around the keyboard to type a word such as pals.
He walked into his house and put the groceries down. The cold day followed him in and dragged along twigs and leaves with it. They danced on the floor, joining dead flora already present. His ankle began to burn as if his sock had struck a match. He pulled up his pants and almost expected to see smoke. All he saw was an oak leaf stuck (sucking?) on his leg. He pulled it off and uncovered a red patch of skin which began to blister. He had never heard of an allergic reaction to leaves—at least not dead ones.
I was tired of eating the same old things night after night, so I decided to go in a direction never before explored by my taste buds. On the internet, I found an interesting recipe for a stir fry; the main ingredients being a whole salmon and seaweed. The recipe instructed me to add the seaweed when the fish was almost done cooking. As it sautéed in the pan, I worried I would add the seaweed at the wrong time. That's when the fish looked up at me and said "Kelp me! Kelp me! I'm browning!"
Your groans are appreciated.
100 days. Just over a quarter of a year. One voice says "It's been a long time." Another says "It hasn't been long enough." Deciding which one has a better point is not easy. But perhaps, the message of each is equally important.
Compared to other stretches, it has been a long time, but compared to life, ‘tis but a pinprick. Sometimes, I wonder about the next 100 days, or even the next 1000. Then I awaken from that dreamy unknown, and realize that it is only today that matters. It is sounder to sleep, and to live, that way.
He had retreated to the back room to get away from the ruckus of the party. Darkness enveloped him; it seeped into his mind. Though he could not even see his hand, years of rote allowed him to be able to light his cigarette, but his lighter had decided to become stubborn.
He didn't want to leave to find other means of flame, knowing he would be dragged back into the fray.
In the flash, a pair of eyes appeared to peer. His lips loosed the smoke; his hands clenched the Bic.
Flick. Flick. Flick! FLICK! FLI-
Either the light on the corner bathed the street, or the stars had fallen and now lived in the asphalt. Her thumb was extended; its voice loud and clear, its language misunderstood. She would be content to hitch a ride with the breeze, but its passenger seat was occupied by newspapers and the occasional lottery ticket. She was desperate to get out of the small town and travel to a different existence. Her life machine came in the form of a blue El Camino. She settled in the shotgun and it barreled down the road, leaving the sparkling blacktop behind.
When I listen to music on the computer, I use Windows Media Player (no plug intended). Like most music players on computers, it has visualizations—graphic representations of the music. The one I always employ is called My Tornado is Resting. It spins around and changes colors, as if looking at a psychedelic tornado from the bottom or top. When the music is loud, it's an F5, and when it is soft, it's an F1. I bring this up because I was just wondering that, if I lived in the southern hemisphere, would my tornado spin in the other direction?
She wanted nothing to do with him, but there was nothing she could do with him. He had become the last bit of cereal—too much to throw away, not enough to save. The pain heaped upon her made her bones ache. The night before, he had once again ("The last time. I promise.") gone too far. She raised her downtrodden gaze to meet his eyes and tell him she was sorry; she didn't want to be around for the next last time. But as always, he had on his poker face, and it stoked the flames of her ardor.
The blackness tore, and nothing happened. That is what you or I would say. To those with the ability to filter, everything happened.
‘Filter' is the closest I can come to describing how the Aorvians—my name for them—interpret their surroundings. If I set fire to a piece of paper, they will not see the light, or smell the burn, or hear the crackle, or feel the heat, or taste the smoke. After passing through them, they just know that it's there. Of course, this situation is silly, as neither fire, nor paper, nor I exist in their world.
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