RKMBs Forums .::Important::. Writer's Block Short Story Challenge.

As Dave said in the Writer's Block thread:

Quote:

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Surveying the field, despite the name change, this forum is basically about collective superhero writing and JQ's erotica, isn't it?

The first genre is only of limited interest to me, despite the fact that people here clearly write it well and enjoy doing that, and as for the second, I don't need to know what gives JQ a boner.

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In an effort to bring a wider variety of genres into the field than superheroes and gay erotica, I thought it would be useful to start a thread just for short stories, written specifically for this thread.

The Ground Rules:

This thread is not intended be a discussion thread, unless the individual writers decide to add an "Author's Comment" in their post, so don't post your comments here 'cause they'll get deleted -- post any and all comments in the discussion thread. Also, since we have an abundance of superhero/sci-fi-inspired stories on this board already, don't post any superhero/metahuman or sci-fi (or erotica) stories here. An element of the fantastic is okay, such as in a ghost story or a fantasy story, but we've already got sci-fi coming out of the ears around here (ew. bad mind-picture. ), and this thread is meant to encourage something different.

OK, so this is how it works:

Each short story will be written in one post and will be based on a concept expressed in a single short sentence which is posted by the previous writer. Anyone wanting to take the challenge left by the previous writer is welcome to do so. Simply accept the challenge in the discussion thread and you'll be given no more than one week -- seven days -- to come up with a story. Post the whole short story in its finished form in one post, and after your story include a concept written in a single short sentence for the next writer to take up.

Each short story should be self-contained and not part of any series, so that it can be read on its own without having to know any kind of backstory. So don't post a random adventure of your favourite character here.

If there is any confusion or problems, such as two people accepting the challenge at the same time, or two people posting short stories based on the same concept, I'll act as moderator. Problems like those shouldn't happen too often.

As far as word-count goes, I don't really want to limit anyone much, but 500 words is about the bare minimum we'd want to have. Anything under 3000 words is okay, but short stories that are longer than that tend to be more like novellas than anything, so work on your brevity.

And if you want to write something based on one of the concepts here, or something more sci-fi and superhero-like, feel free to start a new thread. The more stories there are, the more there is for the rest of us to read. If this challenge is too limiting on your creativity, you're better off posting it as a solo story.

Okay, so let's flex those writing-muscles.

J002E3 is the designation given to an asteroid discovered by American amateur astronomer Bill Yeung on September 3, 2002.

The new moon was found to be in orbit around Earth. Astronomers were extraordinarily surprised by this, as no other natural object apart from the Moon is in orbit around the Earth. Anything other heavenly body would have been ejected from an orbit billions of years before due to perturbations with the Earth, the Moon and the Sun - part of the suspiciously natural planetary defence system against earth-killing meteors.

Scientists formed the opinion that the object must have entered into Earth orbit very recently - mere decades ago, instead of years measured by the rise and fall of continents. One explanation could have been that it was a 30-metre wide piece of rock, but this was rejected after spectral analysis. It seemed somewhat...artificial. Yet no recently-launched spacecraft matched the orbit of J002E3.

Astrology is any of several traditions in which knowledge of the apparent positions of celestial bodies is deemed to be insightful, or indeed determinative of the nature of reality and human existence on earth. All systems of astrology are based on the relative positions and movements of various real and construed (such as constellational) celestial bodies, chiefly the Sun, Moon, planets, Ascendant, and lunar nodes, as seen at the time and place of the birth or other event being studied. No system of astrology predicted the emergenece of a new moon, nor was a new moon used in astrological calculations.

Alchemy is allied and intertwined with traditional Greek astrology as used by mystical organisations such as Masonic temples, the Knights Templar and the Illuminati. Alchemy and astrology interact with the other as templates for the revelation of arcane knowledge, particularly in relation to the transmutation of metals. Each of the seven planets as known in Classical and Medieval times was associated with, held dominion over, and ruled a certain metal.

The list of rulership is as follows:

The Sun rules Gold
The Moon, Silver
Mercury, Mercury
Venus, Copper
Mars, Iron
Jupiter, Tin
Saturn, Lead

But the new moon had no demesne over a metal.

And then there was the music of the spheres. The music of the spheres is a medieval philosophical concept that regards the proportions in the movements of the celestial bodies - the sun, moon and planets - as a form of music. The Greek philosopher Pythagoras is credited with originating the concept of musica universalis, which stemmed from his semi-mystical, semi-mathematical philosophy and its associated system of numerology. The sun, moon and planets were thought to revolve around the earth in their proper spheres - the most thorough and imaginative description of the concept can be found in Dante's Divine Comedy. The spheres were thought to have been created by God in proportional relations that were reflected in the whole-number relations of the pure musical intervals.

But both Pythagoras and Dante did not know of the new moon.

How would the new moon affect the practice of astrology? Would the the new moon's orbit into the constellation of Leo negate any benign affects of the old moon passing through Pisces? Would it mean the entire archaic machine of ascending constellations and heavenly bodies would be derailed, the cogs of the gods failing to click?

How would the new moon affect alchemy? Could the new moon be responsible for a new metal? Was the new moon throwing out the calculations of those who seek the Philosopher's Stone? Was the gradual global decline in the price of silver attributable to this modern interloper?

And the music of the spheres: was it no doubt thrown into cacophony? Was the new mon a rogue statstic in Ptolemy's calculations, or was it a sign that the heavens had created a new instrument for its etheral strummings?

University of Arizona astronomers found that the object's spectrum was consistent with white titanium dioxide paint, the same paint used by NASA for the Saturn V rockets. The astronomers back-traced the body's orbit, and found that the object had been orbiting the Sun for 31 years, and had last been in the vicinity of the Earth in 1971. Was it debris from the Apollo 14 mission? NASA denied this, and claimed to know the location of all hardware used for this mission; the third stage, for instance, was deliberately crashed into the Moon for seismic studies, nothing to do with the transmutation of silver caused by smashing titanium into the grey silt of the Sea of Tranquility.

The only other explanation was that it was the S-IVB third stage for Apollo 12. NASA had intended to direct the S-IVB into a solar orbit, a faux sungod leering like Icarus into the face of Apollo. This was not to be: an extra long burn of the ullage motors meant that venting the remaining propellant in the tank of the S-IVB did not give the rocket stage enough energy to escape the Earth-Moon system. Instead the stage languished in a semi-stable orbit around the Earth after passing by the Moon in November 18, 1969, in the zodiac month of Scorpio. The Apollo 12 S-IVB eventually vanished.

J002E3 again left Earth orbit in June, 2003, but astronomers calculate that it may return to Earth orbit in about 2032.

Slowly releasing their sweating palms from their amythest crystal solace pendants, alchemists, astrologers and musicians of the spheres all breathed a collective sigh of relief. They now have an extra thirty years to recalibrate their systems. In a secret ceremony attended by thirteen cowled princes, a white bull was sacrificed to the sun god Nomios, the god of the wandering sun, at the Greek island of Delos (the birthplace of Apollo) in votive thanks.

*****

Here is the next topic:

The secret love of the knight of storms.

The Secret Love of the Knight of Storms


I still occasionally catch a glimpse of Agneta Triantafyllo - the so called Pure Rose - as I take my daily exercise on Hampstead Heath. It is at its most visible in late winter, when the trees are still bare and the predominant colour in the landscape is a muddy brown, before the novelty of flowers at such a dead time of the year is diluted by the first blooms of early spring. It favours the sheltered, waterlogged conditions offered by the relatively low lying wooded areas. I sometimes catch sight of it from a distance, a way off from the path, a tangle of briar and stinging nettles barring from closer inspection the brilliant white flowers that never fully open and appear perpetually on the verge of blossoming. The first time that I saw one in the wild, growing out from a dense thicket of branches, I paused and stood for several minutes, studying it through the pair of binoculars that I sometimes carry with me so that I can watch the kites flying on Parliament Hill.

In recent times I have not encountered the rose as often as I used to when it was first allowed to colonise the heath. One of the conditions imposed when Sir Andrew Radcliff was granted permission to seed the area, was that it should be a sterile breed so that there could no unforseen environmental consequences. When it was engineered the life expectancy of the hybrid was given to be between 7-8 years. This year, 2005, will mark the seventh anniversary of the species. Recently I read in the local paper that there has been a huge surge in demand for the flowers in bridal bouquets and that florists from the surrounding area have been frantically harvesting it in anticipation of the day when it finally becomes extinct. I imagine that soon I shall walk across the heath and see none at all.

When Sir Andrew seeded the heath his research into what has become known as Layered Agriforming was still very much in its early stages. At the time he was concerned with scatter patterns, principally with making them as uniform as possible. The proximity of the heath to his home in Highgate enabled him to study the fruits of his work firsthand.

After the Agriforming technique had been perfected, and mere days before the first field tests were conducted over a particularly barren region of Ethiopia, I recall viewing a slowed-down computer simulation of the process in action. It was like watching an exquisitely engineered piece of machinery in motion, where no part is superfluous and their combined action appears deeply in tune with the fundamental laws of the universe. The clouds of chemicals, that were dispersed by aircraft into the upper atmosphere and which caused storms to occur, were themselves enriched by the electricity generated by the storms while they drifted back to earth as a fine layer of soil nutrients. The subsequent cocktails of seeds and bacteria, charged by lightning on subsequent drops interacted with the previous layers on the ground to form new chemical compounds creating conditions beneficial for plant growth.

It is absolutely staggering when one considers the short period of time in which the Green Africa project has transformed previously inhospitable parts of the continent. After his inclusion in the Queen's New Years honours list, one South African newspaper - The Cry - dubbed Sir Andrew "The Knight of Storms" conjuring up images of a Norse God that was completely at odds with the man's disheveled and unassuming demeanor.

I suppose that it is entirely understandable that these remarkable recent achievements should have come to overshadow the roots of the project. Agneta Triantafyllo - the white rose of Hampstead will soon die out and its loss will be felt no further afield than the surrounding London suburbs. With the passage of time I expect that the person who unconciously became the driving force behind the project will also be forgotten as the few people who knew of her also pass away.

I knew Andrew for most of his life. We were at boarding school together and we remained close friends since that time. I can think of no other woman who he loved more than Agneta Crittenden. It was one of those cruel ironies that by the time they strayed into one another's orbit she was 14 years old and he was 63. Born in different times and under different circumstances it is possible that their relationship could have blossomed into something other than Platonic.

They met during a series of lectures held each December at Grays Inn Hall and aimed at stirring an interest in a new generation of potential young scientists. Following his talk, as the audience drifted out of the lecture hall, Andrew found himself embroiled in a lengthy discussion with Agneta that caused her to miss her coach back home. While they waited for the school to send transportation to pick up their missing pupil they were able to cement their friendship. I can see how he was taken by her sharp mind; her ability to quickly grapple an understanding of some very tricky concepts and then throw what she had learned back at you in the form of unexpected yet thought provoking questions.

After their first encounter, I often used to see them together at the weekend returning from one of the museums or occasionally on their way to a concert or a theatre performance. One Saturday, having arranged to meet up with them at the Natural History Museum Cafe I arrived slightly early. While I was waiting I explored the cavernous display halls and found them in a side room, stationed on opposite sides of a glass case containing fossilised ferns, both of them furiously sketching in a race to see who could finish drawing all the exhibits first.

I remember it as a happy time. As one gets older it becomes more and more of a struggle to keep pace with the world, which transforms into an alien and threatening place, the less you understand of it. A young perspective, unprejudiced by the weight of antiquated experience is the best antidote I know of for the mental symptoms of old age. I believe that I may well have found the secret of eternal youth; if not to be young yourself then to learn from the young and to see the world as they do.

Little more than a year after the pair had first met, Agneta was seriously injured in the terrible train derailment outside Paddington Station. It was a truly awful disaster that has proved to be the final nail in the coffin of the privatised rail network in Great Britain and the first step on the ladder towards the re-nationalisation of the industry. What made it worse was that several of the carriages were occupied by children traveling home from school. There were distressing images on the news that evening of their bodies scattered across the tracks. Agneta survived but she never regained consciousness and has remained in a coma for the last nine years.

Andrew paid for her treatment and used to visit her almost everyday. He began bringing objects to decorate her room, many of them borrowed from the archives of various museums around London, until it began to look like auspiciously an Egyptian tomb. Saint Mark's hospital is actually several isolated buildings scattered over a square mile of central London. I remember a fraught time when the part of the hospital that housed Agneta was earmarked for closure and demolition. In the final weeks before she was moved to Saint Thomas's, she was the only patient left in the building, looked after by a skeleton staff of two doctors, a ward sister and a handful of student nurses. The contractors for the new office development that was to rise up in place of the old hospital wing had already excavated part of the street outside and had started work on overhauling the electricity and gas mains. Andrew was consumed with worry that they might accidentally cut through the wrong cable and suspend the supply of electricity that was keeping Agneta alive.

Sir Andrew Radcliff passed away peacefully on boxing day of 2004. His will requests that the pertinent chemical compounds be extracted from his remains and incorporated into the next Agriforming project. This will begin in March of this year along part of the Eritrean/Sudanese border. In his absence I have taken to visiting Agneta as often as I can. I think that it troubled him deeply that he had been able to bring life to such barren corners of the world but was unable to reawaken the young girl for whom he felt such strong affection, held in fiercely high regard and in whom he saw such budding promise.



NEXT: The Financial Genealogy of Eastern Europe

The Comte. Oh, the Comte. He has many secrets. He has money. Its hidden. but his biggest secret. Its mine.

St. Germain never revealed his actual background and identity to me, or to anyone, leading to many speculations about him and his origin and ancestry. But I know. I know him.

I have kept a record of my findings. A record of the theories. Some of the more plausible include the possibility that he was the son of Francis II Rakoczy, the Prince of Transylvania, who was in exile, or that he was the illegitimate son of Marie-Ann de Neubourg, the widow of Charles II of Spain. These are closer to the truth than you might imagine. But you need to go further back. Much further.

While he may have studied in Italy at Siena University, possibly as a protégé of Grand Duke Gian Gastone (the last of the Medici line), St. Germain's first chronicled appearances were in London in 1743 and in Edinburgh in 1745, where he was apparently arrested for spying. He was released and soon acquired a reputation as a great violinist. He was ascetic and apparently celibate. During this time he met Jean-Jacques Rousseau. In 1746 he disappeared. There are some who think that the British royal family are immortal. That they rotate the throne every 300 years between them. This is why they look alike. Ha! I look like any of them! We are all related, after all. They are not immortal, and the rotation theory is not true. But St Germain's involvement with the English at this early time gives some comfort to this to those with vivid imaginations.

Horace Walpole, who knew him from about 1745 in London, described him thus: "He sings, plays the violin wonderfully, composes, is mad and not very sensible." Walpole was a spy for the British artistocracy: no credit can be given to his comments. The Comte was a grand violist. Too bad he cannot play anymore. Not until he promises: no more TV.

St Germain reappeared in Versailles in 1758. I had a drink with him, walking under a parasoil in the summer heat. He told me I should bathe, the bastard. As if. He claimed to have had recipes for dyes and acquired quarters in the Chateau de Chambord. Such a charlatan.

During this time in Paris he gave diamonds as gifts and reputedly hinted that he was centuries old. The diamonds were not real, but he was centuries old. The old portrait of him dates from these years. He was my acquaintance and regularly fucked Pompadour. At the time a mime, Gower, began to mimic his mannerism in salons, joking that he would have advised Jesus. I lost some interest in him - he would not hand over his greatest secret, then. In 1760 he left for England through Holland when the minister of State, Duke of Choiseul, tried to have him arrested. But he is a shroud, when he wants to be, a shadow of a cloud, and evaded the good minister.

After that the count passed through Holland into Russia and apparently was in St Petersburg when the Russian army put Catherine the Great on the throne. Later conspiracy theories credit him for causing it. Catherine had not time for people likemthe Comte, or, later, Cagliostro. He left Russia.

Next year he turned up in Belgium, bought land and took the name Surmount. He tried to offer his processes – treatments of wood, leather, oil paint – to the state. During his negotiations – that came to nothing – with Belgian minister Karl Cobenzl he hinted at a royal birth and turned iron into something resembling gold. Then he disappeared for 11 years.

In 1774 he apparently tried to present himself to a count in Bavaria as Freiherr Reinhard Gemmingen-Guttenberg, the count Tsarogy. Christendom's second largest library at the time was in Budapest. Everyone knew those Eastern Europeans were wealthy. He had a score of followers by this time.

In 1776 the Count was in Germany, calling himself Count Welldone, and again offered recipes – cosmetics, wines, liqueurs, treatments of bone, paper and ivory. He alienated King Frederick's emissaries by his claims of transmutation of gold and reputedly compared himself to God. To Frederick he claimed to have been a Freemason. Silly Comte. He is no God. Perhaps he is just a[ God. But not the God. That would be silly.

He settled in a house of Prince Karl of Hesse-Kassel, governor of Schleswig-Holstein and studied herbal remedies and chemistry to give to the poor. To him he claimed he was a Francis Rakoczy II, Prince of Transylvania. He made a lot of money then. He had a lot of children, too, in Transylvania. He sometimes wonders what happened to them. I wonder, too.

In 1784 it was reported that the Count died, probably of pneumonia. He left very little behind. I arranged this. All of it. He was in a predicament. We transferred his wealth to Berne, in exchange for the secret of immortality. The money sits there still. I suspect he still has some wealth hidden in Prague, from the time of the sack of Constantinople. Never mind - he can't get to it now, and I have enough to keep me going.

There were rumors of him alive in Paris in 1835, in Milan in 1867 and in Egypt during Napoleon's campaign. That faker to the throne, Napoleon II, kept a dossier on him. Annie Besant said that she met the count in 1896. Theosophist C. W .Leadbeater claimed to have met him in Rome in 1926. Theosophist Guy Ballard claimed that the count had introduced him to visitors from Venus and published a book series about his channelings; Ballard founded the I Am Foundation.

In January 28, 1972, ex-convict and lover of singing star Dalida, Richard Chanfray tried to claim to be Count St Germain on French television. He also claimed that Louis XV was still alive. Ha! and on TV! That shit, the Comte. He might get me into trouble yet.

I got sick of his escapes, and the appearance on TV was the last straw. If there is one thing my family knows much about, it is the ruthlessness of Madame Guillotine. I cut off his head, and placed it in a plate filled with acid. Everytime he tries to grow his body back, the acid eats at the new flesh. He complains vociferously about this. I have told him that his bloodline will end unless he behaves, because nothing will ever grow back. He says he does not care. What a child. I have told him that if he promises not to escape again then I will take him out of the plate. He refuses to do so. He loves publicity. Especially in this new age of mass media.

Well, he can sit there until he rots. Or does not. Whatever the case may be.

I have plenty of money, his greatest of secrets to share with whom I like, and, with that in mind, best of all, Pompadour is as good as ever.

Oh, my Comte. I do love him.

But I will never ever bathe.

Next: Rose petals

Rose didn't have an easy life. At least, not in her own opinion.

Her parents were Haxbury Petals and Rose Lopez. Rose being a theoretically optional but in reality mandatory family name that could be traced back to at least fifteen generations on her mother's side, her full name came to be Rose Petals. Her parents didn't mind the name much (being full of what Rose referred to as "New Age Bullshit"), and in fact enthusiastically announced it to whoever they met, even if they didn't trust the person enough to give them their real phone number, as if they were more proud of the name itself than they were of the human being forced to carry it. This peculiar misbalance of love went so far that one time, when Rose was 9, her parents intentionally let go of her inside a crowded supermarket only so they could call her beautiful name through the speakers.

Of course, Rose hated her name. She always did, as far as she could remember. During what her therapist called “The Supermarket Incident”, she felt so embarassed of answering to the speaker's call in front of all the people in the supermarket, that she actually asked a homeless man that somehow made it through the place's security undetected to take her home with him. Since that plan didn't work out (the homeless person had already filled his coat with Captain Crunch boxes and “didn't have enough space for a little girl in there,” he told her), Rose tried ignoring the call, but that only made her parents make it more specific, forcing Rose to hide in a broom closet so people wouldn't recognize her. The sorry event, that without a doubt marked Rose's childhood, ended when the local news team showed up at the supermarket and started an hour-long segment called “The Search for Rose Petals”, where her parents mentioned Rose's name while showing her picture twenty-seven times in total (thirty-six counting the times they did that while being interviewed by other stations). Rose was eventually found and, needless to say, when she attended school the next day her lack of popularity didn't mean nobody knew her name anymore.

Nowadays, Rose is 29 and hasn't changed her name yet, though she's considered doing it several times through her life (the first time being one day when she was 15 and she invited some friends to her house for a pajama party, and her mother, noticing the other girls only called her Rosie, insisted that they call her by her full name, since it was “such a lovely name” and it “gave a little life to such a dull young lady”... coincidentially, this was also the first time Rose seriously considered divorcing her parents and trying to find the homeless man to see if he would reconsider his decision). The reasons why Rose hasn't actually changed her name, though, have nothing to do with lack of enthusiasm towards the idea: they are more related to the fact that both sides of her family are fanatic enough when it comes to their respective names (last name in the case of her father's family, first name for her mother's) that “bad things” usually happen to those who dare dishonor the family by changing their name. A cousin on her father's side, for example, refused to keep her family's name after marrying her highschool sweetheart, and three days after the marriage took place her brand new car was mysteriously repainted with an unfahsionable kind of purple. Her mother's side was a bit more extreme, however: Rose's one cousin who changed her name (from Rose to Rosa during a “reconnecting with one's roots” period) disappeared and was eventually found dead, dismembered and gutted inside the toilet of a public restroom. Of course, this happened seven years after the name change and an ocean away from the rest of the family, where Rosa was earning her life as a hard working prositute, but Rose still firmly believed her mother's side had something to do with it, though she never mentioned this to anyone.

What Rose hated the most these days was doing any official business that forced her to reveal her name. When she met people in social situations she could at least lie about it (though this always brought problems later on, causing Rose to correctly assume she would never have a relationship that lasted for more than a few days), but in official business this wasn't even a possibility. Rose dreaded the moment when they asked for her name, and in fact her most recurring nightmare was about it (in the dream, a shirtless bank cashier played by Brad Pitt would shamelessly flirt with her, and then make “the question”... that would be answered by Rose's parents using a supermarket speaker, causing her teeth and clothes to fall off). She had tried answering the question in several ways and different tones: quickly, slowly, loudly, quietly, relaxed, uptight, uninterested, flirty... Nothing worked. The reaction was always the same: an eyebrow would be lifted, the eyes would be fixed, the mouth would open, the word “Huh?” would come out, and Rose would be forced to repeat it, go through the whole thing again, only to get a slightly less embarassing reaction.

But what really got to Rose was the knowledge that, in spite of not having named herself, this was all her own fault. She could have a different life if she was a different kind of person. There was a man at her office called Dick Lovar. He could call himself Richard, but he didn't. And what was worse: he got by wonderfully. His personality was so great and charming that nobody seemed to notice his ridiculous name. If anyone ever made a joke about it, that was probably him, and the rest probably laughed and celebrated it. Instead of looking up to Dick Lovar like she knew she should, Rose hated him for so effortlessly achieving what she always dreamed of: leading a normal life in spite of her name.

This awful feeling of guilt towards herself was confirmed when her parents died, and her life continued to be just as miserable as it always was, and it always would be.

Next: Amazing Dancing Monkeys

Good story Mxy. Funny stuff.

(Dedicated to Mxy)

David Robert Jones was bon January 8, 1947. Jones is a rock and roll musician, actor, and artist. He was born in Brixton, an area of London, but grew up in the town of Bromley, in Kent (now part of Greater London). Jones stated his earliest musical goal was to be a sax player in Little Richard's group. Initially a saxophonist, he, quite by accident, was discovered as a singer when he subbed in for a missing vocalist at a club in London. He initially played with various blues groups, such as "The Lower Third" in 1960s. Jones's greatest strength through his career has been his ability to adapt his public image to fit, and often anticipate, the prevailing musical trends. His early work shifts through blues and Elvis-esque music while working with many British pop styles.

Heavily influenced by the dramatic arts, from avant-garde theatre and mime to Commedia dell'arte much of his work has involved the creation of characters or personae to present to the world. David needed to use a different stage name to avoid confusion with Davy Jones of The Monkees, so he chose the last name Monkey in parody of his potential rival.

David Monkey released his first solo album in 1967, simply called David Monkey. It was an odd amalgam of Psychedelic Rock and Easy Listening. Also released was a single, The Laughing Gnome, with the cult-classic B-side, The Gospel According to Tony Day. None of these managed to chart; the 1967 album is scantily available nowadays, although it exists in counterfeit copies.

Monkey drifted into obscurity. He performed mime in Waterloo station in London throughout most of the 1970s. He thought he might have had a big break when Sid Vicious stumbled upon his act late one evening. The punk rocker asked Jones for his name, and rather foolishly Jones gave the punk his stage name. Vicious mocked him with it, "You are a fucking monkey! An amazing dancing monkey!" and promptly vomited over Jones' only suit.

Depressed, Monkey saved up money and moved to continental Europe. In 1980, after spending some time in Berlin with a shadowy friend named Brian Eno, Monkey commenced working for GLOCK, an Austrian defense contractor located in Deutsch-Wagram, near Vienna, Austria. While still working shadowy bars at night with his music, during the day Monkey studied drafting and designed handles for GLOCK firearms.

While mainly known for being the manufacturer of polymer-framed pistols, GLOCK also makes equipment such as field knives and shovels. Monkey is mainly responsible for this. In 1989, while experimenting with tin alloys for a bullet manufacturing machine, Monkey became enamoured with the concept of light weight knives. He approached the GLOCK head of operations with the idea. The GLOCK senior management were impressed with his initiative, and directed Monkey to oversee the operation. In an expression of ego, the first design for the knives were called "Monkey knives". They were not commercially successful, and the name was subsequently changed

Monkey still lives in a flat outside of Vienna, and often wonders if he should have really pursued the music career. Monkey also questions his wisdom in choosing a stage name with such negative influences. "Why didn't I choose something more masculine?" he often asks his good friend, Mick Ronson, an English fitter and turner living in Vienna, over a warm pint of Austrian beer.

Next:

Tick "No".

Tick “No”


“The thing musicians ask me more than anything else is how I got my sax to sound
how it does on ‘Tick “No”’. Now you’ve heard that? And I don’t mean on no record or compact disk. I mean you’ve heard it bein’ performed.”

“Many times, many times. One of my earliest memories is my mother taking me to see you play at The Filmore East.”

“Then you know: The music crouches down in the bend o’ the sax and it don’t want to come out. You hear it like it playing in another room, with the rest o’ the band playin’ around it. Not over the top of it. Then you wouldn’t hear none of it. The band plays around it. Tha’s why whenever we play Tick “No”, everyone tryin’ to get down as close to the stage as possible. It’s like the whole room is breathing in during that piece…

“…Now, you want to know the secret how it’s played?”

“Yeah sure, why not.”

“The first thing you need is a saxophone like mine. He, he, heh. AIN’T NO ONE GOT THAT! If you grab that book of phot’graphs offa that table…

“…See these x-rays. These are x-rays of my sax. Same one I got resting ‘cross my lap here. This is a…this is a blow up o’ this section. You see it’s a double skinned instrument – two different metals. Look at this chamber here: These internal valves bent like little ticks. At the moment they all laying on the bottom. Looks like somethin’ broke inside don’t it? When I play, this whole chamber is filled up with oxygen – these valves are floating on very fine threads o’ wire and they pivot on their apex dependin’ on how much pressure is bein’ exerted on them. The trick to playin Tick “No” is keepin’ them in this position, like I’m showin’ you with my fingers, so the sound bein’ siphoned off through these holes and into this chamber here. Ain’t hardly anythin’ escapin’ from the instrument. It’s all simmerin’ away inside o’ it but it ain’t boiling over.

“Now there ain’t no-one can get that precise level of breath control ‘ keep all those valves lined up precisely, so you have to have a tank of oxygen. Attaches to this valve here and you manage it with a foot pedal. All that does is keep a steady pressure so the valves all stayin’ in one position. When I first started usin’ it, people used to see the pedal – think the music is bein’ played off stage by someone else or it’s some bullshit studio recording. They sayin’ terrible things about me ‘hind my back an’ in magazines. So after that I always had the O2 cylinder on stage with me. So’s everyone can see ‘sactly what it is and that I ain’t pulling no confidence trick on the audience.

“Anyway one time Paul Robinson come by my apartment. You know Paul. He was a great big guy in his day. Carried a lot of weight. It’s what killed him. I can’t do his voice but he say to me, he say: “John, I got bigger lung capacity than you. I can play this instrument o’ yours without oxygen and I am goin’ to prove it to you right now!”

“So he takes my saxophone out o’ its case and he starts playing it. He, he, heh. There are sounds are coming out of it but it ain’t no music. Neighbours nex’ door banging on the wall. Downstairs neighbour hittin’ the ceilin’ with a broom. Paul; he’s standin’ there with his face all puffed out, sweat drippin offa’ him, big wet patches spreadin’ out under his arms. ‘Ventually he throws it down on the bed. He sits down too. He so outa breath he can hardly talk. Finally he says: “Shit, John. Think I’m gonna need some o’ that oxygen myself.”

What he didn’t un’erstan’ is that it ain’t about power or how much air you got in you. It about control and ‘quilibrium and sendin’ the right ‘mount of air to the right place.”

“He was a good guy, Paul Robinson.”

“Yeah he was a good guy, sure…

“…You see, I used to be a hydraulic engineer in the army. When they drafted me they say to me: “We keeping you here where you can be o’ real use to us” because I had trainin’ and experience in the field of engineerin’. But that’s when I kicked the reefer. Because my Sergeant caught me one day. He say to me: ‘I ain’t got no room in my outfit for drug addicts because if you make a mistake here s’other people gonna pay the price.” So tha’s when I kicked it.”

“Do you think the technical nature of Tick “No” might be the reason why the song never became a standard - because no-one else was able to play it?”

“Tha’s why it ain’t a standard. It’s a famous song but there ain’t no one else can play it.”

Tell me about the origins of Tick “No”. You wrote the piece during a very difficult period in your life.”

“It was a difficult time because my quintet had jus’ gone their separate ways. James (James Fletcher, piano) got killed in a bank hold-up. He weren’t the lookout like some people say. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Andrew Morrison got TB. One o’ the reasons why we stopped tourin’ s’because of his poor health. After he got better he still had real trouble breathing. Couldn’t play his trumpet no more. Then six months later he OD’d.

“Heroin addiction seems to be a trap that a lot of jazz musicians fall into.”

“Hell yeah. Heroin and reefer and don’t forget this was the middle of the 1960s there was a lot of drugs about.

“Tha’s when I retired from the business. I got myself a job workin’ on the railways in Chicago. In Tick “No” I’m hiding the music inside the instrument because at that point in my life the music was hiding in me. Because I wa’nt sure I was goin’ to play any more. You notice how the drumming patterns on tha’ song repeatin almost the same thing over an’ over, but with slight variations like it’s tryin’ to change but it don’t know how?

“What tha’ song is about; it’s about me turnin’ my back on music because o’ all the other bullshit ‘ took away my freedom to develop as a musician. Tick “No” is me workin’ out a way to play music on my own terms again. The end of the song: Tha’s when the pieces all fall into place like the pieces suddenly fell back into place in my life. The tick valves begin to swing around – not all at once. The first three move into position first, so the music sound like it coming from two different places. Then the rest o’ them all swing around and THE MUSIC COMES OUT!

”And that’s when it segues into Tick “Yes”

“Tha’s when Tick “Yes” begins. But you know what Frank Hattler (Bass) said when we were recordin’ it? He say to me – ‘You should call it Jonah.’ He want me to call it Jonah because the music is inside the instrument like Jonah was inside the whale. I tole him; “This ain’t got nothin’ to do with bible or nothin’. This is about my life over the last two years…”

…Jonah. He, he, heh.”



NEXT: A Circle of Red Leaves

SHE LAY THERE IN THE DARK. OUTSIDE YOU COULD HEAR THE SOFT SOUNDS OF WET SNOW HITTING THE WINDOWPANES WHEN THE WIND BLEW IN THE RIGHT DIRECTION. ALTHOUGH SHE WAS WARM UNDER THE COVERS, THE COLD AIR SURROUNDING HER GAVE HER A SHIVVER DOWN HER SPINE. THE PILOT LIGHT HAD GONE OUT AND THE WOMAN HAD NO IDEA HOW TO CHECK IF THE GAS WAS LEAKING AGAIN WITHOUT POTENTIALLY BLOWING UP HER APARTMENT. SO SHE STAYED IN THE WARM COMFORTING BUBBLE OF HER BED.

IT WAS DARK IN THE ROOM AND PITCH BLACK UNDER THE HEAVY QUILTS SHE PULLED OVER HER HEAD. THE WIND WHISTLED AS IT CREEPED IN THROUGH THE CRACKS IN THE WINDOWS. THERE WAS A RUSTLING NOISE SHE COULDN'T IDENTIFY. SHE WANTED TO DISCOUNT THE PHENOMENON AS THE WIND BLOWING PAPERS, BUT IT DIDN;T SOUND THAT WAY. SHE TRIED TO KEEP HER THOUGHTS OFF OF THE WOMAN BEFORE HER. THE WOMAN WHO HAD LIVED IN THIS ROOM FOR TWENTY FIVE YEARS. THE WOMAN THEY FOUND A WEEK DEAD WHEN NEIGHBORS COMPLAINED ABOUT THE SMELL. SHE TRIED DESPARATELY TO AVOID REMEMBERING WHAT THE ROOM SMELLED LIKE WHEN SHE AND HER TEAM HAD ENTERED TO CLEAN THE APARTMENT OUT. SHE TRIED, BUT TO NO AVAIL. IT WAS THERE IN HER HEAD. THE ACRID SMELL OF ROTTING FLESH. THE YELLOWED STAINS AS THE DEAD BITCH'S FLUIDS ATE THROUGH THE MATRESS WHICH SAT ACROSS THE ROOM FROM WHERE SHE NOW LAY. SHE CLOSED HER EYES TIGHT BUT THE EYES OF THE WOMAN STAYED OPEN IN HER MIND.

THERE WAS A STEP IN THE HALL. THE WOMAN'S MIND IMMEDIATELY CLEARED AS SHE STRAINED TO HEAR ANOTHER SOUND. THE SECONDS PULLED LONG IN THE SILENCE AND THE WIND WOULDN'T GIVE UP THRASHING THE WET SNOW ONTO THE WINDOW. IT WAS ALMOST A FULL MINUTE BEFORE SHE RELAXED; IT MUST BE HER IMAGINATION IN THE DARK. HOUSES MAKE STRANGE NOISES AT NIGHT, AFTER ALL. THERE WAS ANOTHER STEP. IT WAS FOLLOWED ALMOST IMMEDIATELY BY MORE, URGENT AND POUNDING SHOES IN THE HALL. A MAN'S VOICE SHOUTED, "FIRE!"

SHE HESITATED FOR A PICOSECOND BEFORE THROWING HER COVERS OFF AND DASHING TO THE DOOR, BUT IT WASN'T THERE. AS SHE JUMPED OFF THE BED SHE KEPT FALLING.

"WHAT THE FUCK??!" SHE SCREAMED AS SHE HURTLED DOWNWARDS IN THE PITCH DARK. SHE COULDN'T SEE ANYTHING BUT THE WIND TOLD HER SHE WAS FALLING AND HER BRAIN TOLD HER SHE WAS ACCELERATING. SHE TWISTED ABOUT TO LOOK BACK AT THE BED BUT IT WAS TOO DARK. SHE TURNED BACK AROUND AND SMASHED HER FACE INTO A BRICK WALL.

"FFFFFFUCK," HER HAND WAS COVERED IN CRIMSON FROM HER NEW NOSEBLEED. SHE SAT DOWN HARD ON THE CONCRETE SIDEWALK AND STARED AT HER PALMS. A YOUNG MAN CAME OVER TO HER.

"ARE YOU ALRIGHT? WHAT HAPPENED? IS IT BROKEN?" THE MAN KNELT DOWN NEXT TO HER. SHE BLUBBERED INCOMPREHENSIBLY TO HER HANDS AND LOOKED OVER AT THE MAN IN CONFUSION. IMMEDIATELY SHE WAS SMITTEN. THE WORLD WAS FULL OF BRIGHT, BEAUTFUL COLORS ILLUMINATED BY GOLDEN SUNLIGHT OF AFTERNOON AND SHE WAS FACE TO FACE WITH HER DREAM MAN. SPEACHLESS, SHE STARED INTO HIS EYES.

"LET ME HELP YOU UP," HE OFFERED. REACHING AROUND, HE GRASPED HER WAIST TO SUPPORT HER AND SEND A QUIVER TINGLING THROUGH HER BODY. JUST THE WAY HE SMELLED WAS GETTING HER SO WET IT WAS EMBARASSING. HE HELD HER CLOSE BECAUSE HER LEGS WERE BUCKLING. "QUITE A FALL YOU TOOK. WHAT'S YOUR NAME?" HE ASKED HER. SHE COULDN'T CONTAIN HERSELF. SHE THREW HER ARMS AROUND HIS HEAD AND THRUST HER TONGUE IN HIS MOUTH AS SHE WRAPPED HER LEGS AROUND HIM AND HE TOO CAME AT HER BUT IT WASN'T HIS TONGUE IN HER MOUTH. IT WAS A SLIMY, KNOBBY CREATURE WITH THOUSANDS OF TIN LEGS. HER FUN BITS STOPPED THROBBING AND HER HEART STARTED POUNDING IN FEAR. SHE THREW HERSELF BACK FROM WHAT SHE THOUGHT WAS A MAN AND REELED BLINDLY THROUGH A DAMP CAVE-LIKE ENCLOSURE. SHE WAS NAKID AND THERE WERE BUGS AND SLIMY THINGS EVERYWHERE. SHE CLAWED ABOUT IN HER MOUTH, TRYING TO REMOVE THE CREATURE, BUT IT KEPT WRIGGLING AROUND OUT OF HER GRASP. IT WAS ALL SHE COULD DO TO KEEP IT FROM HER THROAT.

HER EYES WERE BLINDING THEMSELVES WITH TEARS AS SHE STUMBLED THROUGH THE SLIMY, WRITHING MUCK. THERE WAS A PARTICULARLY SLICK SPOT AND SHE FELL DOWN TO THE GROUND. WITH THE JAR OF THE FALL SHE BIT THE CREATURE IN HER MOUTH IN TWO. IT PULSATED FOR A BIT AS SHE SPAT IT OUT AND THEN TWO OF THE CREATURES SCUTTLED OFF IN OTHER DIRECTIONS. WITH HER WHOLE EXPOSED BODY COVERED IN BUG SLIME AND THE CREATURES THAT PRODUCE BUG SLIME, HER MIND WAS TEETERING ON FRINGES OF MADNESS. TINY MOVEMENTS WERE EVERYWHERE ON HER BODY. THINGS CRAWLED ALL OVER HER AND INTO HER MOUTH WHEN SHE SCREAMED. AN EARWIG SLID INTO HER NOSE AND WASPS WERE SUCKING UP THE FLUIDS HER PREVIOUS ENCOUNTER HAD FLOODED OUT OF HER NAUGHTY FUN BITS.

The skull of Stegosaurus was long and narrow, and its head was carried close to the ground, probably no higher than 1 metre (3 feet) . It is often said that the stegosaurus had a "brain the size of a walnut". It is also thought to have had a secondary nerve centre on the lower spinal cord (often misleadingly described as a "second brain") to control the legs and tail.

Speculation that some mammals, like dinosaurs, might have developed rudimentary second brains in the lower spinal cord has not been borne out by research.

*****
Bumcrack McGee was a very unhappy person, and particularly when Phil McGee wore bikepants.

With only one primary sense, a mutant sense of smell reliant upon the fine hairs between Phil McGee's otherwise coarse-haired buttocks, and a secondary sense of touch, Bumcrack was lonely and in the dark. His elder brother was entirely unaware of his existence - he thought he just had a big bump on his lower backbone. And the truth be told, Phil was a lot less bright than Bumcrack. In biological terms, a surgeon or doctor would recognise Bumcrack as a teragonic brain, located on the base of Phil's spinal cord. Bumcrack should have been born a twin to Phil, but accidents of genetics prevented this from happening. Bumcrack was aware of Phil, was despondent that he could not communicate to his brother, and unhappy that he would ever be Phil's inferior, or rather, anterior.

One day Phil, a plumber, was fixing a stuck pipe beneath a sink. He was swearing and sweating. Bumcrack didn't like smelling Phil's sweat, but he did like the fresh air theat he could feel on his cheeks when Phil bent over.

Phil plainly was not enamoured with the female occupant of the house. She was old and fat, with a penchant for too much make-up. "I'm gonna charge her double time just for making me look at her saggy tits," muttered Phil to himself as he reached for a spanner.

"What did you say, Mr McGee?" asked the woman, sitting nearby and drinking Earl Grey tea while Phil sweated over the stuck pipe. She smirked to herself at the sight of Bumcrack's face appearing over the back of Phil's grubby work pants.

"Nuthin, Miss Baily," said Phil.

But Bumcrack was enamoured. He could smell the woman's beautiful perfume, and the scent drove him to heights of passion he had never experienced before. His pituitary gland flexed like a pea on steroids, and he discovered that his passion stirred something, if not a set of loins, but something he could control. Something he could use to communicate with this delightful presence, this scent from the heavens.

Bumcrack squeezed. For the first time in his life, he squeezed. A new fragrance arose, something that Bumcrack was very familiar with and normally did not like, but he was willing to give it a shot to see if he could provoke more of the delightful perfume in return.

"Mr McGee!" shrieked the woman. "That's offensive! My God! What have you been eating?"

"Ehr. Good God. I'm sorry," said Phil McGee. "I didn't...ugh. God. I'm sorry, it was an accident."

"I''ll be outside until you finish, McGee. I don't expect to sit around all afternoon and listen to you...ugh!" Miss Baily went outside, slamming the wire door.

The beautiful scent lingered, and passed.

Bumcrack was initially distraught, but as the years passed he viewed the moment philosophically. Better to have loved and lost, he reasoned, than never to have loved at all.

And best of all, he had learned to squeeze. The playing field, though not levelled, was at least slightly better balanced in Bumcrack's favour.

If Phil wasn't smart enough to figure out Bumcrack's existence, Bumcrack reasoned, then Bumcrack would need to alert Phil to his presence by the only means possible.

For Phil McGee, this was a memory he never forgot, the first day of the rest of a miserable life of uncontrollable and inexplicable bowel movements. The tug of war between Phil and Bumcrack took its toll on Phil's body. Bumcrack himself died one summer's day in 1997 from rectal cancer, and Phil died a few days later form blood poisoning, cursing with his dying breath the day he fixed Miss Bailiey's pipes.

Both were cremated, and only as ashes cast into the wind were they ever equals.

*****

Next: Bourbon tears.

Her hair was like bourbon. Fluid and shifting in color with the light. I'm drunk again--thinking about her shape and smile. She had the biggest smile I'd ever seen, and I'm drunk again. Crazy, little, wild bitch that she was I loved her. In fact, I loved every piece and inch of her. Here's a top shelf to your lovely ass, and the way you spoke to me. You trusted me and believed in me, and said things I should've believed. So I'm tipping back again...again...fuck me. I rememeber your girl's name and all of her loves and hates--her doctor visits. All that shit. I remember it all..your big smile. I loved your breasts, mmm, I loved you. I fucked it up, so here's a drink to you--a bourbon like your hair.

That time you served me drinks 3 years later and showed me that smile..that said "it's alright", I loved that. And you talked like you forgave me and wanted my wad of cash to line your panties with...I liked that too. so, here's a bourbon to you. I miss that smile.

Just thinking. Just drinking. Bourbon tears for your fair bourbon hair freely flowing my eyes fixed and firmly frozen. I'll remember you like that...among the ferns and trees and natural things-- like your cared for me. I miss you and your warmth, you were so hot lying next to me you made me sweat, always. I miss your taste, fuck it. Here's a drink to you, and your bourbon hair all in my face.

Thanks, I'll have another Bourbon tear in your place.

******************************************************************************

Next... Ponies.

Tears streamed down her white face as she ran hurridely from the schoolhouse with her books held closely to her chest. With the sounds of the laughter and taunting of her classmates behind her, Ashley escaped into the beautifully, bright, green painted landscape that marked her way home.

As she sprinted across the wide open, dusty path that laid before her, Ashley tried to forget the mean things people were always muttering about her when they thought she wasn't listening. Striving forward and running faster into the blowing wind, it seemed as if all her cares melted away with each passing mile. Seeing her turn off towards the left she ran harder and harder, striving every muscle towards her secret place. The place where she could be truly loved and appreciated for who she really was. It wasn't just the beauty of the pasture with it's fluffy, white clouds, blue skys, or crunchy, green grass that enraptured her attention, it was the family of ponies that roamed there.

Each pony had a beauty all it's own. The little ones with their white, shiny bodies and short, flowing manes just seemed to dance across the fields without a care in the world. Watching them, Ashley could see glimmers of hope about the future. Even though life now seemed completely cruel, she should dance and rejoice in the life that had been given to her. "Be kind to those who mistreat you," she remembered from Sunday School.

Sitting down on a dry, wooden log, she placed her hands in her lap and began watching the older ponies gallop across the fields. One of the most beautiful ponies that Ashley had named, "Peace", turned his face toward the left where he saw the young, little girl sitting with a tear stained face. Seeing her pain, Peace decided to gallop towards her.

Gazing in profound amazement, she was shocked to discover this amazingly, magnificent pony headed straight towards her. She glanced behind her to see if someone else was coming and by the time she had turned around Peace stood before her.

Ashley grabbed her leftover apple from lunch and handed it outward secretly hoping Peace would come closer. As he nibbled, she crept up closer towards the horse and tried to pet its mane. Peace relaxed feeling her fingers against his mane and the pony almost seemed to smile. The little girl was lost in wonder. How could such a beautiful creature be interested in her?

It was then that the pony locked eyes with hers. A message that transcends time seemed to transfer between Peace and Ashley. Gazing into the peacefully deep, brown eyes of the poney, she remembered the verse, "In peace I will both lie down and sleep;for thou alone,O LORD, makest me dwell in safety."

Smiling at the thought, Ashley hugged the poney tight. She realized that everything was going to be alright. No matter what others said or did, she was loved and cared for by someone special. It was then, Peace chose to gallop away back towards the flock of other ponies. As they faded into the horizon, the little girl dried her tears and walked the dusty trail towards home.

--------------------------------------------------------------------
Next: The beauty of dreams.

Dre'ams is in Nice. Nice was founded about two thousand years ago by the Greeks of Marseille, and received the name of Nikaïa in honour of a victory over the neighbouring Ligurians: Nike being the goddess of victory. Once known as Dremenelum, Dre'ams was established in or about 250 AD as a Roman tarriff station, arsenal and garrison on the long dusty road from Cannes.

While Nice became one of the busiest trading stations on the Ligurian coast, Dremenelum gradually went into decline. It continued to exist till the time of the Lombard invasions, and has left its ruins at Dre'ams, which is now a quarter of Nice.

The ruins are not well preserved, and much of the stones of the garrison walls were scavanged and have been incorporated into local churches and garden walls.

An amateur archeological dig on a vacant block in Dre'ams in 1963 recovered coins, broken pottery, horse harnesses, and a small urn. Inside the urn was a picture of a woman. It was initially though the picture dated from antiquity, but experts from Paris concluded that it is of the same era as the treaty concluded in 1860 between the Sardinian king and Napoleon III by which Nice was transferred to France.

The woman's face is drawn in charcoal on vellum. She is beautiful.

The picture has been consigned to La Musee d' Communite d'Agglomeration Nice Côte d'Azur. It has not been on display since 1970.

There was a documentary on the dig filmed by students from the University of Barcelona in 1964. The following is the transcript of the interview with the discoverer of the urn, Marcel Beauchamp.

Interviewer: "What did you think when you discovered the urn?"

Beauchamp: "The urn itself is not remarkable. it looks like a fat sugar bowl. It is home-made, but not something you would characterise as a magnificent find."

Interviewer: "What made you look inside it?"

Beauchamp: [shrugging] "It is standard protocol. We handled it with great care, and inserted tweezers into the interior..."

Interviewer: "And you found the picture. What did you think?"

Beauchamp: "The picture is extraordinary. It is like a photograph in its realism. The model has a contemporary face, a face you might see on a catwalk or in the cinema. She is young, with hooded lashes. She has wide set, large eyes which are luminescent, a small nose and pouting lips curled in a small smile. Long straight, dark hair frames her face. I wish I could have met her!"

Interviwer: [laughing] "You sound very attached to your discovery!"

Beauchamp: "You don't understand. I love this woman."

Interviewer: [laughing] "It is a remarkable drawing. Who do you think she might have been?"

Beauchamp: "It is hard to say. We see nothing below her chin, and so we do not know what type of clothes she might have worn. Her hair conceals her ears, and so we do not know if she had ear-rings. She wears no bows or jewellry in her hair, and her hair itself is not curled in the fashion of the times."

Interviewer: "So what might she have been? A peasant from the mid-1800s in France?"

Beauchamp: "A woman of simple tastes. A man's wife or lover. Or perhaps I am completely wrong. She might have been an adventurer. She may not even have been French - she might have been Sardinian. I do not know. It is something I have been speculating upon now, for many years."

The identity of the beauty of Dre'ams is unknown. Beauchamp is curator of La Musee d' Communite d'Agglomeration Nice Côte d'Azur. He never entertains people in his office.

Fury.

As the flash of lightening and resounding sounds of thunder scattered across the night sky, an old man nodded approvingly towards the horizon. "I always enjoyed it when the weather reflects my moods," he thought to himself. Slightly hunched over, grey-haired, weak looking gentlemen leaned forward on his walking stick. A dozen thoughts seemed to turn over and over in his mind. "Turbulence, hatred, malice. That's what marked my early life" he muttered to no one in particular.

Sitting down in his old, decrepid, wooden rocking chair he began to rock as the memories came flooding back. "It was back in the summer of '29 when everything began. That summer I worked on my daddy's farm out in Georgia to make some extra money for college in the fall. Upon working in the field's one day, he glanced up and beheld the most enchanting young lady. Laced with sweat,and feeling unworthy of looking at such a heavenly creature, he hung his head in shame and continued working. Much to his surprise, the exquisately dressed creature with shoulderlength auburn hair, crystal clear blue eyes, thin red lips, and the face of a dove approached him. "Chrisopher," the way she said his name sent chills up his spine. Running towards him she shouted louder, "CHRISTOPHER! It's been SO long." Once again whiping his brow, he glanced up and gazed at her intently as she came closer and closer. Throwing her arms around him, she hugged him tightly and said, "It's been years! The last time I saw you we were children dancing underneath that tree over there, remember?!?"

Suddenly gazing down at her, the memories came rushing back. "Annabelle" he exclaimed. WHEREVER have you been?" Embracing her again he relished the child like memories he had spent with that young girl a long, long time ago. Backing away from each other, he beheld a deep bruise upon her pretty, doll like face. "Anna, what happened to you??"

Backing away, the tears began to flow, her face turned red, and her voice began to shake. She could barely get the words out, "he hurt me." Speaking softly to her, he grabbed the hankerchief out of his pocket and dabbed at her cheeks. "Now tell me slowly what happened." As her story unfolded, his concern turned to horror and then deep hatred. After she had left Briar Woods and Chistopher, her mother had remarried a horrible man who had beaten and abused Annabelle for years. Being able to stand it no more, she had fled to the one place where she knew she would be safe.

Settling her in at his parent's house and seeing her happy was nice and all but Chris' growing hatred for her stepfather could not be quenced even by Anabelle's love. The fury of it all gnawed at his stomach day after day until finally he could not stop himself. That night Christopher couldn't sleep although his Anna was tucked safely in the bedroom across the hall. The sky echoed with thunder and lightening the time he visited the stepfather's house. Christopher could already remember the stepfather's surpise at seeing a visitor so late at night and his horror of seeing the huge blade Chris had coming towards him. Picturing Anna beaten, tortured, and treated like a dog was all it took to drive him towards murder. "This is for Annabelle," he said, as he plunged the knife deeper and deeper into the stepfather. The fury of his emotions overswept him until at last the older man fell dead at his feet.

The rain had washed away all the blood that marked his hands by the time that the young Christopher had journeyed home. Peaking into Anna's room and finally feeling she was safe, he slept peacefully.

Closing his eyes, the old man finished reliving that memory, "a moment of just fury" he called it to himself. Remembering years later of his and Annabelle's wedding day he smiled to himself, stood up again, and leaning on his walking cane stared into the thundery skies once again.

Hrm.......Next Up: heartbroken

"Nice flowers," she said. "They from your kids?"

"Yep," I said. "Who are you?"

"No more salt," she said.

"Huh?"

"No more salt."

"Ah, the dietary specialist they promised me. They way you said "no more salt", it sounded like a surname."

"No more salt. Clogs your arteries."

"I sweat a kilo of salt every time I jog," I said.

"No you don't," she said. "It just tastes salty. The sweat. And no more animal fats."

"I eat lean."

She laughed. "I read your kids' report on your diet. Cream in your coffee is not lean."

"Dobbers."

"They're worried about your health. You had a cardiac arrest. Its not like stubbing your toe."

"Ah, a "cardiac arrest". Back when I used to watch TV shows about hospitals, they called it a "heart attack". Its all a new vocabulary." I flicked at the wires taped to my chest with the edge of my thumbnail.

" Heh. Let's see. Cardiac arrest is often caused by ventricular fibrillation during myocardial infarction." She counted them on her fingers, as if teaching a child to count. "Asystole. Ventricular fibrillation, ventricular tachycardia, severe bradycardia, cardiac tamponade,tension pneumothorax, thromboembolism or other mechanical obstruction, hypoxia, potassium disturbance - hypokalemia or hyperkalemia, hypocalcaemia,acidaemia, hypovolemia due to haemorrhage or dehydration, hypothermia."

"Now you're just showing off, "I said. "What was that first one? "Asshole"?"

"No," she shook her head, "its "asystole". Means "flatlline". Its written on your chart."

I stopped flicking the wires and smoothed them to my chest. "Fuck, I fell like you're dancing on my grave," I said.

"You're managing that particular jig well enough by yourself," she said. "Its your diet. You're stressing your heart. You may need a bypass."

"Something is broken?" I asked.

"Yes," she said. "Your heart." She hooked a thumb towards the flowers. "And its not the only one."

Next: Sugar

Riding in the car, with her hair blowing in the wind she unconsciously started humming along with the radio, "sugar, aw honey, honey!" All of a sudden, the memory hit her and she was realed back to a time when she was young, when dreams still came true, and her prince charming was always lurking around the corner.

Smiling happily to herself, the fifteen year old skipped along to her friend's party out at Stonebridge Ranch (where only the exclusively rich live). She began to tingle excitedly inside when she heard the music going full blast and hearing other kids having fun. Stopping when she reached the door and staring sideways at her image she thought to herself, "make-up's alright, clothes still look hot, hopefully this will go as planned." Ripping open the door with confidence the wind blew threw her hair and through the dry ice fumes, Rebekah headed towards her.

"Sarah, you look stunning!", Rebekah said while gazing at her friend's short miniskirt, red sleeveless shirt, and black laced boots. Hugging her friend, she whispered in Sarah's ear, "There's your guy over there by the back. Go say hi." Trying not to look as scared as she felt, Sarah strove ever confidently into Curren's room. One look at his strawberry blond hair,blue eyes, and manly physique made her heart leap with happiness. Trying not to flush when his eyes met hers, Sarah waved and gracefully walked over to Curren. "Wow, you look hot Sar!" he said as he leaned down and hugged her. "Any particular reason why you got all dressed up tonight?"

Looking nonchalantly sideways, she leaned forward, "Well.......this IS Stonebridge Ranch, ya know?" Laughing along with her, he motioned for her to sit on the couch next to him. As her heart beat faster and faster, she planned her next move. Before she could say anything, Current bent forward within kissing range and said, "So, any plans for Monday night?" Before she could reply, he placed his finger to her lips. "Just say yes and I'll make it worth your while." Gazing at him with stars in her eyes she happily answered him with all her heart. Before Curren could respond, he was whisked away by his older sister who needed him, "in the kitchen" or so she was told.

The rest of the night passed pretty boringly, mostly because Curren had somehow vanished. Giving up after a few hours, Sarah walked slowly out the backyard to stare at the stars. Leaning against the fence she heard the voice she'd fallen in love with just a few months before say, "hey sugar, don't leave until you've sweetened my lips." Flushing with embarassment, she quickly turned around to harass Curren when what she saw turned her ashen. There was Curren, the man she loved for at least a year in the arms of.......Rebekah? Her best friend?

Her eyes instantly filled with tears as she fled through the secret allyway and ran with all her might towards her house. "How could this happen to me? My best friend making out with the guy I love?" Running home and flipping on the radio the song came on, "sugar, aw, honey honey..." that she had secretly sung to Curren every night. Leaving the music on to help her channel her feelings, she flung herself on the bed crying herself to sleep.

Seeing them at school on Monday didn't make it easier. Curren didn't even remember their date that night. To this day anytime Sarah hears the word, "sugar" she shudders and silently remembers when she was first heartbroken so long ago.

Yeah I like happy endings and was tired and couldn't figure out what in the world to do with sugar ;p

Next up.........the secret of the universe.

Michael's toilet was clogged.

It had chosen a bad time to do that, too; Michael's boss was coming that night for dinner, and the over flown toilet didn’t make a pretty sight… or a pleasant smell. Far from it. Very, very, very far from it. Even if Michael closed the door, sprayed the whole house, and explained to his boss that the bathroom couldn’t be used for today, the horrible smell would drive him out of the apartment as soon as he walked through the entrance door.

This was the kind of situation people in sitcoms found themselves in, Michael thought, except in this case the consequences were much more serious than being fired and having to work in a crazy hot dog factory to be re-hired at the end of the episode, after happening to save the boss from choking on a faulty hot dog.

BOSS
I owe you my life, Mike!
You’re the best!
I’ll give you anything you want!

MIKE
You know what I want, Mr. McGee…

BOSS
(pause)
Oh, NO! Anything but THAT!

MIKE
(shrugs)
I guess I’ll have to put that hot dog back in there, then…

BOSS
All right, all right!
I’ll give you your job back!
How I hate you, Mike Michaels…!

All laugh, credits roll.

No, Michael’s life was nothing like a sitcom. It was closer to a mediocre short story posted by a 20 year old in an internet message board and doomed to rot there for eternity. If his boss saw (or smelled) the mess in his bathroom, he wouldn’t even give Michael the courtesy of telling him he was fired. He would just leave without saying a word, and Michael would know he wouldn’t be expected at work on Monday. And if that happened, finding a new job wouldn’t be as easy as it is in the sitcoms. Before landing this job, Michael was unemployed for months. The job was a blessing, and Michael knew his life would be ruined if he lost it. Not to mention he couldn’t live with himself if the reason for getting fired was that someone used too much toilet paper.

Michael’s brother Joe was probably to blame for the current state of the toilet. Since they were kids, Joe had a tendency to use too much toilet paper and not care for the consequences. To make Michael’s situation even worse, Joe also had a rather obsessive predilection for Mexican food that explained the potency of the nasty smell spreading through the house.

Equipped with a face mask and yellow latex globes, Michael ventured into the toilet. People usually do this unpleasant task using plungers, but Michael had neither a plunger nor the time to purchase one. Two things comforted him: First, that the nagging feeling at the back of his head telling him that he had forgotten to buy an essential house appliance, a feeling he’d had since he moved into the apartment his new job bought him, was finally gone; and, second, that he forgot to buy the plunger and not the face mask.

Michael started sinking his hand into the depths of his toilet, clearing the way for the substance to go down and searching and feeling for whatever was blocking the way. His arm was now in up to his elbow, and so far he didn’t have any luck finding anything. Michael went in even further, like an explorer searching for the center of the earth, determined to be done with his mission as fast as he could. Michael never thought he would have to sink so low to fix the problem, but he didn’t hesitate in sinking even further. His arm was now in up to his shoulder, leaving his face dangerously close to the dreaded matter, but not even that mined his determination. Just as the shadow of desist started creeping into the corners of Michael’s mind, something happened at last…

The phone rang.

Michael’s dilemma in that moment was complex. Give up and answer the phone or continue going down? Michael didn’t have much time to decide. The phone rang twice. What if he didn’t regain his uncanny momentum after getting back from the phone? What if he never got as close to fixing his problem as he was now? The phone rang three times. But, what if it was his boss? What if he wanted to tell Michael that something else came up, that he couldn’t make it to dinner and that they should reschedule for some other night? The phone rang for a fourth time. Knowing he had to make a decision in that precise second, Michael chose the option that hurt him the most… To give up and answer the phone.

But then… nothing happened. Michael pulled his arm from the toilet, and it didn’t come out. He pulled it again, and the result was the same. He pulled with all his strength, and all he got was a sore shoulder. There he was, stuck with one arm in what was possibly the darkest place in his whole apartment, in his whole building. Only then he noticed the phone had stopped ringing.

At least it wasn’t his boss on the phone, Michael thought at 9 PM sharp when he heard the unmistakable authoritarian buzzing only his boss could produce, one of the few people able to inspire fear even through a buzzer. Since the buzzer was next to the entrance door and Michael was stuck in the bathroom, nobody opened the door for the boss, and, as soon the buzzes stopped coming, Michael knew he was fired.

Michael screamed for a while, but no one listened. Even if they did, they wouldn’t be able to get into his apartment without a key, and all the spares were in Michael’s closet hidden from his brother.

Trying to preserve as much of his dignity as his situation allowed him, the only thing Michael ingested in his time trapped in the toilet was a bar of soap he managed to get his free hand on by repeatedly kicking the sink hoping to get the toothpaste to fall off but getting the bar instead. When hunger started tormenting him again, Michael resumed kicking the sink hoping the get the paste, perhaps with a little too much strength. The sink fell and its contents were spilled around the bathroom floor, but Michael was far from happy, as the heavy ceramic sink had fallen on his leg and crushed it. It wasn’t until a couple of hours later, when hunger outgrew even the pain of his broken leg, that Michael noticed the toothpaste wasn’t on the floor with the rest of the contents of the sink. It was in the cabinet ABOVE the sink, Michael realized, as it had been since Michael left it there that morning.

Sitting on the bathroom tile with an half of his limbs immobilized and his face two inches from a sea of excrement, Michael, knowing his life was ruined even if he managed to free his arm, let himself slowly die away. One of his last thoughts was that, at last and at least, he had finally found the thing blocking the toilet: himself. For a second he thought of that single thought as some sort of philosophical revelation, an epiphany that made it all worth it on some level, but then he said to himself “no, that’s stupid”. Then he wondered if when they found him the responsible would be the smell of his rotting corpse or his brother’s Mexican breakfast.

And that was Michael’s last thought.



“I suppose I owe you an apology,” God said.

Michael shrugged faintly and spoke quietly. “I suppose.”

“I’m not directly responsible for what happened to you, you know…” God explained, “But… I do feel there’s some degree of responsibility.” Though his eyes had wondered away by now, Michael could feel God’s apologetic pitiful look on him, like a mother explaining her son she’d just ran over his dog. “I can’t imagine what you went through, really,” God continued. “I mean, I could if I wanted, but… you know what I mean, right?”

Michael shrugged again. “I suppose.”

“Yeah,” God replied, nodding understandingly. “So… obviously, you’re staying here. I mean, I owe you that much. If there’s anything you need, let me know and I’ll make sure you get it, okay?”

“Sure…” Michael shyly said, still shaken up by the last moments of his life rather than his death.

“Okay.” God stood up. “I’ll see you around, then. Again… sorry, man. That’s life, you know?”

As God started to leave, Michael rounded up enough courage to stop him, a decision that was delayed by the uncertainty of the appropriate way to call Him. He finally decided on “Sir?”

God turned around. “Yes, Mike?”

“Just…” Michael hesitated. “Can I make you a question…?”

“Of course.” God crossed his arms. “Shoot.”

Michael looked into God’s deep blue eyes and took a deep breath. “What’s the meaning of life? What’s the secret of the universe?” he asked.

“42,” He answered.

“Wha…” Michael raised an eyebrow, not hiding his disappointment very well. “What?” He thought for a second, but was unable to find a sense by himself. “What’s that mean?”

It was God’s time to shrug. “Fuck Me if I know.”

As God walked away in the relaxed pace of an old woman walking a poodle, Michael stayed behind scratching the back of his head, knowing as much about life as he did on the day he was born.

END

Next: The Dangers of Viagra

Michael had a chemical in his bloodstream and it muttered to him a mantra

1-[4-ethoxy-3-(6,7-dihydro-1-methyl- 7-oxo-3-propyl-1H-pyrazolo[4,3-d]pyrimidin -5-yl)phenylsulfonyl]-4-methylpiperazine citrate

...release of nitric oxide (NO) in the corpus cavernosum. Activation of the enzyme guanylate cyclase which results in increased levels of cyclic guanosine monophosphate (cGMP), leading to smooth muscle relaxation in the corpus cavernosum, resulting in increased inflow of blood

and an erection.

Michael thought that was cool. Turbocharged with sildenafil. Potent and selective inhibitor of cGMP specific phosphodiesterase type 5 (PDE5) which is responsible for degradation of cGMP in the corpus cavernosum.

Uh-oh. Uh. Excellent.Hey, honey. Check this out.

Laughing gas. On my dick.

C22H30N6O4S · C6H8O7

"Oooh, sweet."

Patients with severe renal impairment (creatinine clearance <30 mL/min) have a reduced clearance of sildenafil. Plasma levels of the parent drug and of its metabolites in patients with severe renal impairment are approximately twice those found in healthy subjects. Thus, the duration of the effect of sildenafil in these patients will be prolonged and also may be enhanced at any given dosage of the medication. Particular care should be taken in the administration of concomitant medications that may lower blood pressure in patients receiving sildenafil whose renal function is severely impaired. The effects of less-severe degrees of renal dysfunction on the metabolism of sildenafil have been evaluated. There were no significant effects on the metabolism of sildenafil seen in subjects with mild (creatinine clearance 50 to 80 mL/min) or moderate (creatinine clearance 30 to 49 mL/min) renal impairment (24). Of note, the plasma creatinine concentration of the elderly patient with a lower body mass may not accurately reflect the patient's creatinine clearance, and thus initiation of therapy at 25 mg rather than 50 mg may be appropriate in the elderly.

Uh...oh. Damn!



My ass is leaking! Its leaking an extended organic molecular chain!

I'm sorry honey!

"Ergh. Jesus, Michael, what've you been eating?"

There is potential for a high incidence of overt and covert coronary artery disease in patients with erectile dysfunction on the basis of the epidemiological profiles of both patient groups. Therefore, when prescribing sildenafil, physicians should consider the potential implications of coronary artery disease in sedentary patients who plan to resume sexual activity. Because nitrates are contraindicated for the management of coronary ischemic syndromes in patients taking sildenafil, review of the patient's ability to tolerate the cardiovascular stresses involved with sexual intercourse, particularly patients with coronary artery disease or at increased risk of coronary artery disease, may aid the treating physician in patient management.

base: 474.6 g/mol
salt: 666.7 g/mol

heavy molecular weight you got in your cardiovascular chambers there, Michael.

Cardiac and metabolic expenditures during sexual intercourse will vary depending on the type of sexual activity. In a laboratory setting, healthy males with their usual female partners achieved an average peak heart rate of 110 bpm with woman-on-top coitus and an average peak heart rate of 127 bpm with man-on-top coitus (26). When oxygen uptake was measured in these men, an average metabolic expenditure during stimulation and orgasm of 2.5 metabolic equivalents (METS) for woman-on-top coitus and 3.3 METS for man-on-top coitus was attained. There was a significant individual variation of cardiovascular responses among patients ranging from 2.0 to 5.4 METS for man-on-top coitus. Thus, to simply equate a level of cardiac or metabolic expenditure during sexual intercourse to an activity such as "climbing 1 or 2 flights of stairs" may underestimate the level of cardiovascular response in individual patients.

Uh-oh.

"You ok, Michael?"

In patients with known coronary artery disease whose antianginal medicines were stopped for study purposes (27), Drory et al compared the electrocardiographic monitoring findings in sexual activity with a near-maximal exercise treadmill test (ETT). Most patients had previous myocardial infarctions and were in New York Heart Association functional class I or II. ECG criteria for ischemia during intercourse were found in one third of the patients; two thirds of the time, this was silent rather than symptomatic ischemia. All patients with ischemia during coitus also demonstrated ischemia at ETT. Drory et al also noted significant variation in heart rate response to coitus, with an average heart rate of 118 bpm but with some patients attaining a heart rate of 185 bpm at orgasm.

"Oh, yeah. Keep doiong that. Oh yeah."

Other small studies with ECG monitoring during intercourse in patients with coronary artery disease concluded that sexual activity may provoke increased ventricular ectopic activity that is not necessarily elicited by other stimuli (28). Jackson (29) found that in 19 patients with ischemic heart disease who developed angina during sexual intercourse, these symptoms were abolished with -blockade. The mean maximum heart rate during sexual intercourse with and without use of -blockers was 82 and 122 bpm, respectively. This would suggest that these patients may have different hemodynamics while taking antianginal medication that may afford them some protection or lower their risk of ischemia. It should be emphasized that coital death is rare, encompassing only 0.6% of sudden death cases (30). Muller et al (31) found by retrospective case-crossover methodology that although sexual activity can trigger the onset of myocardial infarction, the relative risk in the 2 hours after sexual activity is very low (2.5; 95% CI, 1.7 to 3.7). Furthermore, sexual activity was a likely contributor to the onset of myocardial infarction only 0.9% of the time. Additionally, they found that the relative risk of myocardial infarction is not increased in patients with a prior history of cardiac disease and that regular exercise appears to prevent triggering. It should be cautioned that these reassuring data should not be extrapolated to patients taking sildenafil if they perform at higher cardiac and metabolic expenditures during coitus. The hemodynamic changes associated with sexual activity may be far greater with an unfamiliar than with a familiar partner, in unfamiliar settings, and after excessive eating and consumption of alcohol. The person most at risk is usually middle-aged and having extramarital relations.

Uh...oh.

"Michael?"

Oh, fuck.

The ETT can gauge the potential cardiac stress of sexual activity. If a patient can achieve 5 or 6 METS on the ETT without demonstrating arrhythmias or ischemia electrocardiographically, they most likely are not at high risk for developing myocardial ischemia as a result of their normal sexual activities.

Pop!

"Michael!"

That one was dedicated to Catherine Zeta-Jones.

Next: Vertigo

"I swear to God,Don,"I said to my roommate,"I'm going to KILL you for making me sit through Vertigo again!You know I hate that goddamn movie...."
"Oh,it's awesome,you just have a closed mind."he sniffed,putting the DVD back in its case.Rarely if ever have I wanted more to punch someone's lights out than I did at that particular moment...every other sentence out of the guy's mouth was 'Vertigo' this and 'Vertigo' that.To hear him tell it,you'd think it was another Citizen Kane.Me,I always thought was a little overrated...but I just couldn't get him to shut up about it!
It took all the self-control I had not to grab that DVD and shove it down his throat."Look,"I sighed,"I've tried to get into it,but it's just not all that great,OK?Next time,let me pick the DVD."
Well,Don just goes psycho on me.....No sooner had I finished my last sentence than he starts yelling at me like Mussolini on steroids.Fearing for my sanity,I ran out of there as fast as I could and made up my mind to find a new place first thing in the morning.We'd been having these debates on and off for six months,and I for one was frankly getting tired of it.I decided to head down to Mort's Coffee Shop two blocks away to clear my head...

...which is where things went from bad to Dante's Inferno.The second I walked through the door,this dude who looked like an extra from the set of The Shield tries to blast my head off with an AK-47.As I ducked back out door and ran down the street like a runaway locomotive,all I could think was:"How did I get myself into this mess?"
The guy was chasing after me yelling "I'M GONNA KILL YOU MOTHERF***ER!!!" at the top of his lungs,firing random bursts of gunfire over my head and foaming at the mouth.Not knowing what else to do,I jumped over the side of a nearby bridge into the river below with the guy with the AK-47 brandishing his gun at me and saying something about how he was gonna kill my @$$ the next time he saw me.Climbing out of the river 20 minutes later,I tried to think where I'd seen him before.

The next day,while my roommate was heading for work,I packed up most of my stuff and loaded it into a van to have it shipped to my new place;I'd send my brother to pick up the rest.Boy,was I glad to be getting out of there,I thought to myself as the moving van pulled away.
When I got to my new apartment,I saw the guy who'd been trying to kill me the night before.He was wearing a T-shirt that read "Grand Plaza Video"--and right then and there I remembered where I'd seen him before.He was the jerk who'd kept renting Vertigo to my now-former roommate for six months straight...and he still had his AK-47 with him.
"I'm screwed."I said to myself.

THE END

NEXT:Tequila

All the kids in Bob's magic 101 class laughed at him. He was the worst one there. Nearly all his spells went awry.

For example, the teacher, Mr. Oberon, would tell the class to make a rubber ball appear, and when it was Bob's turn, he produced a box of condoms. The class howled with laughter. Bob was humiliated. He was the least popular boy in the entire school because of his troubles at learning spells, and because he was painfully shy and was rather inept at interractions with other children.

Another time, when asked to produce a frog, he created soap bubbles..and they kept on multiplying until half the room was neck high in bubbles, and the teacher, Mr. Oberon, had to cast the spell, " Be - gone! " to send the bubbles away. Some of the boys called Bob " Mister Bubble " after this incident.

Bob was a thin boy of 13. He had just begun a growth spurt, as he was nearly 14. He had dark brown hair, and was very shy.

Bob's mother had died when he was only 7 years old. She was a Beautiful woman, thin yet healthy looking, with long light brown hair. She was killed by a car that had ran a red light at a busy intersection while she was crossing. It had happened too quickly for her to cast a spell to save herself.

Bob was now 13, and had been raised by a father who had two jobs and was almost never home. His father loved Bob, and they were all each other had now. His mother had loved him dearly, and it was she whom Bob had inherited his magical abilities from. She used to sing songs to him to get him to fall alseep. He missed her terribly. After her death, he began to have problems concentrating. When he was of age, 12 years old, his father sent him away to the most prestigious school for young magicians in the US, called Endora Academy.

It was a rather expensive school, at that. Bob knew this, and knew also that his father had worked extremely hard to afford to send him there. He did not want to fail, or let his father down, but he had problems with several of his classes.

One afternoon, Bob's teacher, Mr. Oberon asked Bob to stay after class. It was the last class of the day.

" Bob", Mr. Oberon started......" You're in danger of failing my class, as well as a few others. I want to tutor you. I'd hate to see you be dismissed from Endora Academy. "

" Me too, Mr. Oberon. "

" Bob, you need to concentrate....think of a pleasant memory..use it to focus your power and accomplish your goal. ", the man said. Mr. Oberon was in his late 60's, with a longish white beard, long white hair, and an all black suit with a white shirt and black tie. He was a stocky man, very strong looking. He was quite outgoing and confident. Bob wished he were as confident as Mr. Oberon.

" You can do it......I am certain of it. " , Mr. Oberon said encouraginly, almost as if he'd read Bob's mind.

" Now......I'm going to make an apple appear....and it will fly towards you.....you must stop it from touching you. "

" Think.....think of a pleasant memory...focus on it..gain strength from it."

" Yes, Sir. " Bob said hesitantly.

" I know you can do it! " Mr. Oberon said in a very positive tone, and made an apple appear, which began to fly at Bob, though not fast or hard enough to hurt him, should it actually strike him.

Bob raised his wand, concentrated, said " Trans - mute.", and quickly turned the apple into apple sauce. It fell to the floor at Bob's feet.

" You did it! " Mr. Oberon exclaimed.

" I did, didn't I? " Bob smiled as he said this, though the test had been fairly easy. It was just he and his teacher.
Could he do the same thing in from of his 22 class mates, where their would be real pressure? Bob was uncertain.

" Now, you go and practice. Remember, finals are in 4 weeks. "

Bob thanked his teacher for the extra help, and left. In the weeks that followed, Mr. Oberon and a few other teachers gave him badly needed extra lessons and encouragement. He began to improve. For the first time in two years, he actually felt confident about his abilities. But finals were approaching. Would he be able to pass the tests in front of his class mates?

His only friend at the school, a short, chubby boy named Richard, had been helping him, too.

" You can do it, Bob, I just know you can.", Richard said in between bites of a chocolate candy bar. " Besides, if you don't pass, Who'll be my room mate for freshman year? " Richard smiled as he said that.

" Thanks. " " Hey, " Bob added, " Let me try an enlarging spell on that candy bar of yours. "

" Sure! " Richard said happily, as he held the half eaten chocolate bar out for Bob to put the spell on.

Bob concentrated, and said the word, " Enlargo! "

Waves of brilliant white light came forth from Bob's wand. They struck the chocolate bar, which began to shimmer, then explode. It went all over Richard's face, suit and white shirt.

" Yuck!! Bob, you really need to practice on that spell! ", said Richard, as he pulled a hankerchief out of his pocket and wiped the chocolate off his face.

" Um, yeah, I guess so. " Bob giggled at the sight of his friend's face, covered in chocolate.

Time passed quickly, as it usually does when you want it to procede slowly, because you are dreading something that will occur on a given date.

It was finally the day of the Magic 101 final exam. Bob and Richard hurried off to get their in time.

" Do you think you have that enlarging spell..and the other spells memorized? " Richard asked, as he dug some jelly beans out of his pocket.

" I think so. Well, wish me luck. "

" You got it, Bob! "

" Thanks...good luck to you, too, Richard. "

They arrived at class. it was the last final exam of the year, the others having been done with. Bob had gotten excellent grades in all of them, but he needed to get an A in this one to pass for the year.

Mr Oberon greeted the children as they entered his class.

" Ok, may I have your attention, Everyone form a line, and we shall begin with the final exam for Magic 101. "

With that, the children formed a line. The girls were orderly, but some of the boys pushed and shoved other students in front of them.

" I can't wait to see what Mister Bubble does. ",snickered Val Jenkins, the boy who had always given Bob the most trouble at school. Several students laughed and made faces at Bob.

Bob blushed and looked down, praying he would not fail.

" Alright, class, quiet now. I'm going to throw an object at you, and you must prevent it from striking you by changing it or protecting yourself with a shield."

Carol Donaldson was first. Mr. Oberon threw a book at her. She used her wand and tried to turn it into something else, but the book kept dodging. At the last instant, her spell hit it and turned the book into a bunch of feathers, which fluttered gently to the floor, only inches from her.

" Achoo! " Carol sneezed. " Must be duck feathers. I'm allergic. " Carol stated.

" Bless you, Carol. And very well done! " Mr. Oberon told the girl.

Mr. Oberon turned the feathers into a peach, and made it float into his hand.

Bill Norton was next. He appeared nervous, which was unlike him, but his mother had called him just an hour earlier and nagged at him to pass the test and get an A. He knew if he didn't get all A's, she would yell at him for weeks after he got home for summer.

" Okay, Bill, your turn! " Mr. Oberon made the peach float towards Bill, who panicked, and accidentally used a spell that turned the peach into a giant, carnivorous, ten foot tall dinosaur -like monster. It started towards the boy.

At that moment, before Mr. Oberon could turn the monster back into a peach again, a boy who had panicked ran into the teacher, knocking him so that his head hit the desk, rendering him unconscious.

The children ran in all directions. Only Bob, Richard and and Carol Donaldson were left in the class room, and the ten foot tall dinosaur prepared to make a meal out of the three children.

Bob quickly pulled out his wand and shouted the word, " Trans - mute! "

White light came from his wand, striking the hungry dinosaur, which then turned quickly into a peach again.

Mr. Oberon had come to by this time, and had seen it all.

" Good boy, Bob! You not only saved yourself, your class mates and me, you get an A on your final exam! "

The rest of the class rushed back into the room once they saw the danger was over. The boy who had ridiculed Bob the most, Val Jenkins, put Bob on top of his shoulders, and told Bob, " You're Alright! " and everyone cheered Bob. It was one of the happiest moments of his young life. He was finally accepted by his peers, though he was still just a shy kid at heart.

After all the other students had taken and passed their final exam, even Bill Norton, because Mr. Oberon understood about his mother making him upset just before the test, though he did not get an A, and only Bob, Richard, and the teacher remained in the class room, Mr. Oberon asked Bob what memory or pleasant thought he had used to focus as he turned the deadly dino back into a harmless peach.

" I thought of my Mom and Dad, dancing to one of thier favorite old songs, before Mom had died. "

" What was the name of the song? " Mr. Oberon asked the young wizard.

" It was called Tequilla. "

THE END

Next : moon rise

Are we done?

I have an idea for "Moon Rise" but I can't seem to wanna get it on paper...

Moon Rise


The first thing you'll allow is boredom: this exists as a natural extension of everything you've ever sought out. The second is desperation, a desire to reach beyond the edges of neatly attached fingertips...
Caribou carries on; it's natural in the same way that labored breathing becomes a sick, twisted habit. People carry on: Caribou is flush with gold and rotten teeth, a (w)rapper in the gutter of attractive life. Whether one cares or not isn't really an issue, since the channel changer is readily available (and stocked with limitless batteries). People change channels, step over things, eat, fuck, squander imagination, serve faceless masters, feign happiness--all in the name of XXXXXX (edited to no one's surprise)...Has life always been this way?
The answer, inevitably, must be yes, and must always be yes. In the same way that we aren't ambivalent to the comings and goings of useless propaganda, we also discover things about ourselves. We find comfort in the suffering of others (talking points+thinking points=politics) and refuse to look outside of our homes; obviously, navigation becomes a problem. Where to go? It's hard to say. Should we be going anywhere only matters if you listen to one muse as opposed to the other. Lacking a destination, life become a parody of efficient habits, a way to mimic what we've always desired for ourselves. Sure, we invented the wheel--but we're also denying ourselves the chance for it to function by leaving it dead in the tall African grass, the slowest of some imaginary herd. The Pretenders!
Back to Caribou (stage direction).
"I like it here," remarks XXX-XX-XXXX (names are not important). "The shows are funny, and they make me laugh." [Tosses hair to side--image is crucial.] Where are we going? Brother, we're already here...Look around you, look at the buildings--if you're close enough to touch, then you know they feel the same. Nothing is different, the MK-ULTRA is the same, the Agent Orange has been downgraded to Agent White. Without threats (IOE), we fall into the same trap (except who rigs their own house to detonate?). Admit to yourself that Caribou isn't important, and that destinations are, and you've started to dismantle every little precious thing you built around yourself. Congratulations, soldiers, love can be yours for onlu $1.99! coupons to follow.

Environment?
Self-actualization?
Happiness?

A consumer crazes not these things...[cue artificial moonlight to highlight bleak nature of the broadcast].

End

I Miss Drzsmith, by MisterJLA

I miss Drzsmith. I wish he would return to Rob's Damn Boards. It just isn't the same without him.

The End.

Good question cuz I wanna write something darn it!

Next topic: A book and record love

Are you theo?

Only theo can suggest the next topic.