The Little Girl’s Symphony

In the essence of sanity, security and hope I feel I should record things that are simply people working for the higher power. I am a religious person with some obscure views and my vantage point does not necessarily fall in to any particular religious order. When I work for the higher power and deal with many things including ghosts, crystals, gargoyles, curses and the like. I think every man and woman should in the end work for the spirit. It helps us be the still around sort of people that become more and more blessed for the actions they have taken in their past. It is common knowledge that the actions of yesterday will effect the actions of today. Whether the actions are in ill will or of the most righteous concern they will bring blessings or curses to the person who has acted them out. With this in mind, I have a quick story.

Hector Berlioz is doing this on purpose. This is a simple refrain that was used by a man to help a young child perform a symphony that she wrote using the power of her young imagination and the lack of separation between her dreams and waking life. A young child who did not realize the separation of her waking life and her dreams wrote this symphony. When she ran towards Hector Berlioz and gave him a loving hug she threw the papers of her mind towards him. These papers were not tangible but had been written on in a non-traditional composing language. It was a large stack of thoughts that were planned out for a while and she asked Hector to help her perform this symphony to the world. With a quick meditation he was able to piece together the different pages and psychically call on other friends to join in the young girls symphony.

Hector is an old sorcerer who is quite simply still around in situations. The young girl signed the psychic documents as a person that Hector knew in the past. In the way the young girl, henceforth referred to as “Spooky,” gave the psychic documents to him without noticing a separation between the two parts of ones mind, Hector was brought to a quick and tidy epiphany in his own life. The thought that one should not have any separation between his psychic world and the physical third dimension was a lesson that could only be learned from a small child. After this quick meditation and the clarity that was thrust upon Hector by the unknowing and unconfused young girl she entered the stage that was set up inside the minds of the six musicians she called to perform this piece.

Spooky is four years old. She has been brought up in a show business sort of family and has many adult friends that are still simply around and still in show business. These people have shared belief systems that include various incarnations before the current and most recent one. The script was rather shocking by nature and included instruments that were not exactly real. We began to play according to her wishes during deep meditative states. The stage was hardwood, much like the living room she stomps around in during her every day life. She asked her three year old brother to work the lights but was angered when he did not do them right. She then asked Hector to do this as well as play the notes she had assigned to him. Spooky played something like a sitar throughout the performance that was shown to anyone who wanted to join us in the dream that night. Hector Berlioz did this on purpose.

The six other musicians were old friends, but not all friends at this moment. A few of them knew her and played music together in person but two of the members of this psychic jam-band were not friends of either Spooky or her friend Hector. The music was jazzy and she let the players improvise to her songs. She was persistent in telling the adults that she was the one who was in charge. The topic of the symphony was the last requests of the people who are no longer still around in this particular situation.

The severity of their words should not be mentioned here, as this is a recording of these events and not about what still around yet tortured sorts want to do with a young child. She simply transposed the psychic letter from these men in to musical notation. The notation was not standard notation that one would read from a book in the waking life, but was ideas somehow transposed on to imaginary paper by a young girl. The adult musicians took a while to understand some of the complexities of her writing.

Again, Hector Berlioz is doing this on purpose. The music was played to anyone who wanted to come to a psychic show and it was clarified that a four-year-old girl wrote it on a number of occasions. We were allowed to jam freely a few minutes into the third song. This was fun and she began to play along with the rest of us. When she decided it was time Spooky, much like a professional, began to play the original song again. After the return to the original riff she had lyrics that she wrote about her brother. They included that he was her best friend and that sometimes her dad would be “a meany.” At this point, Hector Berlioz began to defend her father, as they had been close friends for many years. Spooky was upset, because this was not in that script and nearly stormed out of the psychic show.

The musicians played along and reverted to her lyrics and sang it in chorus. This seemed to appease young Spooky, although she began to pick her nose and such. This was repeated a number of times, by Hector’s imaginary DJ booth. “Spooky picks her nose and laughs up at our house!” The recording was turned into a fun jam and Spooky began to dance.

Hector’s instrument was rather quickly taken away and given to her friend, who she plugged into. This member of the band was now playing both the bass and the guitar. Hector took a second microphone that was raised out of the floor of the stage and began to once again explain to the audience that we have a four year old composer playing in ones brain. After getting to audience to clap along with the beat of the psychic symphony Spooky exclaimed that these people must dance. Hector was then given his psychic bass back and was asked to play a spinning trance riff. This was written as a “Pew Pew Pew” part of the work.

They spun the lights and the stage between them and played this music for about ten minutes. There were more words written by young Spooky that showed that she understood what she was doing when she asked these long time friends to join her. We played in the “Pew Pew Pew” song for quite a while. This was the first time Hector noticed an audience reaction.

“You are picking on the wrong Jewish couple,” another song began. Hector was unsure if she knew what this meant. The song was rather funky and Spooky danced away the best she could. The show continued and the lights were spinning as was requested in the written orders by this four-year-old girl. Her father was then summoned from his dream to play drums for this part of the show. The show was then on for about an hour and they played and danced through the night.

Nearing the end of the show, Spooky introduced the players as people they were no longer. This nearly brought a tear to the eyes of the musicians. The young girl once again had written, “Hector Berlioz is doing this on purpose.” She then gave the players more written music to play that came with the reaction, “Wow, that was unplanned.” The show continued and they once again played in the trance sort of “Pew Pew Pew” way that was requested by the young girl. The players played the rest of her symphony and the show came to an abrupt ending. She asked Hector to play some of his songs to continue to put on this show. They continued to perform these songs for about another half hour before we explained to young Spooky that we must begin to wean ourselves away from the show. The old friend from England explained to young Spooky that our time was up and we must let other people play. The four-year-old girl did not like this. We put down our imaginary instruments and asked dear Spooky to take her bow. Hector pulled the microphone towards him and told those listening that “Miss La La is picking her nose and laughing at farts over at our house.” She then grabbed the microphone and stated bluntly, “And we did this on purpose!” This gave the others on stage a good laugh.

Spooky did not want to come off the psychic stage. The other musicians called the young girl to the psychic backstage and began to wean her away from the show. They told her to take one more bow and to leave on that high note. Later she pulled the players back on to her psychic stage to perform once again. To the adult musicians in meditation this became a “Three Day Miss Spooky Young Enough To Be Picking Her Nose On Stage Festival.” The elders laughed and commented on how they should move her from psychic show business into actual show business.

Spooky responded with the note, “This is actual show business."

It is strange that sometimes one needs the clarity of a young child to break through internal conflict that is confusing to an adult. The simply revelation that one “just does it” is something that we all need in our life. A confusion that is found in overactive adult insecurities can often be cut simply by the thoughts of a young child. It was like this to Hector Berlioz. He was torn between the psychic life and the physical world, between his dreams and his reality. Hector was taught something very simply by this young girl. There is no separation between the psychic parts of ones mind and the world that is placed in front of us. Our hands our attached to us in our dreams and in our waking life. In a way, they are the only parts of our body we can see. Hector Berlioz was doing this on purpose, though. It was a thought out, purposeful action the whole time.

Even if one comes screaming out of the sky to be the actual freemason in question, it is an on purpose action. This was what the young girl who wrote a symphony taught him.

Epilogue

In a more recent visit to Spooky's residence, I was playing music with her father and a flutist when Spooky was given a maraca to jam along with us. She proceeded to dance around until she began to hit the fireplace with the shaker to make noise. When the instrument was taken from our four-year-old friend she began to scream and ran to her room. Later, while I interviewed the crying young girl I explained that she needed to be a little bit older to play music. She responded with the fact that she was a big kid now. I told her that when her hands were a little bigger she would know how, I was sure. She screamed that she already knew how to play music, that she did not have to learn it and explained the noise that she wanted to make by smashing the maraca into the fireplace. I explained that that was more like a noise that a stringed instrument would make. She then asked to play my violin.

A Simple Ghost Story

I told the man in the hotel room, “Save your children from what we want to do with them. The only separation we see is that between you and yours.” He shrugged and asked me to reiterate. While I drank the bitter dark coffee and re-established my thought and tried to represent my phrase in a manner he would understand. I asked him, “Have you ever fought your eventual fate?” He took a minute and told me it seemed he was doing that every day. I sipped my coffee.

We sat in silence for a moment. The man asked me to follow him outside. He requested a single cigarette. I found I should comply. He told me he was an old trucker that was a ghost trapped in a highway side hotel room he would frequent on speed binges through the small town I was caught in. My trapping was a simple overnight stop, my car had broken down and some others had sent me to this room. His trapping seemed to go quite a ways into the past.

The first conversation between us was about how we were going to get super high that night. “It would be awesome,” he said, “and we can even find prostitutes.” This was on the condition that I had the money. He usually just watched, but could tell me of a place just around the corner near the railway tracks. I mentioned that I was not in the hotel room to do drugs and party for the night. He seemed a little taken aback. He tried to influence me to do much harm to my mind and body. I decided his influence could do me no harm. I had just happened to find my way to his home. I then told the ghost, “I might be just who you asked for.” The invisible man seemed frightened and cried out to be saved, though he was very afraid.

We talked for a while. He was lying about everything with an assumption that I was simply curious. When he told me, “I been here fifty years because of my mother,” I replied that it was not just a single body that had led the man to this fate. He had drunk to stop his thoughts for far too long and eventually he became harmful to others. His consciousness had caused so much harm throughout his existence that it was now in a cycle of destruction. He claimed he was trying to press needles into arms that he couldn’t find. I don't think he meant to mention this to me but this is a common trait of ghosts based around the self-destructive world of substance abuse.

His incarnations had simply never learned that he would one day be harmed for hurting himself and others. He had been told many times that drinking to forget was only creating an eventual spinning and trapped ghost that may be found in a hotel room on the side of a highway. He asked me for drugs. I told him we have to find his last requests. He took the paper and told me he was not literate and that writing was for “sissies.” I told him I would fill out the applicable paperwork.

He began to read things he would like me to do for him. I told his that I would not play his requests as he wished. I picked up my fiddle and played for about 20 minutes for him. He claimed the fiddle hurt his mind and grabbed the bow from my hand twice. I put the fiddle in the case. I asked him what he would like to eat. He simply asked for a burger from the place across the street. This request was complied with, as I was hungry. He asked for alcohol to drink with it. Later, he also requested potato chips. This request was denied, simply on moral grounds against this strange spirit.

When we found ourselves back in the hotel room the ghost asked for the alcohol again. His request was again denied. He asked me to find him drugs. He wanted me to join in the partaking of crystal methamphetamine. I refused. I pulled a pipe out and took some hash from a bag. He asked me, “Is that drugs?” I told him I suppose many in the world consider hash a drug. He asked me for some. I complied.

Our conversation continued until he pulled a knife out of his pocket and pressed it against my neck to scare me. I told him in turn that he couldn’t hurt me. He told me that he didn’t know me so he would have no trouble hurting me. I asked him to try and he quickly pulled away. He swung the knife at me quickly and stabbed me directly in the eye. The knife was pulled away and he stabbed my twice more in the head. I allowed him to see the damage of his actions and he tried to smoke more hash. I moved to the table and allowed him to. I then showed him that he was unable to harm me.

This scared the ghost. He asked who I was. I told him, “You’re a ghost, pal.” He laughed and told me to get out of his friends room. His buddy would be back soon and would not be happy with some loser in his room. I told him I had paid sixty-five dollars for the room. He told me I had to sleep on the floor. I told him “There is no way I am sleeping of the floor, man, I’ve slept on the floor for the last three nights.” He cursed at me and I began to become intrigued.

I had noticed that he was influencing drug use and mayhem in the room he lived. He was dancing like a gangster (for lack of a better expression) and telling me how great this night would be with all our crack-cocaine, crystal methamphetamine and grass. He also claimed to have other drugs for me to use. He was not happy when I explained I was sent, basically to save or capture his soul. He asked me for credentials, beginning with “So, are you famous?” I replied, “I suppose, but I’m cooler than a fame will ever bring me.” He asked to smoke hash. I reminded him that he had tried to kill me to steal my stuff and that he should be honest with me. I also reminded him that there are limited numbers of last requests, so he should choose them wisely. He once again asked for drugs. I called Azrael to deliver whatever drugs the ghost needed to get him through. I asked him if he would like another cigarette. He said he had not had one in fifty years. By this point I was not sure if he had been trapped that long.

Once the drugs arrived he became agitated and violent. I asked him for the God's truth, claiming I already knew it. When I reached for a book he claimed that he did not want to read the contract, and that was it. "I kind of knew this was coming," he claimed. He had been trapped for a long time in his world, causing all sorts of harm and making friends who would join him in the hotel room and do drugs all night with him. I asked what these friends looked like. He told me they were his friends from the distant past. I explained they were probably not his friends. They were simply stopping for the night, in the dirty hotel room and doing drugs. They may have possibly never known the ghost was present. This angered him, then I noticed he was crying.

I them gave him arms and a simple half cut body. He saw his body and realized he had been a ghost. I told him that I was here to help him. He asked once again if I were famous. I told him, “I suppose I am.” I asked again for an honest answer and then said, “I already know the answers about you, sir. I have looked into them, pretend.” He laughed rather arrogantly and put his knife to my throat. “You know, I can kill you. I can kill you right here, right now and hide your body, nobody will find you.” With this remark I reminded him that he had tried that. He tried once again swinging his fist at me before slashing with the knife.

I took the knife from him and sat down. I pushed a contract towards him and he smiled. “I knew we were getting to this,” he said. He signed the contract quickly. I again told him I was simply playing last requests. He smiled and asked for another cigarette. I told the ghost that these were nearing the end of his requests. I asked him what kind of transportation he would enjoy to pass into the next world. He requested his friend’s semi-truck.

I told him that my employees were picked to wait for ghosts simply because they did not like to wait. I was very clear about this.

I found a crystal in my bag and pulled a few gargoyles out of it to find the demons trapping this mans body. They pulled the soul into the crystal and danced around making jokes. The man sat wrapped in my overcoat, thanking me for capturing demons inside him. It was then that I explained I had simply taken his ghost. The demons inside him were himself, and of his making. I told him what would come next. He would have to follow me to the highway to meet my friends, coachmen who do not like to wait. The air became cold and I asked him to leave my jacket. I pulled him, using the crystal and took away what he thought was his body.

We moved down stairs and outside the hotel room. He asked for his last cigarette and I refused. I am running out, I said. I then lit a cigarette in front of the ghost and told him once again, “Do not make these men wait. The interview was two questions, ‘Do you like to wait?’ and ‘Would you like tea?’” He replied that he assumed they must have gotten the job because they don’t like to wait. I told him to get into my black carriage. I showed him the two stallions pulling it. They were also black.

We traveled a road he claimed he had never seen. We passed through the town and country until we reached a simple crossroads. I marked the spot on the dirt road with my mind. I told him to get out of my carriage. “The other carriage is waiting, sir. And these are the men do not like to wait.” He sat in horror and implied that he knew what was going on. I implied back, “You shouldn’t have destroyed your own creator.”

The men had to wait. They waited quite a while and changed the vehicle from semi-truck to carriage to Cadillac all on through to the school bus. They then came as the express bus service and then back finally as the semi truck the semi truck. The semi was no longer his friend’s semi. He noted to me that the drivers were all the same two people. I told him, “And, sir, they do not like waiting.” He gingerly laughed and decided, “I think you maybe knew all about me, huh?” I told him that I had mentioned that a few times. I told him that the semi was going to leave. “My coachmen do not like waiting.”

A course of music rang out. There were 8 fiddles and a full band dancing around us. I played his final request, which was simply any fiddle tune. Other players of stringed instruments danced around us. We stood at the abandoned crossroads. I now wore a black and white suit and smoked a cigarette in front of him. He smiled and stated that he finally was getting his wish. I told him he misunderstood and that he should not be one of the forsaken in the end. His final wish was to forsake the true and good. I told him again it was not the way he claimed things were to him. He again told me he would forsake all that was good. I whistled to the air.

The ghost was not willing to enter the waiting coaches on his own free will. The black semi-truck that was reminiscent of his friend's came and went without the spirit. Next was a Cadillac which also left without the man entering. The coachmen came a third time with a bright yellow school bus and I explained that they were again here to take him to his eternity. He told me that he understood, he was just trying to make my life difficult. The bus left and a pale gray motorcycle with a sidecar came next. It also left without a passenger.

The final vehicle that appeared at the crossroads we stood at was a black carriage. It was much like the one I had driven him to the crossroads in. He waved and moved across the road. I waved and he stepped up the stair and into the back seat. The man in the front turned to him. The ghost let out a terrified scream and tried to escape. He was unable to move. The carriage took off down the road and I was left in the hotel room on the side of the highway.
My car had simply broken down.

Its a teaming vacation for us, I think. We have worked hard to create a greater good for all to see. A memo has been passed and it is not a joke. Love behind what is meant for me. Either sentence could be true, yet only one is. Perhaps you can pick the truth:
I was alienated by a funeral involving mutual friends. I once spent three weeks wondering if I had received a note from a woman or if I had dreamed it.
The trouble with the eager, these days, is how they seem to simple folk. Folk since have written of many a tale involving those two rumors. The terror of the unknown coupled with the luxury and comfort of today's western world have been turned into a strange apathy. It is a denial of all magical with the claim that it does not exist.
I think more people must only remember this existence. This state of consciousness is one that we are kept in for a long time. This does not mean there is no past lives. It just means you are yet to die. Those who do not stay in the world are sent elsewhere. I'm sure this is sorted on a piece by piece basis. Each death causing a new life somewhere, with that consciousness sent to that other reality. Like finding oddities near highways, these are the days of their lives.

Short Broad Hallway

Ernie tried to remember who had given him the key. It was the only thing he held in his hand. He was now trapped inside a strange room and was hoping to find a way out, through one of the six doors. The room was wholly whitewashed including the six doors. The handles were curved and should pull down with the key. He stood in the middle with three doors on either side of the room he was trapped in. It was rectangular with a painting hanging on either narrow side.

The paintings were both the same. They were small-framed watercolors of the ocean with a sailboat making its way towards shore. The doors were lined on the other walls and numbered one through six. He stood in a daze trying to remember the events that led him to his trapping in this strange room. He walked towards door five and put his ear against it.

He heard a motor running on the other side. He shook the handle and found it was locked. He was afraid to try the key but had very little excuse not to. He pulled the key out of his pocket and pressed it into the keyhole. It fit perfectly and he turned the knob. The door swung open and he looked inside.

There was a small room with a large fan pushing air towards him. The air was cold and his hair began to flail around his ears. He looked through the dark room, using the light from the main hall. He searched for an exit but found nothing. The door stayed open and he fought through the wind into the room. The bricks surrounding the fan were old and the mortar was beginning to chip off the walls.

There was very little else in the room. He found two wires, a red one and a green one and picked them up. They were rather short, maybe five inches. He put them in his pocket. He searched the room for anything else and found nothing but the fan and motor. He tried to switch the fan off but could not find a way to do this. The motor was loud and the wind from the fan was unnerving. He decided to try his luck with another door.

He shut the door with some force, leaning against it from the main hallway. The door finally shut and he tried to open it again. The handle was stuck. It had locked itself once again automatically. He could still hear the roar of the fan but found it was not so bothersome with the door shut.

He stood confused for a moment. He tried to retrace his actions before waking up in this strange hallway. He remembered waking up that morning late for work. He had no time to eat his usual breakfast. He wished he had eaten the cereal and grapefruit at this point. He was hungry and now trapped in a strange puzzle. He rubbed his stomach and decided the best thing to do would be to not think about his hunger.

That morning he rushed down the street and missed his bus. He decided to call a taxi to make it to work. He worked in a cubicle, typing numbers into a computer eight hours a day for a five-figure salary. He remembered the cab ride was a heart-pounding race through the cities rush hour traffic. He arrived about four blocks from his office and decided to walk the rest of the way. His thoughts became cluttered quickly after this.

He stood in the hallway looking at the other five doors. The key that someone had given him was in his hand. He held the key, which was tied to a six-inch piece of white string. He let the key fall and caught it with the string. He swung the string around his hand and let it fall toward the ground. He held the key with his right hand and walked towards the door numbered three.

The third door was the only door with a painted number on it, the rest had metal numbers screwed on them with three screws. It was painted rather colorfully on a small piece of wood attached to the door with a simple nail. He pushed the key inside the door and opened it. The room was quite a bit bigger than the room behind the door numbered five. He found a small doorstop on the ground and pressed it beneath the door in the hallway.

There was a white light switch in this room and he clicked it on. The walls were unfinished with apparent framing around the sides of the room. Behind the wall frames were the same sort of red bricks he found in the room with the large fan. Hanging off the framing in the room were a variety of red and green puppets. They were various kinds of soft plush animals that could be manipulated to act rather funnily.

This moment terrified Ernie for a moment. He waited before he looked at the puppets further. There were eight on either side of the room. They hung from the framing with their hands or by fishing line. In the center of the room at the back he saw a regular human looking ventriloquist dummy. It sat motionless on a chest. The chest was wooden with metal trimmings that seemed to be bronze. There was a screwdriver on the chest as well.

Not regularly being a man of much adventure, Ernie was quite worried about his new place in the world. He walked into the strange, puppet filled room and moved the ventriloquist dummy to the side of the chest and placed it on the ground. He tried to open the chest and it seemed locked. He pulled the key out of his pocket and tried to open the chest with his only key. It opened and he lifted the lid.

Inside the chest he found two cassette tapes. They were numbered one and two, but otherwise the chest was empty. He looked about the room and noticed the fourth puppet on his left was holding a small tape deck. The fourth puppet on his right was holding a pair of batteries. Ernie felt very scared and took the batteries from the puppet on his right and placed them in the tape deck from his left. He took the screwdriver and tapes and pulled himself into the hallway and shut door number three.

He looked about the hallway and noticed he now had a small wooden bench beneath one of the paintings at the end of the hallway. He looked towards it and began to walk slowly over to the painting. He set up the tape deck and pressed the first tape into it. The tape played a quick punk anthem and then switched to a recent pop-music hit song by a woman dancer. He kept listening and found the entire tape was simply music. He enjoyed the variety and selection of the tape. It was short so rather quickly it needed turned. The other side held a variety of music as well.

Ernie now possessed a screwdriver and two wires as well as his key. The music was an entertaining background noise but offered no help in how to leave the hallway. He looked at the painting at the end above the recently placed bench and it seemed the old sailboat was further out into the ocean. The sailboat was the same size, but some islands had moved further into the distance.

He lifted the painting and found nothing behind it. He dropped it with a thud and noticed the waves had become rather larger. The boat was now fighting to stay afloat. He watched in strange fascination as the boat struggled with these waves he seemed to have created. The boat quickly righted and continued sailing. The ocean quelled and the scene became peaceful once again. The tape with music quickly ran out.

He looked at the tape deck and reached towards the bench. He sat on the wooden surface and pulled the first tape out. The cassette came out with a fight and the black tape from inside it was pulled out of the casing. He attempted to fix it with his screwdriver but the tape was thrown violently out of the casing and spread along his lap and the bench.

He placed the other tape inside the cassette player and the first tape vanished. It seemed as if it melted into the floor. The casing was still sitting on the bench but the black tape was being pulled into the floor. It vanished rather quickly and Ernie placed the tape deck on the bench and decided to listen to this tape more carefully. The first, he thought, must have been a distraction. The second one may have more information.

The tape began to play and the first side had very little information Ernie could understand. It began with the definition of history, found from a dictionary; “History,” it said, “–noun, 1. The branch of knowledge dealing with past events. 2. A continuous, systematic narrative of past events as relating to a particular people, country, period, person, etc., usually written as a chronological account; chronicle: a history of France; a medical history of the patient. 3. The record of past events and times, esp. in connection with the human race. 4. A drama representing historical events: Shakespeare's comedies, histories, and tragedies.”

The tape was silent after this. About three minutes later the tape spoke again. It became a soft voice stating the simple phrase “Grandfather, diplomat, post office, time.” This phrase repeated itself a number of times getting louder. The soft voice became old and gritty. The gravelly voice became louder and stated the same thing continuously. It began to fade and fell silent rather quickly. It was followed by an old orchestra’s song from the renaissance played only on three violins.

The tape ran out and Ernie sat silently. He tried to remember how he had found himself in this situation. He looked at the floor and noticed it was no longer plainly decorated. He could not remember what it was before, but it was now green marble tiles. He looked at the far wall and the boat in the painting was reaching a port. He looked at his key and tried to remember who gave it to him.

He remembered getting out of the cab and seeing a food stand opening. He asked the man for some breakfast but the man claimed he could not feed him yet as he was not ready. Ernie strolled hungry down the block passing a very regular city day. The cars and taxis honked their horns and stalled each other’s movement. The street was crowded and the sidewalks seemed to be congested as well. He made his way to the next block and found another food stand just opening.

He asked for something and was again refused. The old fat woman wearing a flowered dress spoke loudly. She swung her purse at him and hit him in the shoulder. He stood in disbelief, he recalled. He asked once more for food and she yelled at him to keep moving. He felt he should as well. He walked down the street and tripped over a brick on the sidewalk. He regained his composure and stood on the corner waiting for his light to change. He soon snapped back into the hallway he found himself now.

Ernie decided the only thing action he could take would be to open another door. He opened the door numbered two. The number was written as it is spelled using letters. The number fell to the ground as he placed the key inside the hole. It shattered on the ground and vanished into the marble tile floor. He watched as the two tiles it touched became black and white. The rest of the tiles soon followed suit, becoming alternating black and white. This happened rather quickly as Ernie opened the door numbered two.

The door led into a small closet. The closet had many racks rising high above Ernie’s reach. On two sides of the closet the racks all had leather sandals. The sandals looked as if they were new, even unfinished. Many of the sandals were missing their latchets. He found these straps and the pieces meant to secure them on the third side of the closet. This was the wall to his left as he stood in the doorway.

He took a pair of sandals in his hand and they grew to his size of feet. He grabbed the leather straps and the fastening pieces and placed them on the leather sandals. He took his screwdriver and secured the strap onto the unfinished shoe. After tightening the first latch he noticed the rest of the sandals became latched as well. He brought his new shoes into the hallway and sat on the wooden bench. He looked across the way and saw a small round window where the painting once was.

He knew now what the game was. He just needed to perform the tasks as he was asked. He opened the door labeled five once again and attached the wires to the engine with his screwdriver. This shorted the fuse on the fan and the fan sputtered and stopped. The breaker had been blown by his actions. He walked into the hallway to see the change in the strange room. On the bench stood a small gnome.

Ernie was a bit taken aback by his small new partner. The gnome reached behind him and pulled two puppets out from behind his tiny back. The puppets were about the same size as him, one was green and one was red. The gnome began to act out a scene from the movie Citizen Kane. “It was something,” the gnome stated once he had finished, “That was meant to entertain you, sir.” Ernie looked at the small gnome in disbelief. He spoke softly, “How do I get back to the normal world?”

The gnome looked at Ernie and laughed asking, “Why in the name of life would you want to go back to that world?” Ernie smiled, “It was just so normal. Everything was the same as it always was.” The gnome cracked up, “Ernie, pal, I’m here to let you out. But we chose you because you never have seen the true world. You laugh at the TV but never at good jokes. You never see the irony in life. You never take your life by the short strings, right?” The gnome then switched the hands the puppets were on quickly.

The green puppet began to talk in a high-strung voice, “Pal, you need to find the right way out. Shutting off the wind isn’t it. The moving of the boat, finally on shore I guess we’ve made it out through the ocean.” The red puppet chimed in, “You’re so over-dramatic. You never let us speak through the heart. We’ve made it to port now Ernie, now we need off of our ship. How do we do that?”

Ernie looked at his key on a string. He spoke to the gnome, “By unlocking more doors?” The red puppet spoke up, “I asked to that, not the gnome!” Ernie laughed and took the key in his hand. “Maybe door number four?” The gnome shouted out, “Dear God, no! You are very lucky you never opened door number four. That could have taken away everything you ever held dear, sir.” The red puppet said to the green one, “Yeah that could have been a good show.”

Ernie asked the red puppet, “What’s behind number four?” The red puppet smiled and said, “That’s where the lovely maiden resides. She’s old and fat and stinks. She is not dressed and wants to kiss. She smokes three packs a day in that room and she cannot find the handle to leave the room. She decorated her only home in hair and spit. It is not a nice scene inside that room.”

Ernie looked at the puppets. He felt thankful he was in some company now. The gnome looked at the fourth door and said to Ernie, “You know, he’s telling the truth. That room is not for the weak of heart. There would have been little you could have done had you opened that door. I think you’ve been making the right decisions thus far.” Ernie nodded, “I was simply going with my instinct.” The gnome smiled, “That’s the right way to do anything, ain’t it.”

“What is my action from here?” Ernie asked. The gnome looked at the green puppet. The puppet moved his eyes and looked at door number one, “Well, number one is the way you came. Would you like to go back?” He then laughed. Ernie ran towards the first door and the red puppet chimed in, “That’s a lie Ernie.” Ernie stopped. “It’s a good way to get to the ocean, though.” Ernie turned the key in the door and noticed the room was nearly the size of the main hallway.

He looked at the ground and found another doorstop. He placed it in front of the door and stepped though the landing. He fell two steps down and noticed a vacuum. The red machine had a note attached to it. He read the small torn piece of lined white paper and it said, “Clean the sand.” He placed the piece in his pocket and sand began to fall from the ceiling. The floor was filled with sand and the vacuum began to hum. The sand was sucked through the hose and filled the machine rather quickly.

Ernie drug the sand filled vacuum into the main hallway and it sputtered and spat sand out the hose. The vacuum tipped on its side and the sand fell on the tiles. Ernie tried to vacuum the sand and found the noise reverberated through the hallway very loudly. It shook his head and he shut the machine off quickly. He looked at the sand and it spelled “the number six.” He closed the first door and looked at the red puppet. The gnome sat laughing and said, “Try number six, friend.”

Ernie shut the door. It closed with a thud. He looked at the gnome, who was putting the puppets into a large duffle back. The vacuum began to shake again; the noise was much too loud to take. It shook the room, his head, the bench and the painting. The window at the far end of the room began to crack. The marble floor began to shake. Ernie kicked the vacuum and it shut off. He took the screwdriver to the motor and immobilized the machine. The gnome looked at him, “You do have a way, don’t you, pal.”

The vacuum shook in the hallway still, but the motor was humming a high squeal instead of the room-shattering wail it sang before. He took the key and opened the room numbered one again. He threw the vacuum deep into the sand that was now rather deep and shaped like dunes. The vacuum sucked the sand and spat it out the other end but now sucked softly and sounded much nicer. Ernie shut the door and felt it was locked once again. The gnome looked at him, “This is a good idea for both of us.”

Ernie noticed the painting behind the bench was much bigger and painted with a lot more talent that the original painting. He pointed this out to the gnome who stated, “You should be used to this stuff by now, kid. Life is like this I suppose. Now try the one numbering six, you are nearly finding your way out here kid.” Ernie looked at the gnome. “Am I just entertaining you? Or am I in a coma? What is this?” The gnome looked at him and said, “I can’t explain, I started here like you. Now I can get out. Moving around. Its like a game, I suppose.”

Ernie asked the gnome, “You were like me once too?” The gnome nodded, “Yes, I once got trapped in this same hallway. I had to see the world differently. You aren’t dead. You aren’t in a coma. You just hadn’t seen what life is. Magic is real, I believe that is still the message.” Ernie could not see the magic in his situation. He mentioned this to the gnome. The gnome replied, “Nah, not this situation, it’s just meant to confuse you so the maker can laugh. It’s her idea of a good time.”

Ernie took the key and opened the door numbered six. The door swung open and a bright light shone through. Ernie cried to the gnome, “You said I wasn’t dead!” The gnome rushed over and shut off the lamp. “Just one of them bright lights, right. Now climb the ladder and you can get to work. You were looking for breakfast, right?” The gnome handed Ernie a bagel with egg and meat on it. There was a nice layer of freshly slice cheese and pepper, just like he liked it. Ernie held on to the bagel and climber the short ladder. At the top he pushed a hatch and began to pull himself through. Light was shining and he heard a number of horns honking.

A car came to a skidding stop and way wailing at him, the driver yelled, “What are you a freaking nut! Get out of the way! What the hell you doing coming out of there at seven in the morning!” Ernie was looking both directions and found he was standing in the middle of the road. The man continued to yell, “I could have killed you! You freaking bum! Get off the road, you maniac!” The cars were backed up and honking at him and he sat with a breakfast bagel in hand. He quickly dashed towards the sidewalk. The old woman was finished setting up her stand.

He bit his breakfast and she smiled at him. “That will be four seventy-five, sir. Do you want a coffee for another two bucks?” Ernie looked at the lady and looked at his suit. It was spotless and pressed. He took another bite of the bagel. “Sir, four seventy-five for the bagel.” Ernie stood saying nothing. He stared at the lady for a moment and asked her for the coffee as well. He handed her a ten-dollar bill and asked for no change. She gave him the coffee and he dressed it as his usual. He continued his walk to work in a daze.

Viewpoint of a Short-CIrcuited Iron

“Iron!” The cats growled. They were hungry, mangy and matted. They fought amongst themselves as I sat resting against a brick with the bottom half of a broom and two thirds of a rake. “I have no food,” I said, “I don’t look for it like you.” The tomcat cursed at me, “No, Iron, tell our kittens your story, would you please?” I looked at the tomcat, a cat that would rarely speak nicely to anyone. “Well, you did ask like that,” I said. With this, I began with a shout.

“Criminal!” She screamed towards the closed door. She seemed to over-react, I thought. I was dropped on the cloth-covered table and she stomped towards the only entryway. I sat and glanced out the window seeing a picturesque winter evening. The snow fell lightly towards the white world. There was a layer of frost from the fog that morning and the window was beginning to trace tiny fractals of ice up the panes. She opened the door and stood looking at a large man with a beard.

She looked him up and down and he asked, “Why the scream, dear?” She smiled and touched his arm, “The damned iron just short circuited.” He laughed, smiling at the reaction of his loving wife and asked, “But your OK, no shock?” She looked him straight in the eye. “I may need a new one, I suppose. Throw it in the trash with the rest, the truck comes tomorrow.” He walked into the room and lifted me up by my old black handle. He brought me downstairs and through their house to the garage. He lifted the lid of the trash bin and set me on top.

I sat in that bin all night in the dark. I sat and thought of better days, when I had worked perfectly. Why couldn’t they repair me? No use, I thought. It was simply time to replace me. I’m sure if you asked them they could list reasons why a new iron would be a much better way to spend their money. I’m sure the price of a repair on a seven-year-old iron like myself is not equal to my worth. Money better spent on one of the new irons, with all the unnecessary dials and that.

The bin was pulled out to the end of the driveway on a busy street the next morning. The vehicles moved past the house carefully as it was very cold and the road had a layer of ice on it. Quite quickly after I had arrived at the street a large truck came and stopped next to the corner. I heard the bins next to me emptied into the side of the truck. The man then grabbed my bin. He pulled the lid off and poured the contents into truck. I sat surrounded by wrappers with an old coffeepot to my left.

The coffeepot looked at me. I looked at the coffeepot. After a few exchanged glances and a moment of silence the coffeepot smiled and extended his handle. “Jake’s my name,” he said in a friendly manner. I looked at him and realized I didn’t have a name. I couldn’t think of a response for Jake. I knew I had to respond with something. “Is it your time too?” I asked, somewhat knowing the answer.

Jake laughed. “I suppose it may be. My people left the burner on over a weekend and I plum cracked myself up the backside. I can’t tell you were my other half is. I’m trying not to think about that. Why you in here?” I told Jake, “I’m not fully sure. I was working fine one minute and the next there was a large spark of light, some fuzzy noises and I just quit. I’m not a doctor, I’m an iron.” Jake smiled, “Seems like a short-circuit. It’s a waste to throw a perfectly good appliance out like this.”

“I wish I could have argued,” I said. I felt hopeless and I’m sure Jake had picked up on that. “I got a plan, stranger. It’ll get us out of this place. You’ve heard of where we are headed, right. It is where the crows rule. They are worse than the humans. Crows and big mean old ranked metal irons, cast-iron coffeepots, all that. When appliances get there, well, sir, there ain’t no coming back.” I nodded, “I’ve heard of that place too, I was afraid we were headed there.” “Yes, sir. It is where we are going, but I have a plan.”

He pulled out a wrapper with a map sketched on it. “All we need to do, and I’m saying all we need to do, is get out of this truck.” I looked at him and asked, “How do we do that?” He laughed and started climbing, reaching towards the light with his handle. I sat for a second and began to pull myself towards Jake. We climbed and climbed, missing four stops. At the fifth stop we were near the top. I started to jump and Jake grabbed me, “No, you can’t jump while we are stopped! They’ll just throw us back in, I’ve seen it before, son.”

The truck began to move, so I jumped off the side. My power cable was ripped from my body. A sharp pain tore through my side. I looked up and saw it hanging off the side of the truck. Jake came tumbling soon after. The hatch was lifting but we made it past the side. I hit the ground with a thud. I stood up and dusted myself off and looked around. Jake fell slightly to my left and hit the ground and simply shattered. It may have been the most horrifying thing I’ve ever seen near this alley. His glass was in pieces and only his handle and brim remained. He waved at me, “At least I tried to live…” He said, and faded off.

I was on the street, so I climbed to the sidewalk. I jutted through unnoticing passersby. Dancing through their legs I reach the side of a building. I pulled up tight to the building knowing that I had to run or be found. I ran down the block and found a nice alley. It was this alley, to be sure and that is why I have never left. I walked slowly down the middle, glancing with horror and deep thankfulness at the garbage bins to either side. I tried to yell to those inside, “Jump out! When you are there, jump out!” They would understand soon enough.

I kept walking and looking above me, the building drove high into the sky. It was like nothing I had ever seen. Snow covered the ground and began to fall from the sky. I pulled my tired body into a corner and sat silently for a while. The snow began to cover my metal surface and the plastic became very cold. I shivered and reached for a small wrapper to cover myself up with. I had been sitting in this position for a very long time when I heard a rat coming at me from my left.

The rat tapped me on the shoulder and startled me. I swung at him and he jumped back. The rat paused and snarled. He looked me dead in the eyes and said “Look, pal you need to listen to me quick-like. This is my area, back up little broken kid.” I looked him in the eye and said, “I want no trouble, I just jumped for my life from a truck and I’m just looking for a place to sit for a minute.” The rat stated flatly, “This isn’t it, keep moving.” I rose and pulled the wrapper off me. I moved down the alley and the rat laughed.

I moved further down the cold alley, passing more garbage bins and eventually finding a nice cinderblock. I climbed atop it and sat down once again. I needed to make a plan. I had nowhere to go and it was the dead of winter, I was cold and would die if it were possible. I had heard of hypothermia and was afraid I would catch my death of a cold. This thought was stifled by the realization that I had no real body. I felt a bit safer in my condition.

I sat atop that cinderblock all night, keeping vigilant watch for the rats and things that would cause me trouble. I had nothing of value and was truly useless, as my cord had been ripped off in the garbage truck. It was painful but I was glad it would not hinder my journey. The next morning two rats being chased out of a doorway by a small Chinese man woke me from my slumber. I was covered with a thin layer of snow and a wrapper I used to stay warm. The Chinese man glanced at me and walked towards the cider block. He brushed the snow off me and picked me up.

He examined me for a while and noted I was of no use, not because he knew I had short-circuited but because he noticed I had no power cord. He placed me back on the cinder block and left me there. I brushed the rest of the snow off the top of the surface as soon as he turned his back. He walked inside the doorway and shut the door with a thud. I climbed off the cinder block and began to briskly move back towards the other end of the alley.

I hadn’t made it far when I was approached by one of the rats that were shooed out of the Chinese man’s doorway. The rat came to me and I was noticeable scared. He looked at me and said, “Hey man, don’t worry. We’re all in this together, right.” I said to him, “Look man, I’ll keep moving if this is your territory.” “No man, look, it’s like I said before. Here, have some bread.” I took the small piece from the rat and tried to find a way to eat it. I couldn’t find the hole that he had to chew with.

He looked at me and said, “Oh, you aren’t a being like us, are you? One of them inanimate objects, hey? I know just the place you’ve got to go. Give me that bread back.” I handed him the piece of bread and he motioned for me to move down the alley with him. “I have your back, kid. Remember to be careful. This is the gritty street, down on this level. I wish one day to be one of them big things, you know that sort. We all live off their leavings. Like that guy chasing me out of his building. One of them.” I laughed, “Yeah, I know the type.”

We walked quite a while making very little conversation and he ate both pieces of his bread. I looked around and saw the alley did not change at all. Another dumpster was usually followed by a few cinder blocks. Once in a while there was on old plastic chair. The rat stopped by one of these chairs and reached in to a large metal pot and grabbed a handful of cigarette butts. He lit these with a large orange lighter he had hidden behind the landing near the chair. “Ever try these, man?” He asked as he smoked the butt. I said to him, “I don’t have a hole to do that either, I don’t think. You’re using the same one.”

The rat smoked his cigarette and laughed to himself. “I love this stuff, makes me feel like a big man. They say it stunts your growth though. I say it adds to the growth of you personality. Your voice changes, becomes older sounding. Like a cool, refreshing hit of this stuff. I don’t know what it is, but the French have a word for that.” He put the end of the cigarette out in the snow and we marched on again.

After a few more bricks and cinder blocks we arrived at a large hole in the wall. There was a board over it, but a gap in the board was just large enough for a broken old iron like myself to fit through. It was dark inside and kind of murky. The damp was nice; it was much warmer than being cold and wet in the snow. We traveled briskly down the tight corridor. The rat would turn every few steps to see if I was still behind him. He glanced and acted surprised nearly every time I was still behind him.

He stopped and moved a board to the side. There was a light behind it. “Here it is, partner.” The rat told me, “End of my line.” I was not sure where he had brought me but thanked him for it. He replied “A good deed a day seems to help keep me fed.” I thanked him again and he scurried down the path the way we came. I glanced into the light and saw little. I moved the board and slid through.

A calculator greeted me. He was missing three buttons on the number pad and the screen had been scratched rather badly. He bumped into me and apologized. “Who is this here?” he asked. I spoke softly, “I’m just an old beaten iron, trying to find a new lease on life.” He moved towards a desk lamp, grabbed his body and asked, “Who is that?” The lamp looked at me and said to the calculator, “I ain’t ever seen this cat. Who are you?” I was ready for some questioning so replied softly again, “I’m just an old beaten iron.” The lamp looked at me and said, “Look, Ernie here, with the numbers, he’s good at math but rather blind. Me, David, I hold the light, still. I’m just always on. You can’t try to turn my light off. Its been done. My bulb is burnt, but I feel it. I’m sure you do too. You, Iron, you must have something right.”

“I don’t know,” I said to the lamp, “I jumped from a truck, they sent me away because I was broken.” “Just like the rest of us, nearly all of us anyway,” the lamp said. The calculator said to me quickly, “Look you got something in you. You are here now. That means you have a certain joy of life. A thirst for adventure, right?”

I looked at the broken old tools in the room. There were many, including an old chess set they seemed to be fighting amongst themselves, a small TV that was missing both dials and was telling a group of dishes a story and a bottom of a rake that was found rather recently with his friend a bent up old metal dustpan. “Well,” I told the calculator, “I think I may have found the place I was looking for.” The lamp joyously bounced up and down, “That’s the spirit! Welcome to our home.”

I stayed at their shelter for the winter and made many friends there with rather similar stories. Many of the beat-up appliances were just trying to avoid the dump like myself. I shared the story of Jake the coffeepot with the friends I made and they claimed not many glass-based products make it out in the gritty world there is. They were not surprised he broke on impact with the cement. It seemed a common tale around these parts. The products were all making use of their existences after they were discarded, and they were all very happy to not be fighting the fight at the junkyards we had heard about through myths. It seemed everyone here was in this act together and at some point we would all have to move on.

In the spring, when the snow melted we all moved briefly outside. This move was brought to an abrupt end when fellows from inside, some bigger items, were thrown back into dumpsters one night. We became scared and now, as we all finally know better we only come outside during the day. This world is an uncertain one, we never know who may be thrown back in a dumpster and brought to the wrecking yard.

This warning is not so much for you, children. We are not the same beings. The worst you can fear is a fight with other cats or maybe staying off the road. The humans care for what they call “living things.” If the humans find you, they take you and feed you. They cuddle and try and help you. In our world they try to destroy us. Sending us to a lot outside humanity where we are pushed and buried amongst each other. I have heard tales of irons and such coming back from there. It is a horrid existence still. Feel lucky you are a cat. You can run and jump and play. Your shape does not hinder you. You are free to do much more than us. You all are lucky to be cats. Myself, I am an iron.

Men Who Simply Like Bags

The issue of the overuse of plastic bags is one found in the mainstream media. Articles can be found in many mainstream papers, including the Calgary Herald. This is also a topic of discussion on the television news broadcasts.

Art is something made to share an interest with an audience. In thinking about the corporate CEO’s form of art it becomes abundantly clear these men would like to share their love of bags with us. There is no other reason they should have been spread across the globe in the fashion they have been. Nearly every piece of mass-produced food is wrapped in one of their indestructible bags. It is clear their art is to share their love and interest in bags with the commoners of this world.

It is a reasonable statement from the consumer that we have seen enough of these men’s fantastic and indestructible bags. It is clear the problem lies with the producers of these bags. The corporate men who have made the decision to spread these bags across the globe are those who need to be listened to. They have shared their love of bags with the common citizen for the last quarter century. One only has to visit the local landfill to see just how much these men like bags. We must share with them that we understand their statement. It is the only way this will end.

It is time to realize their love and move forward with them. Please do not misinterpret my message. I do like bags. I think they are all right. I do not, however, like bags quite as much these men do. I feel they are wonderful way to transport goods from one place to another. I do not, however, feel the need to feel my way through three or four bags to get to the proverbial Pizza Pocket.

It is time for us to tell corporate America that we do understand. We realize they truly love bags and would like to share their love with us. We realize that the ultimate goal is to spread their love across the globe. We must tell them we realize this before they will quit making these unnecessary mass-produced bags. If we group together as the common consumer and explain that we understand their art form they may let us move forward to a world with fewer plastic bags available in it.

I suggest a letter writing campaign to the owners and CEOs of these companies. We could start with a simple thank you for the food. We would then move into a clearly written suggestion that we understand their art. We understand they have just been trying to share their love of bags with us. We can write them personally and thank them for increasing everyone’s interest in bags and bringing the topic to the hearts and minds of the common man. With the realization their goals have been met, we may be able to convince these men to produce fewer bags for our handling.

New Years Haiku

Old man found outside
He spoke only in haiku
Soft it left his lips

A man trapped inside
A haiku with needed rights
He spoke then he ran

Stepping up the stairs
A single set of shoes slip
Silently outside

Hard concrete chasing
The light had brought him down, sir
A breathe of the air

I chased him outside
Followed the cracks in the snow
But lost interest soon

I could not find him
Hiding away a rhyme scheme
And last they were pure

I could not find him
He spoke only in haiku
He remained silent

Helpless wanderlust
That last single set of shoes
Were lost somewhere else

When we did find him
He spoke only in haiku
So remained silent

fiddle

Some times life is slowly ticking forward
Broke like the hands on an old pocket watch
Left for eons to the man three generations down

These times life is borrowed and licked towards
Smoke like the man with an old frequent lock
Best to be left to the makers simply drawn sounds

We write when we laugh to the time locked forward
Smoke like the band that left us here in a knot
With three thousand miles we have lost a friend

Drastic dreams that are crafted like a notion of sorrow
The pages turn as we run with a sacred book caught
In the life before we drop it passing a corner round

Wondering hermits finding the last of the torn pages
Wanderlust for the rest to pick up the pieces
The breast plate a metallic shade for us as sounds

Lessons taking from what a grand magnet decides
The term stolen and to the want not to have some
The pages with everything seem lost between the trees

I have already sent the letter, sir
I cannot change the whims of the worlds
I truly wish I could learn to speak for them
I cannot change the whims of the worlds

Simple poem. Back to writing

Night to fly through us
Life is what we can
Type to try useless
Playing in a band

In every statement of fact
We find two statements of farce
In one to find reading helpful
We act in statements of life

So lined up at a coffee shop
And able to pray useless
The rivers have left us
Liable to be undressed

The Title of This Article Should Be Taken out of Context.

When one is writing they should find their inspiration in the surroundings. To write satire one often finds themselves re-reading and changing their template many times. When finding such inspiration from your surroundings the writer is able to make a figurative mirror to read into their own psyche. This results in people reading many different things into the writings of a satirist.

Writing about the act of writing is an exercise this writer uses to leave a state of ones writers block. This seemingly comes from the human mind being distracted. It is usually a bunch of muddled thoughts covering up the ones that feel they can produce art naturally.

The primary goal of advertising is to convince a viewer to buy a product. If one would like to feed their dog Purina brand dog food they are told their animal will be a smarter, happier and healthier dog. This is the idea behind any advertisement. When advertising cocaine, the television suggests that it is a wonderful way for one to become smart, witty and very rich. This is a suggestion that many young men and women who think venturing towards a humble trade such as cocaine use.

Due to the advertisement of the sincere grand lifestyle that comes with cocaine use a young writer is sometimes suggested to turn to drugs to find their inspiration. Many famous speakers have boasted about this form of inspiration. When one finds that these chemicals are nothing but blinding and a mask for ones own internal issues, they usually speak out against them.

When one is writing satire the meaning of the written text is normally found under the surface words. This is the art in writing. One should not write like a robot, but find the inspiration using the five senses. The words will come from the air around you. It is like when one plays music in a jamming fashion. The plan for a song is a simple few chords and words, but it is open to improvisation. This is like when one is fighting writers block. If the writer finds a few simple words to start they can soon turn these words into a nice succinct article, or at the very least the beginnings of one. This can turn into a very different piece of writing very quickly.

A Little Mad Boy

I called it afternoon

I dropped down to the basket
Asked her to confuse me
Spoke like a sliding ape

The little mad boy mumbles at me
Nobody else can see him
But he is right beside me
His hair is greasy and long
He buried an American flag
Crossed his arms and wiped them off

I called it afternoon
But it was mid morning
I stammered while I was corrected
It was the tone of the voice
That tore me

The little mad boy jumps to his feet
He puts on his hat and belittles my space
He twists his cane bat and drips from the chin
He holds me in chain and slides me all in
He takes a rhyme scheme and trusts I don’t live
The devil himself
That is who he is

He told me it was morning
The little mad boy
Swore I never seen a vice
Laughing he clasps his hands twice
Here to set things right
I felt the same
So we got up to leave
Coffee and cigarettes were nice

Random Poetry

But I lost the rhyme scheme
Dragons told us of leftovers
But we refused to believe them

But I did lose the rhyme scheme
It fell out on the trail back there
The bag with everything is between the trees

We walked down the trail
Trying to find our little lake
But I did lose the rhyme scheme
I can't find it, 'twas our fate
We are lost without structure
Lost with impending hate

I cannot find the rhyme scheme
But there are others to be found
Found inside the dress to hem

I cannot find the rhyme scheme
It has been lost for quite a while
The bag with everything was lost
Between the trees

A Troubled Man

A troubled man walked into my diner last Monday. He had a black baseball cap pulled tight on his head and he was hiding his face. His sweater was also black, with a logo I was unfamiliar with on the front. It looked like a dragon with flames behind it. He sat at the bar and ordered a cup of coffee. I handed it to him and asked for one dollar. He handed me the loony and opened a cream container.

He slumped down and pulled the hood of his sweater over his head. The man he sat beside stood and turned towards the door. He waved goodbye and left. I waved back at him because he is a regular. I had never seen the troubled man before. He had a rough goatee, thin and black. He had a feeble mustache above his lip and dark brown eyes. He rapped at the counter with his knuckles aimlessly. He seemed upset.

I didn’t want to impose on his personal life. I had never seen him before. I didn’t ask what his troubles were. Between the beat of his knuckles on the counter he would whistle a tune I had never heard. Then he would smile to himself and close his eyes. He sat at the counter for about twenty minutes, nursing his cup of coffee. He stood abruptly and walked out the door. I thought nothing of it at the time.

At the end of that day I was left alone, cleaning. I had closed the diner about a half hour before and hadn’t seen a customer near the place since. The lights were off in the front, but the neon sign continued to flicker. I was startled up from my mopping with a knock at the door. There was nobody behind the glass. I looked out the window for the creator of the knock, but only saw a man with a briefcase stomping passed in the opposite direction.

I finished the mopping without incident and pulled the bucket to the back of the place. I poured the water into the industrial sink and rinsed the sink out. I put the bucket back on the ground and wheeled it towards the closet. The closet door was open, although I was sure I had closed it. I must have closed it. I mopped the other end of the hall. I stuck the bucket back into the closet and shut the door with a thud.

I walked through the kitchen slowly and felt a pain in my mouth. It started as a dull ache, but I quickly noticed my mouth filling up with blood. The pain came strongly and in waves. I ran to the sink and spat blood twice. I hurried to the bathroom to look in the mirror. I had broken my tooth in half, somehow. My left front tooth was split up the middle. I watched in horror as blood fell from my mouth.

Before long, and as quickly as it had happened, my tooth stopped bleeding. I stood in the bathroom, staring in the mirror. Blood was all over the sink, all over my shirt and all over the floor. I wiped at the blood with paper towels, cleaning most of it up. The pain in my mouth had left me, I felt fine again. I finished cleaning the bathroom with a bottle of disinfectant before looking in the mirror again. My tooth was still split, but now amazingly painless.

After I had the place clean again I walked into the main dining area of the diner. I again heard a knock at the door, but the second time I assumed it was my tooth. This was all in my head, of course. I glanced at the door and saw a shadow of a man on the pane of glass. The shadow stood tall, coming from a light across the street. Where there should have been a man lay nothing. I was a bit unnerved by this but decided to think nothing of it. I checked to make sure the door was locked before walking to the back rooms in order to escape. Everything was as it should be in the front.

I walked through the doorframe separating the front and back of the diner and saw the troubled man from that morning. He was hunched over a shotgun, stumbling towards me and muttering in low voices something unintelligible. I jumped with shock and ran towards the front door. The man stumbled behind me, following me into the next room. He vanished once I passed through the doorframe.

I entered the front room and the tables had been flipped on their tops. They were sitting in their regular spots, upside-down. My tablecloths were blue or white. They were tied together, strung around the room. They were hanging like curtains along the inside of the restaurant. A yellow light was coming from the jukebox on the east side of the room. It started to play an old Dixie tune, something I hadn’t heard on the jukebox before. The man was standing outside the windows, holding his shotgun.

I heard a blast and the front window shattered. The glass fell to the ground with a crash, breaking into a million pieces. I turned around and when I looked back the man in the black baseball cap was stepping through the window. The gunshot seemed to stop at the window, never hitting anything inside the shop. The man pumped his gun, laughing manically as he stepped towards me.

I thought to myself, “This is it,” as the man from this morning slowly walked towards me. He was muttering and laughing. I began to shake. He then turned to me and said, “We wouldn’t want anyone to see this.” I stammered and told him, “Take the money in the drawer, man. I have kids at home.” I pleaded with him for my life and he stepped ever closer, holding that loaded shotgun under his arm.

He stopped and looked at me. He moved his left hand in front of the barrel of the shotgun and pulled the trigger. The gun recoiled towards him and he caught the bullets with the palm his hand. Dropping the gunshot on the ground in front of me he said, “I love that smell of sulfur. Don’t you?” I was too terrified to speak. I backed into the kitchen, aimed on finding a knife. He didn’t follow me.

I grabbed a knife and ran for the back door. I pushed it but it would not open. It had been barricaded from the outside. The dumpster had been pulled in front of the door. I turned and saw the young man. He was not carrying a gun. He was near the oven, and I saw him turn the oven on. He was muttering to himself. I saw him grab a steak knife that was sitting with the cutlery.

He spoke to me, but I could not hear him. He spoke again, muttering louder, but I could not understand him. He pounded the cutting table with his fist and opened his hand. He looked at me and held the knife straight up in the air. I was shaking in fear and told him something to the effect of, “The cops are on their way.” He laughed at me, pointing the knife at me. He said something and pointed the knife towards the ground. He then stabbed through his left hand, which was flat on the table.

He moved his right hand away from the handle of the knife. He then looked me in the eye and pulled his left hand away from the table, showing no sign of being cut. With a smile he said to me, “Life is eternal, they say.” He walked into the front of the restaurant. I walked past the cutting table and looked at the knife stuck in the metal sheet. There was no blood to be seen.

I walked into the dining room slowly, looking for the young man. I found his gun sitting on the bar. I didn’t see him, but I grabbed the gun. I was holding it under my arm and pacing around the room, looking for him. The tablecloths had fallen to the floor and were in three separate piles. The tables we back on their feet, with the chairs turned on top of them. The window was no longer shattered, but the neon signs were off.

The sign on the door was turned to open. The door was unlocked. I opened it and looked outside. The street was eerily quiet. There was not a soul out there. I stood in the doorframe and held the front door open. I was holding the gun under my arm and noticed lights coming around the corner towards me. It appeared to be a taxi. I hid the gun as the car slid by, then walked into the restaurant again.

I tapped the window and it was as strong as ever. I flicked the neon lights back on and began to search the premises for the troubled man. Carrying the gun, I searched every corner of my diner and did not see him. I locked the doors and cleaned up what was left from the confrontation. I hid the gun in my office in the back and walked to the front to leave.

I walked passed the bar, and noticed a half a cup of coffee on the bar. The dish it sat on was not one of my plates. The cup was the regular kind, white and with a handle. I was tired and scared and walked by pretending not to notice. Unlocking the front door I slid outside into the calm summer night. I locked the door quickly and moved down the street, shaking.

I turned and saw the lights on in the restaurant. I kept walking. I walked home, tired after a long day. I did not get a wink of sleep that night. The next morning I showed up at the diner and the cup of coffee was still in the spot I had left it, emptied overnight. I put it in the back and went to my office. The shotgun was still in the spot I had left it. The bullets had been emptied, and there was a shotgun blast hole in the wall. The young mans body was lying in my office. That is when I called the police.

The small child stood in a daze, watching me drink coffee and smoke cigarettes. He remarked that his mother did not approve of smoking and that he thought it made me smell like a soiled mattress. I told him that I was not his mother so we wouldn’t have a problem. He stood with a limp arm holding a toy dump tuck and another arm holding a juice box. It looked as if I told him the tooth fairy didn’t exist. I don’t think he had ever heard a reply quite like that.

“No, your not Mom,” he said, “Where is she? When is she coming back?” The sun was just falling behind the large fence in the back yard. I finished my cigarette and looked at him. “Your mother went to the mall with her sister, remember? She will be back soon. Until then we can find something to do.” The child laughed. It looked like he felt independent and old. I leaned against the railing and smiled.

“Well what do you want to do?” I asked the little man. I raised my cup to my lips and realized I was drinking the last of my coffee. I placed the cup down and the ring of grounds settled into a new moon shape. I played with my cigarette butt and said, “I have to go inside now, you coming?” The child jumped towards the door and opened it. We walked up the one step and into the apartment. I put the cigarette butt in the garbage and the child said, “That’s where it belongs to be.”

I remembered doing the same thing as a small child. I was an outspoken non-smoker as a child. My mother had asked me to think like that. Now, I barely remember not being a smoker. I am beginning to feel the harmful affects of my addiction. I hope the same fate doesn’t reach this child. Perhaps he will be brighter than I was. I should have listened to the folk who refused to buy them for me. Rules are there for a reason. I should know that by now.

It is evening now. Still I am staying alive with coffee and cigarettes. I place my empty cup on the counter and exhale. “Is that all you can breathe?” The child shouts. I am taken aback a little before saying, “I never inhaled.” He laughs and shouts, “Lets have a breathing contest. Whoever breathes biggest wins, smoker versus non-smoker.” I laugh and say, “Ok, but I have bigger lungs.”

We breathe deeply for a few seconds, and then the child laughs and says, “I win. I breathed deeper.” I agree, and look for more coffee in the pot, there is none. I click the pot of the burner and debate making more coffee. It is evening now, the child’s mother will be home soon and she’ll have no need for it. Perhaps, I think, we can stay up late drinking coffee and being adults. It was a nice thought.

The child brings his truck to me. It is one of the yellow metal dump trucks we used to have in my sandbox. It is large, but not rusted like ours were. He places it in my hand and says, “This is you.” He then runs and grabs a red sports car. It was oversized, one of the kind you see on stands in the library of an auto mechanic. The stand is gone and the wheels spin freely, so we are about to race.

I ask the child, “Where is the course?” He says, “All the way around the outside of the room, then up on the couch and back through the coffee table. Then we do it once more.” And with that, the child is running, racing around the sides of the room with a car in hand. I chase after him and drive my dump truck barely able to catch him. He reaches through the legs of the coffee table in a professional manner and starts his second lap. I reach the table and get stuck. My large stature is in no way helping the cause. He reaches the outside wall and flies up the now banked corner.

I realize I am outmatched but continue to chase him in vain. He reaches the couch and his car jumps across to the coffee table. He waits for me to catch up, with a look of glee in his eye. As I am about to reach the couch he throws the car between the legs of the coffee table and bursts into laughter. The red sports car his the glass door between the kitchen and patio with a crack. I jump, but we were lucky, no damage.

The child walks over and grabs his car from the floor. I am breathing heavily and the child looks at me and laughs like a hyena. “See, you shouldn’t smoke. You can’t even drive a car without breathing heavily.” I catch my breath and say, “You make sure to remember that you told me that, and never start smoking. I only smoke because I started smoking and now I can’t stop. It’s a strange addiction.”

The child looks at me and asks, “What does addiction mean?” I explain to him it is when you don’t want to do something but you have to. It is because your body needs the chemical you are addicted to, you have grown attached to having it around. Because of this your body chemistry changes and you become dependant of the chemical. The child remains confused and says, “I’ll never have addiction.”

I tell him he should remember he told me that as well. “Do yourself a favor,” I say, “and never have an addiction.” I end the thought with the phrase, “Vices.” The child questions what the word vice means. “Vice,” I tell him, “Is when you know something is bad for you but you do it anyways, because you enjoy it. Like eating candy.” The child smiles and says, “Oh, I like vices.”

I stutter and say, “No, no, vices are usually addictions.” The child says, “Actually I have an addiction. My vice is candy. I’m addicted to it. And sometimes I need to have candy or I’ll die. Seriously.” I laugh and retrace my steps, explaining candy may not be a vice. I mention that vices are sort of like candy, in a way. I have always been and strong advocate for stimulants of all kinds. Maybe someday he’ll be a coffee and cigarettes kind of guy. They are always the best people.

I am swimming in this thought and he asks, “So cigarettes are like candy?” I fight the urge to chuckle and say, “No, cigarettes are a vice. Candy is just sugar.” He seems to understand, “But cigarettes make you feel like you ate candy? I like that feeling.” “No,” I reply. “That’s more like coffee. Cigarettes are like sucking on a tailpipe.” He laughs and asks, “Why do you do that then?”

I don’t know how to reply. I have no reason to smoke that I would want to tell a vulnerable child. I think I should be honest. I smoke because I enjoy every one I have. I smoke because I thought it looked cool in grade school. I smoke because my friends did, but they have come and gone and what I have left is a full ashtray. I smoke because I am unstable, because I need a crutch. I smoke because I cannot go a day without them. But I can’t tell a child that, I’m supposed to be a role model.

The reply I give him is stammered, “Because I’m addicted to it.” I begin to tell him about all the horrible things cigarettes do and he says, “I know, Mom told me that.” I then explain that cigarettes are not like candy because candy is rarely connected to any of results of lifelong cigarette addiction. He looks at me and says, “I don’t like vices.” I tell him I don’t like my vices either.

I ask him if he wants to go outside for a smoke, like an adult. This is partially because I think its funny asking a six year old to smoke with me and partially because all the talk of cigarettes made me think of having another. No more coffee with this one, I’ve decided. It is probably for the best. The sun has gone down and his mother will be home soon. Maybe she would like some coffee, I thought.

I cough and the child says, “Don’t smoke.” I am halfway out the door with a cigarette in my hand. I look at him. He looks as if he has been hurt. “You just finished telling me how those cause cancer and strokes.” I pull him outside and light the cigarette. I think about my vice. He is still talking, telling me all the things I told him about the horrors of tobacco use. I puff on the cigarette and exhale the white smoke.

“Is it true you cough up boogers if you smoke?” The child asks me. I clear my throat and state as clear as the day, “Its grosser than that.” The child squirms and asks me to clarify. “They are like big, gray boogers.” He laughs. “Except they are wet and sticky. They fly out of your mouth and cover your hands.” He screams in disgust and asks, “Why do you smoke then?” I don’t know how to answer his question.

I take a drag from the cigarette and say, “Ok, you are a smart kid, right?” He says quickly that he is. I explain the chemical I am addicted to in the smoke is called nicotine. I tell him that my brain cannot bridge a gap in my daily life without nicotine, now that I have tried it. I explain that when I was only a few years older than him I tried smoking and thought it would make me cool. I explain that once I had made a conscious decision to begin smoking I lost the ability to not smoke.

He pretends to understand me but I knew he couldn’t. I dock the cigarette at the halfway mark and tell him I shouldn’t be smoking around him. What would his mother say? He claims she wouldn’t mind and she would be happy that he is learning new things. He tells me they told him that once in school so it must be true. I open the pack and find I only have one and a half cigarettes left.

The child walks into the apartment and shuts the door behind him. I try to open it and find he has locked it. I hear him say there are no smokers allowed inside the house. I knock on the door and ask him nicely to open it. He laughs and runs across the room. He jumps on the couch and starts bouncing, laughing. I knock on the glass and he jumps from one cushion to the next. He falls on the armrest and rolls onto the floor. I knock on the glass one more time.

I am helpless and out of ideas. There is no other way I can get in to the room. I struggle for a moment but am saved quickly as his mother and aunt walk into the room. She laughs and shouts his name, unlocking the door and letting me in. She is laughing and asks me, “How long have you been out there?” I smile and tell her it was just briefly. She scolds the child and sends him to bed, telling me it has passed his bedtime.

She tucks him in and comes back from the hall. I am sitting with her sister talking about our mutual friends. She sits next to me and laughs. “Kids,” she says. I tell her she has a smart kid, a good conversationalist. She smiles and says, “Isn’t he just a big bundle of love?”

I look at her and ask, “He doesn’t know you smoke?” She laughs. “I have a half a smoke here,” I say, “Lets go for one.”

An image of relations to a level in which I do not want to behave or believe that a woman such as that would exist. We have convinced ourselves that we do not exist.

Triggers

Triggers on the back of works of technological art, that help a child learn touchy hand-eye coordination are drastically changing the working world. The newspaper told this to me one time, explaining how the use a video game are creating a breed of incredibly talented and efficient surgeons. This was good press for the video game industry who very soon after came out with a version of the board game “Operation.” It comes in a red package with a clown white man with a messy Afro lying on a panel of cold steel. The video game was actually that of a Zombie killing dentist who needed to make his way across Gotham City to save the life of his child.

Silhouette

Temporary employment in the ethereal world, for a half step up or down for the Tao of Willie Nelson is my succubus. In a bleak lit hotel room a man steps next to a falling girl the children of weeping parents strung over the black light of a dominatrix peephole. In habit the nun weeps in heaven and understood the only hotel room the vice had wrote was that of a smoking gun and failure. The young hurt tired and lame in wheelchairs standing tall for the peace of a Muslim named Jew. Casually he stumbles with the filter as he puts his hold on one more cigarette. A Cuban cigar when 40 million people banned them, and the unholy dreadlock bandage that has bonded us. Words are a brilliant reciprocal that we, humanity were asked to use quite some time ago.

Morbius.
Hitler, Bush and more Bush were standing in platform heels on the silhouette of the stockades on first day of Ramadan. The number 6 was higher than four stiletto heels of their individual primeval delusion. The irony was that they cussed a succubus, the partial platform of Red, White and Blue. Although, the Blacks know the blues and the White never had it.

The new formula:
1. Two peaces a day
2. Grey matter
3. Love, love, love
4. Save yourselves
5. Read books
6. Think for yourselves

Jerry Garcia this told me one time, in a dream that I had.
I tried writing words that leave over the rest they left me out.
Homo Sapiens
Homo Sapiens
Homo Sapiens
I know nothing of satanic worship, or even what it means. Perhaps it is a quest for fire or the apathy of slavery as a cigarette but yes, it is vice we convince ourselves is necessary for our survival in a horrible brutal and twisted world. But my friend, you must learn that we all carry our personal demons and delusions with us. Everyone has every day issues and life in not easy. So if we sit tight, perhaps maybe everything will turn out for the best.

Dreamtime
Lucidity
REM
Sleep
Rampant phone calls
Questions
Where do we go?
You are someone right?
Am I imagining this, I had that mint julep at Smithy’s?
Who are you?

“Stranger,” she smiles, “Dire need of self realization.” “I forgot,” I space, “It must be somewhere out in the ether. I’m pretty sure you have everything you could possibly exist about and more in your pocket too, before this.” Devon smiled from the corner as the past persuasions slipped between the lines.

And you know what, I believed her.

this I believe

This is what I believe:
For Preston Manning

By Jon Pelletier

I believe in magic, not so much in rabbit out of hat illusions but in various isms, which allow me to be characterized and labeled in specific ways according to my personality. I believe that we should do precisely what we are told at any given time because those who seek power always know best. I believe that prohibition of firearms would cause 4 Billion people to attack my country and that we must be afraid of a terrorist attack at any time. At any time, a terrorist or intruder could enter my home and rape me, kill my wife and steal my children. I believe that fear is a tool for control. It allows me to control myself.

I believe that drugs make black people as crazy as they make white people and that in comparison, various races would probably have the same amount of fuck-ups lying on the street making money. These are the men we should be afraid of. I fear men with guns. I believe they carry the weapon in order to feel more confident and appear stronger. I believe small men drive clean big trucks. Big trucks with guns on them are the three-way orgy for manipulative in the closet, child molesting senior citizens like the American government. I believe that evil men become more and more delusional the more horrible things they do. It is my own philosophy that we should all try and make the world a better place. By bettering our own world we make ourselves happier.