February 27, 2009

A Continuation of a Fifty-thousand (approximately) Word (short) Story Originally on SO

This day, I cruised around the Scholars Online forums a bit before reading a thread for two to five hours. When I finished, I found that the last, say, hundred and fifty posts had been utilized only to create conversation between the post numbers. If you don't understand this right away, I'm not going to explain it to you. Anyway.
I wrote a continuation of the latest of the real story, and, if the SOers don't cooperate with it and continue with it, I might do it myself.
Here it is. I post it here because it's long, and it is, in my opinion, valuable to me.

Unnamed, so far Extremely Exellent story, Part 2 (supposing I call the original part 1...)
Good 'Ol Singsong whistled a tune and whittled a nuclear missile out of an elm trunk. It was pretty big.
Singsong put a large bolt on the outside of it. All of a sudden, Susie came whirling out of a swirling vortex of bright light. Singsong checked the time on his portable sundial.
"You're early," he said, adding a cool-looking logo to the side of the missile.
"A girl is never early. Nor is she late. She arrives precisely when she means to," said Susie, grabbing a diamond off the ground and sharpening her sword. Her sword spouted multi-colored sparks when rock met cold metal.While she worked, she murmured in a song-like voice a song that would seem like a lullaby, if it were. As it was, however, it was a magical tune that kind of made the sword less solid, allowing Susie to shape it into nearly any shape she wanted. She looked up. Singsong had paid little attention to her, but he had the distinct look of someone who was written to be expected to seem unreachable, much like Gandalf, say, or Elrond. Suddenly, he grinned at her and, from behind him came all her former companions, Walter, William, Bonnie, Ashely, Tux, and the rest.
It seemed too good to be true. As it was, though, it wasn't quite too good to be true. Just really close.
Susie's face kept still, hoping upon hope that her imagination had not decided to revile and fool her. She realized that she hadn't been breathing for roughly one minute and thirty-three seconds. She didn't realize that, actually, she just realized that she was feeling vaguely faint, and traced the source of that feeling to her lack of air.
She breathed, but it seemed that her body needed more air than usual. She tried to breath deeply and calmly, but her attempts to calm herself became, in themselves, panicked. She breathed quickly and panickedly. A smile would have broken out on her face, if she hadn't already been smiling at Singsong. Her face wasn't in the habit of breaking anyway, but...
She started sobbing.
And got up.
Then, she raced over to Walter, and, she was sure, crushed several of his ribs and sobbed gallons of tears on his shoulder.
At this time, any boy or man would love to be totally unfazed by this and comfort a lady, but Walter was really uncomparebly surprised.
"Oof," he said, coughing slightly and looking nervous. He really wasn't sure whether his ribs were broken or not, actually. His chest was in so much pain he wouldn't be able to tell if someone stabbed him with a red-hot sword.
Anyway, Walter eventually got over the shock of being cannonballed by a teenage girl, and hugged her.
Tux got out a hankerchief and handed it to Walter. He looked up.
"Thanks, old onion. You look good in white," he added, noticing Tux's elderly looks and white hair. Tux nodded and overdramatically dabbed his eyes.
For some reason, Susie decided to stop crying. She looked into Walter's eyes, and murmured, "Oh, no. Is that a log?"
"Holy cow, Susie, is that a speck in your eye?"
With that, they both grabbed tweezers and removed the visual obstacles. Happily, the appearance of their surroundings did not change in the least. The sunset, who had made friends with Tux a while back, put on an extra wondrous show, and the companions all sat down to watch it.
Suddenly, they heard footsteps, and the sunset's light was dwarfed by a bright light from behind them.
"Greetings, mortal ones," said the newcomer, "My name is the White One."
Not thinking, Susie asked, "Why are you named that, sir?" It perplexed even her why she addressed him formally, but most people would probably agree that one would be well informed and, in one way, wise, if they addressed one who's shining like a newborn star as something other than, "dude".
As it was, the White One was not offended. He was the type of dude insults either flew over, or ignored insults. This, anyway, was not an insult.
"I was named the White One because the greatest of the greatest and the first of the first decided it to be so. I congratulate you on being the first human to ask me that question. Most are, in one way or another, struck in the beginning by the utter obviousness of it," he said, glowing mildly while sitting down next to them. Susie got a better look of him, while Tux tried to compare their heights while the White One was sitting down.
The White One was white. He had the look of a pure, white candlestick, unlit. His face had no color other than pure white, and the folds of his white cloak were not shaded by light or absence of light. He was barefoot. In his hand he held a whole small olive tree. He touched its roots, and it glowed for a time, before stretching itself before the companions' eyes. He took its roots in his hands and lightly grasped them with his hands. The tree glowed bright, and its branches stretched far and wide, rolling out over the companions, a perfect, undamaged tree of olives. The roots of the tree fell to the ground, straight through the White One. He chuckled and rose, giving the trunk of the tree some room. Then he sat down against its trunk and turned his content face to the sunset, who was glad to have everyone's attention again.
After waiting some time, Walter asked, "Why are you here?"
The White One turned to him and said, "The task was given to me to tell you where you are. Someone always has to do it, and this time, I was picked."
He paused.
"You are no longer in the world you used to be. In this world, your task is greater than any before given to humans. Indeed, even I shake to think what lies ahead."
The White One paused again, looking troubled. "Your task is to defeat the King of Azahd Mahles. Few details are known of his power or abilities, but we do know he has uncounted legions of tens of thousands at his command. You may encounter these forces, but, with wisdom, strength, wit, and tact, you may defeat him, his legions, and more. I have gifts for you. With them, you may win this war. Clefspeare and Tux," said the White One, at which both flinched and looked wary, "your differences must be healed, or one or both of you will surely die in battle. I will give you a chance to heal these wounds you share right now," said the White One, clicking his fingers. Both Tux and Clefspeare disappeared with a pop, and, a second later, appeared, apparently posing for a picture, arm in arm, grinning, both, from ear to ear. They looked mildly surprised, and then grinned.
"I wondered when you'd get us back here."
Clefspeare and Tux were the best of friends from that day on, but they told none of the companions what had happened.
"New friends, never underestimate the value and power of a true and strong friendship. I can assure that, if your friendship endures, you will never die if you fight in the same battle with each other, always."
The White One continued, saying, "Also, to Susie-mae, wielder of great swords, and darts, I might add," he said, his eyes momentarily glowing jovially, "I give you a sword which will not fail for you at any time, a sword which will comfort always, in any dimension. It is made of no metal of this earth or this dimension, nay, it is made of purer material than this. It will do more than guide your way in this world," said the White One, handing her a sword that looked just like his face, a semi-transparent white candlewax-like texture. Upon her touch, it glowed mildly, and, when the glow reached its tip, a small spark flew off its tip and raced to the sunset.
"Thank you," said Susie, looking entranced.
"For you, Singsong, I have made a flute-wand, unbreakable, immutable, and, in a pinch, great for knocking people out. I leave it to you to reveal its powers," the White One said, handing 'Ol Singsong his flute-wand. Singsong just smiled, holding the glowing white artifact in his hands.
"Thank you."
"For you, William, I had a hard time deciding, for Walter was also in need of a fitting gift. To you, William Franklin, son of Clefspeare, I give a bow and a quiver which will never empty. It is, however, your job to acquire the skill to use it when you need it."
"To you, Ashely, daughter of, Smith, silversmith, I give a dagger, which will follow your command, even to defying the laws that have, 'til now, aptly guarded reality."
Ashely looked puzzled, and then the White One took his hand from under it. It glowed mildly and floated towards her, hilt first. She took its hilt, and raised it to the sun, inspecting it. As with Susie's, it glowed bright and shot a spark to the late afternoon sun. Looking satisfied, she tentatively let go of it. It stood still in the air, glowing softly as ever.
"Thank you, sir," she said, sheething her weapon.
"For you, Bonnie, daughter of elf and fairy," said the White One, causing Bonnie to go red, "I give to you wings unequalled, powerful and impenetrable. If you decide, elven fairy, they will protect more bodies than your own."
With that, Bonnie's wings burst into flame and were quickly replaced with candlestick-white wings, glowing in the early evening. Bonnie jumped from the ground, delighted, and sped around them several times before coming down.
"Thank you. I could not have asked for a better gift," she said, breathing quickly.
"Do not fool yourself, daughter, the gifts I give you are nothing compared to those you can cultivate yourself."
Bonnie blushed and made way for Walter.
"For you, Walter, son of a poor man and a princess," the White One said, looking, seemingly, straight into his eyes, not up, not down, "for you, I give the most dangerous of these gifts. I first appoint you leader of this fellowship. Your wisdom," he said, looking somewhat sternly at Walter, "is greater than either you or others have or, perhaps, will, realize."
Walter spluttered. "I'm not wise!" he said, looking, perhaps, unnerved by the idea.
"Calm yourself, son, your wisdom is more than you know, and it will prove to be your company's greatest need in times of trouble."
"Secondly, I give you Excalibur, reforged, remade, in my own trademark unnamed element. He should serve you well or better than any sword you have ever held before."
The White One handed him Excalibur, and Walter faltered.
And then jumped. The sword had spoken.The rest of the company had also heard the voice. It was soft, reassuring, and, for lack of a better word, aged. Without much doubt in sight, the sword had said, "Greetings, master."

The White One laughed softly, and picked up and returned the blade to its master, saying, "You must learn to think of your sword as no longer an it, but a he. Excalibur is your humble and willing servant. There is truly no reservation to what this sword would do for you, son of a princess, for good or for ill. If you turn away from the good and embrace evil, son, your sword would willingly do your will. I will warn your evil side, however, that your sword would be, if forced to evil, rather...annoying, shall I say? Aside from that, however, one would be wise to avoid taking up this sword without his master's will. This also applies to Susie's sword, and Ashely's dagger. They are willing and able companions for you, not just cold steel that does not think. Bonnie's wings and William's bow will also follow their master's will, and keep willingly and safely any secret his or her master could give them. The master's will is the only way to extract the master's secrets confided to it in the dark of night, when emotions scramble the mind."

Use your weapons and tools well, "O," said the White One, being interrupted by Tux. "Mr. White guy, er, One, could I not have a weapon like these? Also my friend could use such a tool to fight our opponents when we meet them. I think he ran out of kerosene a month or two ago."

"Ah, yes. I thought you two would ask for more than what I gave you," he said, smiling. "Yes, I will give you a tool, Tux, son of Unix, ruler of Osahd Somnahz. When your new weapons are ready, I will visit you," said the White One.

"The time has come for your number," at which he, standing up straight, squinted and pointed to each of them in turn, "seven, if my eyes don't deceive me, must set out on a most perilous adventure, trying the will, bending the mind, and delving deepest into your relationships to each other than ever before. Have courage, mortals, for you will not be alone. On your quest, you will be occasionally be accompanied by friends, but more often hindered by enemies. Heed my word and be careful, sons and daughters, and you will overcome many trials and dangers. Do not fear the dark of night, nor the blinding daylight of the desert, but overcome all these obstacles and more with wisdom and discretion. Make each other inseparable family, loving and caring for one another more than for yourselves. And remember this poem, adventurers, well:

The birds of spring are beauties,
flitting 'round like the leaves of fall,

heeding wind only, flying unlowly,
beauties, they are, 'til fall 'rives.

None so beautiful as the aeryn,
aye, e'en in fall, excels unequalled,

beauty unfal'tring, living, doing,
more beautiful than all else living.

The aeryn, 'tis sign of aid forthcoming,
help 'or the next hill, some might say,
bringing relief to good's good servants.

The aeryn, bird of all seasons,
breaks into song upon holiday and dawn,

wondrous, melodious, audible song;
in orange and blue, this bird is garb'd.

The White One turned into an aeryn in spring plumage and, without further comment, flew off into the sunset.

Was that good? Do you want me to update, say, weekly on this fine story from now on? Post the previous, what, three-, four hundred posts? (in compiled form!? You're nuts. Might be able to do it with help, though.)
Once again...this is a minute crumb of the original story. My estimate of fifty thousand words was made by finding the total word count and subtracting ten thousand from it, to estimate how much less there'd be if there weren't any pictures, title text, etc, etc, etc. This bit is merely 2520 words. Don't gasp. It's not much. At all. Considering it took me about half of my waking day to read the SOers' bit.

UPDATE: A few *gasp* spelling errors eliminated. Feel free to correct me on any others. Because nobody's posted on the SS1 thread, I'll begin working on the next bit. If a continuation turns up on SO before that...I don't know what I'd do.


We Have Snow!

There you go.


February 26, 2009

Ooonnce Upon A Time...

There was a pixel. He was not lonely. He was accompanied by more than one million others just like him, except for one thing. He could think. The fact that he could think, and the others could not, suddenly made him very lonely.

Thankfully, around this time, a face started to look in his general direction. He began to flex his circuitry, and, dimly, if so, he began to pulse. His pulsing got the face's attention within seconds. The face scrutinized him as if he couldn't think, introducing into his consciousness the idea of indignation. He began to pulse more strongly, and the face looked slightly startled. In a miraculous coincidence of fate, the fifty-seventh dimension, and a few stray light particles, the pixel learned Morse code.

Immediately, he pulsed out the message, "I am indignant that you think I can't think." As fate would also have it, this face did know Morse code, but only comprehended the last word, "think," leading the face to believe that something was seriously wrong in itself. The pixel pulsed out the words, "Wrong, kiddo," in a way that, even from a pixel to an unidentified face, could be understood as condescending. The face narrowed its eyes.

"Look, if you're going to be condescending and stuff, I'm going to punch your face in," said the face, looking angry. This vocalization earned him several odd looks, as he was in a library. He seemed unfazed.

The pixel continued to bleep out its signal, earning himself several more annoyed looks from the face. "Look here. I'm a pixel here, and I've just become," said the pixel, at which the face contorted into an expression that took a few seconds to sort out. It looked vaguely like confusion, but it was too extreme. It looked a bit like anger, but it wasn't even that potent.
The face continued to mutate horribly, almost causing the pixel to short circuit. At this time, however, the face was forcibly escorted away by a couple of other torsos. The pixel looked professionally smug.

And then another face came in front of his vision. His backbone, though it wasn't there in the first place, disappeared. His nerves that didn't exist, went on overdrive and his head, which wasn't there either, began to experience a fit of fairly unexplainable nausea. His heart...

His heart, which did exist, stopped beating for roughly two point nine five eight seven seconds. Upon restarting, however, it was beating faster than ever, meaning not one or two beats per minute faster, but roughly two point seven nine times faster.

His subconscious told him to cool his jets. Unhelpfully.

The face was rectangular in shape, but, for some reason, it was getting smaller. Twin torsos were on either side of it, toting it to the flat surface across the...what was it? Room.
The pixel burst into unequalled raptures of pulses at a rate unheard of in CRTs before.
Then, unwarned, unalerted, the pixel was no more. His consciousness' potency at the time of his material existence allowed him to remain in a state of partial consciousness, even though no power was entering his circuits. The face grew nearer, and nearer, and then, suddenly, heartbreakingly, the face disappeared, and was gone. The pixel, at this time, died of shock.

To be continued.

Your ridiculously unrealistic, merciless butcherer of the ideas of fiction, and all-around worthless writer,



Upon stepping on the threshold of Mr. Bertilson's house today, we were stunned to find the house shaking. Upon further entering the house, we found Mr. Bertilson fuming nearly uncontrollably in the kitchen. Upon seeing us, however, he calmed down, made us some over-sugared coffee, and led us once more to his living room, which, by some amazing change, was now covered, from top to bottom, in everything from laptops to desktops, from paper to papers, and many other varied things. Mr. Bertilson's spirit still seemed to boil, but he nonetheless began speaking at once.

"I was sentenced to a fate worse than death. A fate worse than death! And this is all I get? Being burned at the stake?" Our team gasped in unison.
"It's simply outrageous. My 'fate worse than death', as it was so aptly called, was merely being married to the very fine young woman I suggested, without malicious intent, for Mr. President. I had, beforehand, been, in one way or another, warned of such a fate, but its potency now does not scare me in the least. I had guessed, at that time, that the 'fate worse than death' had something or other to do with death's opposite, life, but this was better than I could have known. I still, do however not anticipate the moment when I should marry Miss Roorda, who is my elder by a good two years, at least.
"The Ahern Embrey administration seems incapable to understand that, under current laws, this 'fate worse than death' cannot happen, as consent which, I might add, will not be given, by either party, is necessary.
"It is purely sad, the levels Mr. President has and will go to punish petty charges against spotless individuals, me not included, of course. Ahern's use of matrimony forced by himself, an offical, to accomplish his goals, is utterly shameful. I am not one to plead for order, to crush chaos, but Mr. President seems unable to bring one, or crush the other, let alone the opposite.
"I am officially dead. Mr. Ahern has proclaimed that Islas does not discriminate against ghosts. I am glad to hear it. It is nice to know a ghost can sit on a bus next to a living man and not be told to go to the back of the bus. It is nice to know that a ghost can go to the same bathroom as a living man. It is nice to know a ghost is allowed to post on Islas, just as a living man.
"I have faith that the most powerful Ls have not been comprimised by this worthless rule. If they have, I suggest that Islas be moved to new grounds, with new admins, and a system to elect them. I do not yet rebel against their rule. So far, it has been more than just. However, if they have succumed to any of Mr. Ahern's demands, if there are any, they have proved most disgraceful to Islas.
"I do not know when I am to be burned at the stake, but I look forward to it less than I do for Christmas, and more than I do, taking out the trash. Death has proved, in the past, to change nothing, on Islas. Even Death himself has been on Islas, ushering souls into the next world, but even him I did not fear, for death, Death, or whatever you may call it, has not scared me in the past, and will not in the future.
"But really. I had almost anticipated being married to Miss Roorda. And then the man canceled that marriage merely because Miss Roorda had to preform my execution. This is outrageous."

Here's the link to the official thingy by Mr. Ahern: http://dagenet2.ath.cx/islas/Prosecution.wma

Our team looked somewhat stunned, and yet energized, as we drove back to headquarters.

Your annoyed, somewhat happy, and somewhat depressed writer,


February 25, 2009


Mr. Ahern was interviewed this evening by our impeccable team, revealing many truths both about Islas, and about our revered president himself.

Our team entered Mr. Bertilson's living room, looking around, surprised. We had actually expected that it would be messy, covered with papers and perhaps several laptops. On the contrary, it looked, as some have said before, "brand spankin' new". Bertilson did not offer explanation at that time. As his comments were obviously desired, Mr. Bertilson didn't even wait to be asked.

"My interview with Mr. Ahern was boring at best. His answers were either nonexistent, vague, or worthless. He said, on one occasion, that Islas does not discriminate against ghosts, but, in Islas, the only need for this is that there is little or no distinction between the living and the dead. He somehow linked this kindness to creativity, which somehow flew far over my head. When I asked what fate could be worse than death, as mine is to be, he merely responded that the information is "a government secret", "top secret", or "confidential", on different occasions.

"Considering death on Islas already seems to mean no less than life, I can only assume that a fate worse than death is just, say, a pinprick delivered to your door. Though I didn't actually ask him that question, it didn't seem to bother Mr. Ahern a bit to know a good portion of his population would be, by his own hand, defenestrated. As Aristotle said, of course, 'A heartless president isn't a president at all. He is a Twinkie.' Mr. Ahern's heart is black as the night sky, swept free of stars.

"Mr. Ahern's executions earlier this year of several Islasers only brought the sentence of death. Even that seems not to be very potent of a punishment. My own brother was in the list of the executed, and, as far as my sight can make out, he has nothing to indicate, in any way, that he ought to be called dead, thought dead, or in any other way referred to as dead.

"His new 'fate worse than death' has failed to frighten me, so far, and I doubt any of the other accuseds' knees have been knocking at the idea of it. I had, at the end of my interview, hoped that it would yield more information and lead to interesting information for the general Islas public, but the amount Mr. Ahern revealed to me, at this time, seems minute. My interview with him was disappointing, but less disappointing than I thought it would be."

Our interview concluded, Mr. Bertilson looking tired and slightly annoyed. Our hopes somewhat dashed, we returned to headquarters.

Your somewhat discouraged, badly informed, and tired writer,



Mr. Bertilson was found at his comparatively uncluttered desk this afternoon emitting the occasional sigh and looking downcast. Our sources had already confirmed the death sentence on him, but we had expected to meet a much, much more downcast Mr. Bertilson. Upon preliminary, not further, inquiry, Bertilson offered comments.

"It's like a bad, horrible, terrible, horrendous TV show. The 'criminal' as I am so boringly styled, is tried, convicted, sentenced to death, yada yada yada. Everyone goes home happy. What TV show ends like that?

"It's just not right. The Ahern Embrey administration obviously doesn't understand that Islas is a community driven by disorder. Entropy. Yes, entropy," Bertilson repeated, after our cameraman raised an eyebrow skeptically.

"Islas, in its earlier years, thrived upon forced matrimonies across the board. If there wasn't marriage, there was at least fabled romance of unequalled proportions. Those days are gone, thanks to Mr. Ahern. First he issued that horrid edict a few days ago, banning several crucial elements of what makes Islas Islas. Then, having banned such fine activities, the president's lawyer proceeds to persue charges against, what, five illustrious Islasers? Such a president should not be tolerated, even by the likes of Hitler and Mr. Clean.

"He ruins fun, abolishes enjoyment, and attempts to make himself a bachelor for life. One would only guess that, having elected an unmarried president, said president's people would be expected, nay, morally obligated to find their chief executive a suitable match. Mr. Ahern seems incapable to understand that our utter gratitude for who knows what can only possibly be channelled there. His attitude toward this show of supreme gratitude is uncannily un-presidently. It cannot be tolerated. I say, Mr. Ahern, if you care for the people. If you love your country. If you enjoy the activities oldies used to spend half their lives doing to perfection, if you are truly an Islaser...Mr. Ahern, please step down. Remove yourself from the Wombat-Shaped office. Your presence there could only embarrass anyone. The Purple Wombat no longer needs you."

Our stunned faces retained their shape for at least a minute more, while Bertilson continued to carefully and eloquently state the futility of Mr. Ahern's attempts to squash all that Islasers have ever held dear.

"His offical lawyer and resident, yet unofficial blockhead, Mr. Denhoed, has come to the conclusion that I ought not be alive. He also charged me guilty of all the previously mentioned charges. Not only are some of them petty, but more than that, some of them are downright infringements on the right to free speech. The only reason the Ls have tolerated such an infringement, is, I can only imagine, that they believe in Islas, and can see what fun can be had by leading this mad man, Mr. Ahern, and the rest of his gang, around in circles, like a dog chasing cars.

"I do not ask for their protection, nay, I need it not. I ask that the people of Islas understand what I say. Ordered democracy cannot work for Islas, nay, it will not. The spirit of all Islas demands a constant state of chaos, or it will die. Islas is a hurricane. If it discontinues in its way, peaceful, orderly, it dies. If it sweeps the world, its power is almost unequalled on this Earth. That is what the people of Islas must know. Islas cannot live if there is order."

"Thus, I hereby establish the Disorder of the Purple Wombat. All who join this Disorder pledge to uphold the ideals, namely chaos, enjoyment, and reasoned or unreasoned debate. All who join this Disorder promise with the very fibers of their being to be, themselves, an agent of chaos, heeding only the highest officers, namely The Two and Only Ls."

Our continuedly stunned faces returned to our headquarters, where, when relayed, the speech was gaped at nearly universally.

UPDATE: Miss Hannah Roorda has been mentioned as the executioner. "Ladies first," makes its first victim. Miss Roorda wasn't given the chance to decline comment, but was, this day, prosecuted for various charges which may be mentioned in further updates.

Your rebellious, chaotic, and keyboard-toting writer,



In a (not) stunning turn of events, Mr. Denhoed, judge extraordinaire and all that rot, decided, all of the sudden, that Mr. Bertilson was "in contempt of the court". Mr. Denhoed wasn't given the chance not to comment, but ignored Mr. Bertilson's surprising and stunning use of his "BLOCKHEAD" title to adjourn the court until the charges became more clear, the virdict more fickle, and the judge less numskulled. Mr. Bertilson, not yet in custody, was available for comment, saying, "It really is unprecedented that a judge would overrule the 'BLOCKHEAD' call for adjournment. It's never happened before in Islas history, if my memory serves me right. It's a title won by careful conduct and kind words. It's a title carried by a long line of honorable men, inhindered by petty dictators and all that rot. The Ahern Embrey administration, and all its employees, is clearly unfamiliar with this title and its unequalled prominence. charges against me have thusfar proven none but petty, not better than random, and uncommonly unjust. This said, however, Mr. President does make quite fine Youtube videos for those many Islasers who seem to have been brainwashed, having, seemingly, no sense left in their heads." Bertilson finished, saying, "I also wonder what form of capital punishment will be chosen for me; Mr. Denhoed will probably choose something fast and boring, like a shot to the head, say, or the electric chair. All proper judges would definitely choose something more elaborate. However, I, as chief and only offical blockhead of Islas, do find myself incapable of participating in nearly all forms of execution, as, first, I'm just too cool to die, second, blockheads' necks don't easily fit into guilliotines, and third, twinkies are better fried."
Our team seemed slightly confused after this, but a few of them seemed happy for a revolution, which seemed, somewhat, to be what Mr. Bertilson was talking about. After taking a second trip and asking, however, we came up with another answer. "Definitely not. Revolution is the means by which to throw off the yoke of petty dictators, not the likes of John Ahern.
For some reason, I recall having seen several posters in his house, with varied textual implimentations of the words, "Vive la Revolution". My memory seems to fail me.

Your serious, capitally convicted, and in all other ways, happy, writer,


February 24, 2009


Our illustrious writer was found this day, furiously writing a reply to Mr. DenHoed, the Ahern Embery Administration's lawyer, and now, judge, who had, this day, begun a prosecution against Mr. Bertilson. When asked to comment, Mr. Bertilson sat upright, looking downright terrifying, and accidentally flung his pencil to the other side of the house. "It's insane. The idea that I'd be prosecuted for suggesting a match for our, alas, unmarried Chief Executive, is utterly nonsensical. The president has fairly worthily borne his power thusfar, but this is really going far. One might think it's because I'm one of the accused that I say this, but it comes from a deep love of Islas that will not be broken by the electric chair, the lethal injection, or the heavy object landing painfully on one's scull," said Bertilson, frantically searching for his lost pencil. "The charge that my name is not in the Firefox spell-checker is most uncommonly ridiculous, mainly because the prosecution's names, Ahern, Embery, Roorda, and many others, do not even appear in it either!" The implications of this shook us to our boots. The Ahern Embery administration couldn't really be willing to prosecute, and alas, the thought, execute possibly more than half of the Islas population merely because of this petty, nay, demonic charge?

Our knees shook as they brought us to our car on the way back to the building.

UPDATE: Now included, the current proceedings having happened:

"Mark _. DenHoed, Judge and Prosecuting Attorney:

Alrighty, it's all going down now. By order of the prez, I shall be serving as judge and prosecuting attorney.

Docket Number 29834: Noah "Bertilson"

Mr. Bertilson, the charges against you are many, varied, and grave.

You are, first of all, a poser. You go on about Open Source software, saying how great it is, littering your blog posts with computer terminology. But, it has been said (and tested and found true) that your last name is NOT in Firefox's (an open source program, I might add) dictionary!

Second: You allegedly attempted to do something having to do with the president and marriage or something. I'm still looking into that one.

Third: You have, in the past, driven me to distraction through your blatant over-use of the phrases "*smirk*" and "*sly grin*". The phrases are now worn out (lexicographical murder is the proper term, I think), and I now shudder whenever anyone uses them.

How do you plead?

Noah B. Bertilson, "the Accused":

*crates in rickety old rocking chair and begins to creakily rock it*

I first thank the dishonorable Teh Grate for presiding over this horrendous assembly. Without his help, my existence would have been so much less painful. His acceptance of the request to prosecute the accused is the greatest of his deeds, and will no doubt be written down by a ridiculous Cicero-copycat in overused Sharpies (may Heaven break his back for so torturing the precious things).

I plead that the dishoronable and all that rot judge and prosecuting whatshisnut has found the prosecuted guilty of some, and possibly all, of the above.

First, the word poser, on being read by the accused, was at first found vaguely insulting, second outright true, third, unequalledly complimentary. The accused acknowledges that, on some occasions, he has found himself unable to properly be "genuine", but, in most cases, the accused finds himself standing alone with his hands in his pockets. Such displays of so-called "lonerness" are not intentional or meant to deceive. Without such unpleasant realities, the word "loner" would be lost, abandoned, and in all other ways tossed down into the fiery chasm from whence it came.

Concerning going on about Open Source software. Firstly, the accused begs pardon of the Ahern Embrey Administration for utilizing his freedom of speech. He had not been aware that it had been taken away. His dedication to Open Source software has been long and strong, and any attempt to end it is seen as an attempt to overcome an unyeilding fire, an unquenchable inferno with no more than a spray bottle. Attempts have been made in the past to signal that these attempts are miserable failures, but they seem not to have even made dents on your Redmond Steel (or, the accused notes, aircraft-grade aluminum) sculls. As these previous attempts have failed, the accused will make none now.

The accused acknowledges that he has posted, not littered, his blog with one post, not more than one, of informative information considering computer terminology, which, though it brought about the doom of the accused, has proved useful to at least one individual.

Concerning Firefox, the prosecution would be well-advised to consult Mozilla, where, due to your unequalled care, could request, the accused thinks, that the name "Bertilson" would be included in the Firefox Dictionary. The accused also points out that mass-prosecutions would be more than reasonable, including agasint our dishonorable judge, concerning the fact that there is no "DenHoed", "Roorda", and many other names of prominent, well-known, and in all other ways, illustrious Islas Members. The accused suggests, most preferably, that the prosectution schedule lobotomies within the next five days, in hopes that their hope of continued and collective existence may burn on, a small but brave flame, unhindered by petty dictators and evil rulers.

Second. You should continue to undiligently look into that one, as you call it. Your conduct, bringing up charges not complete and incomplete, is disgraceful to the name of Islas, the Ahern Embry Administration, and the Association for the Ethical Treatment of Fruits and Veggie Tales.

Third. The accused technically denies the charge. He acknowledges his use, but not overuse, of the "phrases" as your dishonorableness has so aptly named them, "*smirk*" and "*sly grin*". He avidly argues that his use of the words has not worn of one iota of their meaning nor in any way "lexicographically murdered" it. The accused found himself very angry at the thought that he should be accused of murdering such useful "phrases", as your dishonorableness has, if not repeatedly, unneededly called them.

The charges against the accused are not, as the prosecution said, "many, varied, and grave," but few, random, and petty. The accused suggests his dishonorableness gather more information and learn to count, among other things. Any sane judge would, at this time, turn pink and dismiss the case. The accused's lawyer also petitions that the prosecution discontinue talking of the accused in the second person, as it is sure to eventually confuse one or another of the Ahern Embrey Administration between the actual second person and the letter "U".


Your uncommonly attacked, prosecuted, and defenestrated writer,


February 20, 2009

Apochalypse Unending (3 of 10)

21. My life, rolling over rock and stone,
was not made, by God, to be a bone,
nonetheless, the music does fall alone.

22. My words, my words, why have you forsaken me?
Their meaning twisted, their intent deranged,
where will they wreak havoc today?

23. My words, my words, they know not master from slave,
breaking the author, praising the servant.

24. The purpose my words were made for,
the reason I keyed them,
they forget it, faster than molasses solidifies at the North Pole.

25. A girl found the hangman, whispered a word or two of mine,
and the man was unjustly saved from his im'nent doom.

26. The girl no fault deserves, yet the words, my words,
they ruin the proverbial landscape of my life,
bombing Istanbul, burning Rome, sending New York into a black vortex.

27. They were there when London burned,
they started fire, spread fuel and panic,
in their hate of master manic.

28. Masterless, they roam, heeding no one, taking orders none,
razing house and city, breaking board and nail.

29. My words, my words, why have you forsaken your master?
He did no wrong, he crafted you carefully, he formed you fine,
yet now you turn on him, hate and dishonor in hand,
to stab the back of their helpless maker.

30. It is not with happy finger that I write this tale,
for my deeds, though good, came to no avail,
breaking mead and assassinating pail.


February 19, 2009

My Woes Unequalled (2 of 10)

11. It is, with sad face, sour'd heart,
that the author must continue in this part,
to describe, unworthily, the suff'rings ongoing.

12. With no better medium than the very words who betrayed me,
I describe a life brought low by betrayal, of making my own.

13. Described in words, no doubt, who will betray me,
turning away, stabbing back, not obeying,
I relate a life upturned by falsehood, dashed by smashing.

14. With no consolation to be seen,
a kangaroo must be keen,
lest he attain a mouthful of kerosene.

15. Sorrow surrounding, hope aband'ning,
I report this fable, uncoated in unreasoning,
making wise the fool, wide-eyed in PJs.

16. Though this tale humor lacks,
I find it but a fact,
that unattended, humor rises,
havoc administers, chaos prizes.

17. With foul intent the pixels do their master gibe,
making fool of blockhead with ease,
forgetting not the peas.

18. On mountain high, in valley deep,
in centuries unexplored, on planets unadorned,
even there will my words seek me, find me, abuse me.

19. In non but a blockhead's head could such nonsense abound,
yet in sad moments, even the happy cry, "rebound",
with hope ungreatened for the crown.

20. With hopeless face, tired hands, the author his keyboard abandons,
hoping, hopeless, that his words will follow him like world-grade lemmings.


February 18, 2009

An Ode to Stupidity (1 of 10)

01. O fates, why do you toss me thus?
My mouth informed the ignorant,
and to me brought my loss.

02. O fates, you compass me, bringing my hopes to zilch
but why, O fates, must you prohibit the filch?

03. With tired eye and aching hand,
my words onto this blog do fly,
fly back they may, with foul intent, 'twas not mine.

04. My mouse, itself unliving,
doth come to life, hate well weilding,
to bring my efforts to my undoing.

05. My deeds, they serve me sorely,
crushing my dreams, dismembering my wishes,
unheeding and unkindly, they assail me.

06. My words flee from their master, I,
purposeless, chaotic, horrible beasts,
devious, backstabbing, they fly.

07. To relate these woes in song and verse,
does no justice to their worth,
they betray me, break me, attack me.

08. With fine and useful keyboard I wrote them,
penning with pixel what ink would not,
creating with the key what the author thought.

09. O, the winding path of fate,
it causes a man to come forth in glory once,
then, when his back is bent, his hair gray,
stabs him in the back, with horrid b'tray.

10. An Ode to Stupidity, that I write.
These words, I hope, will betray naught,
but, for safety's sake, one would be wise,
to include include cake with his daily fries.


February 15, 2009

A Poem

I just decided, out of the blue, though there isn't much at this time, to post this poem I composed a few days ago. I was intending to write it to act it out in my acting class, but there's a bit...hem, a bit...more likelihood that I'll do something like the Illustrious Jabberwocky. Anywho, here you go:

The Garg and the Squeak

By N. B. Bertilson

The Garg, once a monster was named,
whose body was foul, his visage vile,
who, though quite ashamed,
was joyous all the while.

The Squeak, another case entirely,
was beauty and handsomeness undefiled,
though heart and soul black as pitchly,
had beauty unbound all the while.

The Squeak, it must be known,
was afraid of all, but his own shadow,
coward he was, but backbone he'd grown,
yellow bellied though he'd been endowed

The Garg and the Squeak, one find day,
bumpt into each other, more lit'rally than many,
and unresolved their quarrel lay,
until they gathered one day, end the quabblry.

They engaged in battle, with clash, with bash,
and none could 'merge, the victor,
then, warning unwrought, the Garg flailed with mighty arm,
the Squeak, into a burlap sack, claiming the vict'ry.

With foul visage, the Garg, the victor,
left the field of battle, beaming.

My attempts to make this thing rhyme came near to naught.
If you think otherwise, remove my face, distraught.

I've come away from reading this poem the second time thinking I may have written something worth being burned, as opposed to crumpled up and thrown in a lowly trash bin. If you violently concur or vehemently disagree, the commenty thingy is open as ever.



Happy Valentine's day! I just decided to bring some happy holiday cheer to this dusk-like room I call my blog.

First, I must notify you that the names, aside from the first person, are altered so that, if I somehow become more prestigious among bloggers, the dear lady's name will not be known. For those of you who can perceive the dear lady's identity, rib injury is not an article insured by CSAM or its few contributors and/or owners. Read at your own risk


me: Jane...
Will you be my valentine?
Jane: *thwack!*
me: I'll die if you don't...
Jane: GOOD!
me: Why not?
Jane: umm
because I want you to die?
me: I can die after you be my valentine...
Jane: but i want you to die now!
me: I WON"T!
Jane: bah.
me: Say yes!
Jane: no
me: ...
Will you be my ghost's Valentine?
Jane: and if you try the "say no!" trick, then it won't work.
You know what I'll do?
I find some old stale candy hearts
and pelt you with them
me: *goes into a dead swoon*
Jane: will that work?
me: Work meaning what?
Endear you to me mooorre?
Jane: no, i meant kill you
me: Oh. No...
I might die of a heart attack if you kissed me, though...
Jane: knives are quieter.
me: I won't slobber.
Jane: only blood
me: Pleeeeeeezzzee?
Jane: NO
oh, wait.
you wanted me to knife you?
turkish dagger ok?
me: *hesitates*
Not really...
Jane: lapland fish scaling knife?
me: But it would be nice to have "Got diced and flayed alive by a marginally gorgeous girl"...
It's almost hard to pass up...
No, by the way.
Jane: dang
what about cyanide/
me: Nah.
Jane: why do you WANT one? (speaking of a Valentine)
go ask lauren
me: She's like twenty decades older than me.
Jane: um..
I'm older htan she is
me: You are?
Jane: no, she's a few months older
not much, though
me: I thought so.
Jane: she acts like she's twenty decades
me: That's the problem. As long as you don't tell me how old you really are, I can continue to dream of us two somewhere dreadfully romantic.
Jane: shut up
me: Will you be my Valentine?
Jane: no
ask lauren
me: Pleeeaaazze?
Jane: no
ask lauren
me: Hmph. I need to go. Dearest.
Jane: i need to go research atomic bombs
me: Toodles. Good luck, O Felted Peach!

Yep, I'm blissfully in love.

February 12, 2009


Some of you may not have heard, but we're going to the L'abri conference in Rochester, MN. Have a great weekend, all you nuts!

This is a post-it that Ami attached to a box of brownies which we're taking along...

Once again, have a great week! Don't discombobulate any yellow-bellied sapsuckers! Drop lots of pennies into Anvil Drop!


February 10, 2009

01 - The REALLY Basic Stuff

Ok. Here I start what I at least hope may become useful. I do this about as much for others as for myself.

P. C. (PC) Personal Computer. Used, on the large part, to refer to computers running an OS other than Mac OS X, i. e. Windows or some distrobution of Linux.

Mac. Used almost exclusively to refer to a computer made by Apple.

O. S. (OS) Operating System. The thing that allows you to do, see, and hear, essentially.

Operating Systems:

Windows. (Windoze, Window$, Winders, and others less repectful) An operating system created by the company Microsoft. Near exclusively used in the computer market.

Mac OS X. (Mac, Macintosh (not sure the actual operating system is usually called this, but you get the idea)) Less widely used than Windows. Considered, by your biased writer, to be better, in some ways. Manufactured by Apple.

Linux. Open source. Free, more than frequently. Top distrobutions: Ubuntu, Fedora, etc. (I can't think of many others right now...) Has the cutest mascot of them all.

Sizes and Speeds:

Byte (1), kilobyte (KB) (1000 bytes), megabyte (MB) (1000 kilobytes), gigabyte (GB) (1000 megabytes), terabyte (TB) (1000 gigabytes), etc. There's another term for 1024 bytes, megabytes, etc, but I can't currently remember it. I consider this, the 1024 measurement one, the correct one. I make sure that all my hard drive partitions are exact multiples of 1024. *looks smug*

Hert (1), kilohertz (KHz), (1000 hertz), megahertz (MHz), (1000 kilohertz), gigahertz (GHz), (1000 megahertz), terahertz (GHz) (1000 gigaherz). Once again, there's some way you can add a letter in the terminology or something, and it means 1024 of the previous instead of 1000. I'm not sure which measure CPUs use.

The Parts of a Computer:

C. P. U. (CPU (see-pea-YOU, roughly)) Central Processing Unit. Speed is measured in mega- or giga-hertz (MHz/GHz). These days, they have multiple cores, meaning, basically, that the power is multiplied by two (dual core), three (triple core), four (quadruple core), and so on.

R. A. M. (RAM (just say "ram")) Random Access Memory. Temporarily contains files needed readily at high speeds. Size is measured in either megabytes (MBs) or gigabytes (GBs).

H. D. (D.) (HD(D)(aych-dee-DEE)) Hard disk drive. Main storage unit of a computer. Multiple disks inside the HDD spin, being read by either an array of probes, or a single one, depending on how large. Largest single internal consumer hard drive available (that I know of): 2 TBs.

D. V. D./C. D./B. D. Drive (Digital Video Disk/Compact Disk/Blu Disk (Blu-Ray format) drive) Used to read DVDs, CDs, and other disk-like formats. DVD+/-RW generally implies the ability, of a drive, to read and write everything from CD-Rs to DVD+RWs. I'm not positive Blu-Ray drives are capable of at least DVD/CD playback, if not writing, but it seems impossible for them not to, at least for reading.

Mobo. (MB, Mother Board) The main part of the computer, onto which everything else connects, in one way or another. The CPU is directly mounted on it.

P. S. U. (PSU. Power Supply) Converts standard output voltage/wattage to usable measures.

U. S. B. (Universal Serial Bus) A fast interface for transferring data between a computer and another device, i. e. a computer, iPod, or other media device. Latest stable revision: 2.0.

Firewire. Another, somewhat less common interface for data transfer. (I don't know a lot about this...)

Suggestions? Comments? Shameless praise? Comment.

Your not-so-well informed, hopefully helpful, and continuously biased writer,


February 06, 2009


Ok. I'm just going gaga over this, so I decided to put it up there. *points to top of page eagerly*

Anywho, if you REALLY, REALLY, REALLY want to know how to do this, put a comment in with twice as many exclamation marks as you'd use in requesting a Twinkie. Or not. Anyway, if you want a tutorial, I'll need tons of enthusiasm, because making one is...rather hard...


February 05, 2009

After the Tree Falls - Prologue and Chapter One

Last night an attitude, for lack of a better word, took me, which would probably be best named "Writer's Treadmill". This means, simply, that the writer finds himself joying in spending hours writing run-on sentences with little or no meaning whatsoever. However, in some select cases, the author is capable of creating beautiful, if garbled, paragraphs upon paragraphs. I thought I might say it's the opposite of Writer's Block, but the analogy makes it seem that one is forced to write. On the contrary, as I mentioned above, joy overwhelming is more than frequently accompanied by Writer's Treadmill. As such, I've churned out several incomprehensible paragraphs for your readership to slash, bash, and just plain all-around criticize. Here you go.

After the Tree Falls

By Noah Bertilson

This book is dedicated to Erin Blake, without whose encouragement, this work would yet lay in piles of proverbial dust on a trashed computer's hard drive.

00 Prologue

The old tree on Packard Lane never grew leaves, but each succeeding year, its age-warn branches reached visibly higher, probing sightlessly the heavens above, like a blind sea creature, exposed to a blinding light. The greatest oddity of the tree was not this, though, a mere and minor abnormality compared with some of its attributes. One who ventured near it could not avoid but feel that something was there, something great, something powerful. Truly, some who had felt its force thought it to be a satanic force, though there own deeds proved them nothing but hypocrites, and led many to believe it was a force not for evil, but for good.

00.5 Introduction

Jack Jackson was not an ordinary boy, even though this statement carries little meaning. The first problem is that the definition of the phrase, “ordinary boy” is, to say the least, fuzzy. Secondly, Jack more than frequently salted his ice cream. Being a, shall we say, non-generic boy, was not an easy task. Those who have similar roles in this world would concur ardently, if given the chance. On the whole, most are not, however. The closest they manage to this is singularly pointless rants unleashed in ones' head during the washing of dishes, which undoubtedly occupies part of the lives of a good portion of abnormal boys. One critic of normal boys admired the aspects of abnormal boys' lives, saying, “The normality of normal boys is more than frequently boring, if not, considerations made, demonic. The abnormal boy, on the other hand, has room to move about, without infringing on long-held assumptions of perpetual stupidity, to which most normal boys adhere without question or reservation.”
If it were not for society's low view of critics in general, and a more specific, and, some say, icy, view of critics of normal boys in particular, this view would be more widely held and debated. As it is, however, critics in general, not to mention normal boy critics in particular, are almost exclusively thought best prodded with long poles, carefully held by men in radiation-proof suits, if they weren't vaporized by the nuclear blast that necessitated said suits.
Anyway, the point is, Jack was not an ordinary boy. For the time being, your readership will have to be satisfied with this proverbial crumb of information concerning the main character of the proceeding narrative.

01 Ethan Hunter

Ethan studied the problem. His brow, at this time, could be likened to the furrows of a farm, but the author continues to be bewildered that the phrase “a furrowed brow” was invented any earlier than the Third Ice Age. Nonetheless, Jack's brow did look furrowed.

Ethan continued to study the problem. The problem was one of many in a binder that had been crudely labeled “AGELBAR” in none other than capital letters. By deducing, and guessing, somewhat, one might come to the conclusion that the binder contained Algebraic problems. Authors' renown for sarcasm can't have acquired much power as of yet, but you would be right in guessing that, in saying the reader is brilliant, the author intends either to make laugh, or make laughed at.

Ethan continued to continue studying the problem. If the reader, at this time, decides the sole intent of the author is to deride and fool the reader, one would be well-informed to know the author is deeply offended. The author, on the contrary, has suffered such boring and life-threateningly laborious days all his life. The reader would do well to learn tolerance of such occurrences.
Finally, and with due flourish, Ethan wrote the answer, placed a long-tailed check-mark right on its number, and slammed the book with such volume and violence that one could have bet his life that the couch shook.

Several distressed, nay, angered, cries issued forth from other regions of the house.

Ethan, without any delay, leaped dramatically from the couch, landed with a muffled thud several feet from it, and continued to replace his “AGELBAR” binder to its proper place.

Agelbar was the last of his studies for the day. The feeling that surges through a homeschooler, or the author, at least, is one not unlike adrenaline, depending on the situation. If one has profitable, useful things to do after schoolwork, his time will not be wasted. However, if the best you can come up with is to sit at a computer and count the times the Blue Screen of Death turns up, one would be better served to do even more schoolwork, of the type he or she likes worst. Aye, without intending not to do it the next day, too.
Ethan, however, was not one of these persons. His hobbies aged quickly and would, by the majority of those around him, seem dull, but, to him, they meant hours of useful opportunity to build his body, mind, and will.

As the author was saying, a feeling urges through a homeschooler at the point when instinct indicates that his lessons are defeated, as the author would have it, for the day. This feeling is much like adrenaline, the author thinks, in either of the above, but Ethan, as the author made known, is one of the former, and did not, thus, suffer terminal depression and other horrendous side effects.

Ethan climbed the staircase leading to the second floor. The third floor was an attic, but it held more than dust and old things. The attic of this house was Ethan's bedroom.
Though "order" didn't accurately describe it, "slipshod", or "untidy" would come as a specifically wounding insult to Ethan in specific, and his mother, who more than frequently swept in his room. All things considered, that was likely one of the lesser things she did for his well-being.
Ethan grabbed a backpack, which, though battered and dirty, looked, well, loved. For one thing, it was designed for a human of just slightly more than half his height. Its back was still covered in battered and far-curled stickers of anything from cars to mushroom clouds. The latter was less curled than most of them. On several of its varied faces, pieces of duct tape stuck more firmly than some would. On one of its faces was inscribed in faulty, childish capitals, "ETHAN GEORGE HUNTER". The initals, "EGH", had been inscribed in various other pens throughout the backpack, giving it, in some places, the look of an over-opaque watermark on an image that some demonic company in Orlando put there merely for the pleasure of scoffing at the high site visit numbers.
Ethan took the backpack down to the end of the attic and begun climbing a latter. He shoved the trapdoor open with a grunt and a crash, and broke into the blazing sunlight.
In describing the wonders of any scenery, there is reason to believe one should sharpen one's pen. In this case, little seemed to be there, and yet, this scene was envied, if only by various teenagers from Minnesota. In truth, the scene truly had some intrinsic beauty to it. The sands, covered with sagebrush and other shrubbery at varied intervals, was also interspersed with a variety of cacti, the names of which Ethan hadn't bothered to learn. Not at intervals, however, were scattered huge quantities of sand. If one were to attempt estimating how much of any given weight-measurement there was of sand in Arizona or the world, his rude conjecture would likely be off by enough that all he had ever owned could be entirely covered in it. Not to mention his own person, who, guessing such a number, revealed either unequalled stupidity, or an insanity which could amount to little less than the willingness to throw oneself in front of an express train.

Nonetheless, the author will go about to describe something his eyes have never seen.

The desert stretched far beyond Ethan's line of vision. He could see, probably, hundreds of millions of square feet of sand without turning his head to the right or to the left. This spectacle, which might prove alarming, in some instances, could be described as beautiful, though such a word hardly paid homage to its stunning appearance. The shrubbery did make the scene slightly less frightening, but the most beautiful element of the landscape was the sun. The sun was nearing the horizon, and, insodoing, seemed to become brighter. It was actually more likely that, because humans usually locate their eyes on the front of their heads, instead of on the top, the average human finds himself looking, as it were, into the sun's face, in the afternoon, and the sun looking on our long-haired, short-haired, or, in a large number of cases, no-haired scalps, at noon.

This said, it ought to be obvious that Ethan appreciated the landscape immensely. Ethan extracted a pair of binoculars from his backpack and scanned the landscape in a manner which suggested only that he had done it hundreds of times before without much to speak of. This time, however, he sat bolt upright, sighting a cloud of dust rising in the west. It was difficult to spot anything, but, discerning by the fact that it was, in fact, on a road, one would conclude reasonably that this object was typically referred to as a car, automobile, or, in some more rare cases, wheels. As it was, it was much more a truck than a car. Ethan, by this time, had deduced that it was a moving truck, because the sign outside the Parkingsons' old house read in clear, blue lettering, "FOR SALE BY OWNER". He had been aware of its sale for months now, and finally the people were going to move in. Ethan was almost resentful to have the excitement delayed this long, but, seeing this, his heart started doing triple somersaults to "Yankee Doodle Went to Town" at double speed. He grabbed his backpack, almost left his binoculars behind, and leapt down the fairly short ladder into his attic bedroom. Tossing his binoculars and backpack into bed, he raced though the house at a pace which would have nearly inflicted a heart attack on him any other day. His siblings' and mother's calls seemed not to reach him, such was his speed. The likelihood, however, was that Ethan was merely going too fast and loudly to hear anything than his racing heart and feet.
Upon reaching the front door, Ethan slowed to a halt and looked through the eye-hole.

The truck was easily still a mile away.

Meanwhile, his siblings and mother finally caught up with him.
"What on earth was that racket for, bro?" said his older brother, David.
"Ethan, you make way too much noise," said Jane. She was at the age, approximately, when one could ride a dog, but the Hunters had no Saint Bernard. Her hair, which somehow mixed blond and, what has, so many times, been called golden, seemed to have dried molasses scattered at conservative intervals, as well as some stale popcorn hanging from it. The effect would probably have repulsed one not in the family, but Ethan hardly paid attention to the fact. Also gathered were his older sister Susan and his rather young brother, Wesley. He, it could not be argued, had recently devoured at least a half-dozen chocolate-oozing chocolate-chip cookies. His mother didn't seem to think this important, at the moment, and he tottered off to the kitchen wordlessly. Susan seemed more than convinced this mobbing on Ethan was only to ensure he was quickly and painfully hung by the nearest tree.
"What." Susan stated. All eyes focused on Ethan as if Susan had just made a stinging argument that, if answered well, would merit thorough applause. Ethan, not in the least breathless, pointed to the eye-hole in the front door. All of them made for it at once. Jane quickly secured the advantage, however, through teamwork with David. Squinting overly, Jane looked through the hole.
"I can't see anything," she said firmly, looking as if she were the only authority on the matter and it couldn't matter less what anyone else thought about it. Ethan rolled his eyes and threw the door open. His family winced. Eventually, they got used to the light. By now, the truck was roughly half a mile away.
"Oh," said Jane. She rushed to the bathtub.
"Ah," said David. He went upstairs.
"So what?" said Susan. Ethan raised his eyebrows.
"Ok, I was wrong. One of us doesn't live in reality," he said. Susan aimed a look at him which was overloaded with malice, which seemed to necessitate quickly morphing into an annoyed look that wasn't aimed anywhere in particular. She stomped up the stairs, looking furious. Ethan took some pleasure in this, but, by the afternoon, was missing Susan communicating orally to him just a bit.
The Hunter family fell asleep at varying times, and, this night, they somehow all managed to fall asleep before twelve. Though sometimes they got to bed before then, this was something of an accomplishment. In Ethan's bedroom, however, no one was asleep. Ethan's backpack leaned, open, against a support post. The trapdoor to the roof was unlocked. Later that night, or morning, as it was, Ethan got in bed and fell asleep.

Yay! Finished! *dances around*

More coming soon!


February 02, 2009

What Would We Do Without Hitler...