December 16, 2011


I freaking love words.

Juxtaposition, quazar, quixotic, pathetic.


Words are too cheap.

Distrobution is in the hands of all, the work of a second.

Words should be precious.


November 27, 2011


Once there was a man who made silverware. For no obvious reason, though, he chose to create his silverware such that they appeared to be spoons and yet were forks. Many were outraged that when they went to eat spaghetti they would find the noodles slipping from their grasp, and when eating soup find that the soup would merely pass through their spoon. People asked him again and again why he did this, but never did the man give a reason.

The man continued throughout his life to create his wares thus, and continued over time to become less and less respected and wealthy. Eventually, he found that his business could no longer support itself, and so closed up shop.

The spoon is a multi-million year old rock.
The fork is a multi-thousand year old rock.
The man is God.


November 02, 2011

The Ant and the Eagle

A long time ago, after caterpillars had learned to fly but before dandelions took to the skies, there lived an ant in an anthill a long way from the front steps in a crack in the sidewalk. This ant wanted to fly. He spent his days watching the sparrows, bees, butterflies, and eagles in the skies, wishing he, too, could feel the wind in his...well, generally assaulting his person.

One day, he found the sparrow rummaging nearby and went up to him.

“Sparrow, friend, I have seen you fly above the treetops with such ease! How do you coax the wind to hold you aloft?” he queried politely.

The sparrow was hungry and not in a mood to talk, so he pecked at the ant and made to eat him. The ant bolted away quickly and, with panic enough for one day, went to bed to sleep.

The ant woke the next day with one dream in his mind still, to fly! He thought today to ask the kindly butterfly, who wouldn’t eat other things alive. Without delay he climbed a blooming daisy and scanned the skies for the butterfly. No sooner had he looked when the butterfly landed nearby, and spoke to him.

“Good morning, ant! The flowers are beautiful today!” she said happily. The butterfly was usually cheery.

“Good morning, butterfly. The flowers are beautiful indeed, but I only wish to see the sky up close!”

The butterfly nodded sadly. “The sky is beautiful as well. I would carry you there, but my wings are new, and even carrying my own weight aloft is difficult. I wish you the best of luck in your endeavor!”

The ant left the butterfly sadly, and returned to his hill once more. The night passed and he slept not, wishing only to go to see the sky

Finally, as the sun’s rays found their way to his hill and the sounds of the morning began, the ant once more ventured forth to find a way to go above the trees.

A heart-wrenching screech went out over the tops of the trees and a rush of wind signaled the arrival of the eagle. The ant scrambled wildly and called to the eagle repeatedly, hoping not to lose this opportunity. To his relief, the eagle came soaring down to him, nearly blowing him half a foot away. The eagle was huge compared to either the sparrow and the butterfly, and much more majestic. Thus the ant addressed him with respect.

“O kindly eagle, I have spent my life wishing to fly and to take to the air, but I have no wings, and the sparrow was unwilling, and the butterfly unable to take me aloft. Would you in your generosity use your great wings to show me the wonder of flight?”
The eagle looked at him and nodded.

He lowered his head and the ant climbed on.

The wind instantly rushed over the ant’s body like a tsunami, shooting through his legs and going on. The ant unfortunately didn’t have eyelids, and thus couldn’t have them fly back and expose his eyeball. Regardless, the ant and the eagle flew that day for a long time, and when the ant became tired, the eagle set him down right next to his hill.

The ant and the eagle became good friends over time, and the ant learned many things from the eagle.

Never trust a sparrow.

The End


October 02, 2011

For Some Odd Reason (pt. 10)

Ratchet hadn't much liked the idea of disembodiment much before in her life, and it didn't seem awfully pleasant even now. Being that the wind was currently assaulting her from all sides, disembodiment seemed not a bad word to describe her current situation. Ratchet was also getting tired. She's kinda lost track of time, so she couldn't have known she'd been awake for a straight week, but her body was catching up with the fact, and she fell asleep. She also fell speedily toward the ground.

Ratchet woke up again in a hospital bed, and blinked five times. The room was empty and dark. She found she couldn't remember why she was in the hospital. On the whiteboard across from her was written a name:

Dr. Cook.

It seemed odd until she looked at her hand. In all honesty, she actually looked a couple inches above her wrist. There wasn't much hand there to be seen. Peculiar.

And then it all came together. Literally and figuratively. Her hand reassembled from gaseous elements, and she decided to be a superhero. She left her bed and jumped out the window.

The rest is history. Or, rather, unwritten fiction. But still a history of sorts.


September 22, 2011

Don't Copy this Post

Seriously. Don't even think about it.

People, let's start with something simple. Copy and past a link to something awwesssommmeee. This isn't so bad. Hey, I do it a lot, even. Linking to a Youtube video is second. It's more annoying 'cause you can't be sure it's not interesting until you've seen the first few seconds of it.

But forwarding emails, copying and pasting posts or statii on Facebook.

Please. Please, listen to these simple tips.

One: we're in the information age. That means you have gazillions of images, articles, games, blogging sites, video upload sites, oh, and photo upload sites. Soooo many.


So I ask you...with all this information at your fingertips, seconds away from your eyes, why, in the name of Q-tips and apple pie, would you copy and paste almost anything? Hey, I may be a radical who practically forwards/copy/pastes anything, but really. It took me less than five seconds to make sure a story wasn't true. There's Urban Legends, there's Snopes. For heaven's sake, there's Google. Things like these go around, and people ask about things like these. Thus, there's information on things like these on the internet. A couple clicks and a dozen or so keypresses away.

Two: Use common sense. I perhaps use this to an excessive degree, where I won't even forward the awe-inspiring or tear-jerking emails to friends or family...but that's not the point. There are very, very few times when your forwarding something or reposting something or copying a status will actually have a meaningful effect on someone's life. And guess what? If you spend ten minutes researching someone who's actually legitimately in need, or, heck, volunteering at a soup kitchen, or even visiting the bed-ridden...

Well, just ask yourself this: which is most self-sacrificial? Which shows most you care to the person in need?

Granted, there are times when forwards aren't the worst possible thing in the world. Occasionally, they're funny, cute, gut-wrenching, or something. Moderately tolerable. Sometimes these forward/repost/status things aren't completely bogus. That's where you really need your common sense.

My apologies if this wasn't helpful and was just annoying.

I get ticked off by this stuff easily.

To cheer you up from that rant:


September 11, 2011

Eight in the Kitchen at Eight

Ten years ago, I woke up and came downstairs to the kitchen. I can't remember the exact time, and I can't remember exactly when the towers were attacked, but I remember Daddy telling Mommy something and her being significantly taken aback. I understand better today what he'd told her about, but I remember the feeling then of rather infantile, formless horror.

"After seeing just one video concerning eight years ago's events, I have little to say. On September eleventh, men raised their fists at America, and struck down more than three thousand of us. It is our duty to remember this, tell it to our children, and inspire the, "quiet, unyielding anger" that Mr. Bush spoke of on that dreadful day. Forgetting that terrible day, and what it implies for our future, is akin in magnitude to forgetting the knowledge, but mostly wisdom, that centuries before wrote in books, spoke to crowds, and thought with conviction.

We must never forget September the eleventh. Then, we were brutally and mercilessly assaulted by men who hate America solely for the immense and wonderful liberty that Americans have, share, and allow, to anyone who enters our country legally. Imagine a world where we forgot that there used to be two gargantuan, near identical towers on Manhattan Island. Forgetting any part of our past is to flout the wisdom and knowledge of those before us, and endanger those who will proceed us. The stuff of the past is more valuable than ten thousand times ten million times all our nation's wealth. Few or no other mediums can teach us as much, admonish us as aptly, or commend us as correctly. Few of those before us would wish themselves forgotten, if not because they were wise and knowledgeable, then because they were proud. Our past, if studied, ensures our future security.

The importance of the present and future are second only to the past."

I can't say I'm as eloquent as I was then at this particular moment, but I couldn't really say much more or say it much better than I did then. We have enemies who are strong, strong enough to strike out in cowardly and despicable manners. Moreover, we cannot expect Al-Qaeda and Saddam and bin Laden to be the only haters of our great country. Without a doubt, more will rise up and attempt to take freedom from us--even within our borders. Fear is not the answer. Not even close. We're in a battle for the survival of not our country, but the liberty that our country provides. The solution is to spread said freedom, to protect it, to teach our children how blessed they are to have it.

The terrorists would have us stripped of our liberties, so our duty is to come together and pull against them in this great tug of war. Our country and our liberty are at stake. This is no less true today than it was ten years ago.

Remember, remember, the eleventh of September.


September 07, 2011

Easy A


I guess I won't comment on why I watched it, but I felt like it was worth writing about in some length or another.

Anywho. If you want to watch this movie, don't read this. Yet.

I don't know why, but I liked this movie. Not a ton, but I did. The humor was alright, (some) of the characters good, and the whole confession thing gets me every time.

If you don't know, for some reason, Easy A is about a girl in highschool who ends up, by a series of decisions and circumstances, thought of by her school as a slut. This came about because she pretended to sleep with this one guy because he wanted to be relieved of the troubles that are being gay. One thing led to another, and she'd "slept" with the whole school, if hyperbole is fine with you.

I think why I liked the movie wasn't because of the sex (little or none of it though there was) or the talk thereof, but rather because of the effects her lies had on her life.

Gah, it sounds really unpleasantly typical that way. I guess I found myself thinking, "This really could happen!"

Or so I think. It seemed believable. I still think it is. But the point is it was real. Actions had consequences. She originally thought having sex wouldn't be fine, but pretending to would be, but in the end, it seemed like she just might have seen that lies have their own consequences.

I don't write about movies often, and even less so because they really got to me in some way. I guess I'm sort of a truth freak. An honest guy. Granted, I don't tell the truth all the time, and I quite frequently lie instead. I'm not perfect, nor close to it.

But I appreciate the difficulty and weight of honesty. Lies are easy.

I think it would be stupid to say this movie amounted to a moral about lies and their consequences. There's more to it than that. A bit of humor, of course. Heck, it's a story! And the way it's told is a way I like, I think.

You know. Author inserts comment here, author issues warning there, author denies liability for injuries sustained while perusing this book.

Stuff like that.

They/she didn't do it as well as me, granted, but it was nice nonetheless.

Aah, the Christians.

I was honestly alright with what they did with us. Sure, they made nutjobs and oddballs and bossy girls the bringers of Good News, but they didn't do much more than that. For a second I thought she'd even go the whole hog and actually understand some words from the Bible, but no such luck. Pretty dang close.

I think it was true. For me, that's all there needs to be in a story. It might not be good because of it, it might not be beautiful because of it, but truth I do adore.

I'm not going to rate it. If you're above the age of seventeen, I'll recommend it, but mildly. The worth of the movie separate from the message is probably minimal.

The movie has minimal violence, little nudity, no sex but a good few minutes pretending, and plenty of language.


September 01, 2011

'Cause I'm Feeling Writy

At this point, I feel like I just wasted my money on that awesome Bluetooth keyboard and mouse and accompanying USB dongle.


I'm too happy for that sort of stuff to matter. Sigh. It'll probably be over tomorrow, I'll probably forget what the heck I was happy about...dang, I don't even know now, really...well, there is Windy. I don't think I've ever fallen in love with a fictional figment of some fictional character's fictional imagination before.

It's new.

It's unorthodox!

It involves little self control and a lot of dreamyweamy!

I want to dance. I think I've come to the point where I'd dance with a willing guy, if given the chance. So long as there was good music to go with it. Gosh, I could dance an hour if anyone was willing to. Maybe someday I'll go to the Midtown Global Market and bring a boombox...

And my dancing clothes.

Which reminds me, I need to get some dancing clothes. Dude, that should be top priority. Back burner for all this bluetooth nunchuck swishspittle bucketknuckle dunkreef golfmote stuff.

Yes, I just made up a whole five words in the space of one sentence.

Aye. For tonight, life is good.

For always, God is good.



Here's the deal.

Life keeps throwing me curve balls. And all those awesome ones Bugs Bunny made up. Those too.

I haven't been enjoying getting up in the morning.

I haven't enjoyed going places, doing things, meeting people, seeing people, thinking about what I'm gonna do...

But, for reasons wild and mysterious and lovely and strange, I'm not feeling pessimistic right now.

I might be getting a job in the next few weeks (prayers, if'y'please).

Life is amazing. God gave me free will, for goodness' sake! I can do anything I want! Within reason and the boundaries of the law, naturally, but ANYTHING! AUGH!

Windy. I don't care what you think, I don't care what you say. That's beauty, right there. I don't care about the music too much. I like the tune, sure, but the words describe a girl, for me. Also, that song happened to be in a TV show from 2008 named Life on Mars. And there was a girl named Windy. She was a figment of the main character's imagination. I'm not sure such a beautiful thing is possible this side of the reality/dreamworld border, but I don't think it matters. Windy's best for the lonely.

Which I am. Heck, you probably know it. Either that or you envy me or somesuch nonsense. I don't know, honestly. But I officially have...I can't remember how many exactly, but one more inmate in the crazed, wondrous prison that is my mind.

Windy makes me wish I were delusional or insane, 'cause then she'd be real.


August 10, 2011

Not Happy

And now I'm not happy.


So many reasons. Dishes. Trash. People. Myself. Girls. Family. God. Stuff. Job (the lack thereof, rather).

I don't get it. I've got it good, and I know it. I know God, and I love him. I have a family, a great one, and I don't appreciate them, I don't engage with them, I don't love them.

But I do. And yet I don't.

I want to talk to people and know them. I want them to talk to me and know me. I want to love them despite their faults, and I want them to love me despite my faults.

I know God loves me, and yet I haven't felt like he's really there recently. I've been sporatically joyful and sorrowful, hyper and grumpy. I don't know why.

I want someone to know me and to care enough to ask how I'm doing more than once every two weeks. I want someone who'll in turn allow me to care about them and ask them probing, even unpleasant questions at will.

I'm unrepentant and sinful and I don't seem to have the will to change it myself, let alone ask someone to walk through this proverbial fire with me. I can't figure out who could do that, who has the time to talk when I need to talk, to care for me when I need to be cared for.

The irony is that I'm living in a house full of caring, loving, kind people. Moreover, I live in a community (CityLife) whose members are at least preaching the embrace of community, and most wholeheartedly establishing it.

I bought myself a new computer recently, and no matter how much I tell myself I needed it, that it was for my own good as well as others', it's not entirely true. I got it 'cause I wanted mine to be better than Gregory's, for starters. Pride point. Also, I wanted to spend more time playing more impressive games. Another pride point, I guess.

And I want a girl. I've heard practically everything I could ever hope to hear about girls, dating, love, sex, and marriage, and yet it seems like it's either gone in one ear and out the other, or it's just not saturated me, I guess you could say. I want to get married, and yet I can't help feeling I'm depending on that, my greatest dream ever, to fulfill my desires, solve my problems, and make me happy. I know that's not the case, of course, because there's God, and if Girl X can solve all my problems, God would become obsolete.

I want to love my family and know more friends, to be someone who opens up easily to brothers who can actually understand and help and keep loving me even then.

But would it be permanent? I keep asking myself this. I don't want to continue Taekwondo unless I do it my whole life. I don't want to go out with a girl unless it ends up in marriage. I don't want to do a job unless I see it finished. I don't want to tell at all unless I tell all. Why should I make friends if they'll move away next year? I've got plenty of friends I've never met and some I've met a couple times, tops. Why should I add to their number?

But life is fleeting! Friendship perhaps even more so. Carpe diem! But how? When? With what intentions? How can I take control of my life, my friendships, my loves, if I can't figure out why I'm so ticked off in the first place? How can I hope to make my life better if I can't figure out why it's so bad? God? I don't know what I haven't tried! It's hyperbolic, probably not true, but life is too disappointing to be optimistic. At this point, I don't want anything to solve my problems because I'm too sour and convinced they're permanent and unchangable.

Why must I be so desperate? Why must I be so secretive, silent, so sour?

How long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever?
How long will you hide your face from me?

Psalm 13:1


August 07, 2011


Ok, so, right now, I'm happy. I don't care what you say, I am.

And I'm not. It's weird. A few minutes ago...wait, no, it was probably an hour ago, I took out the trash. In a sour mood indeed.

And now I'm hyper, talking my head off. Can't figure it out.

Anyway, if I were to select a phrase for the day, it'd be "old flame"

No, it has nothing to do with girls or love or anything like that.

The thought.

The very thought of it.

Anyway, I'm trying to figure out what I'm supposed to do with my life if I intend to marry this girl. It's a lot to do for such an old dream.

Dude, I'm so absolutely sappy. Gosh, people, how do you put up with this guy.

I mean, me.

Yep, I'm totally referring to myself in the third person.

The Third Person.

It could be a film about a multiple-personality guy. You know there's a film by the name The Third Man? It'd even have subliminal parody status! Yeah, I don't know what that means either.

Anywho. I've got myself a new computer. I think there are pictures up on Flickr. Die if you don't know the address. Either that or comment and ask for it. I've got some other new pictures up there too.

I've neglected this bloooggg. Like so many other people. I know, people may say cats are the most neglected pet of all time, but, I'm telling you, it's actually blogs. Seriously.

Anywho. I'm in a weird mood. I like it, but I'm not sure if it's healthy. It's sorta hyper, but, unfortunately, dear old Lilliopathy isn't on. I'm not sure what I'd do if I didn't have her to spazz to every now and then.

I've got things to do. Jobs to search, noodles to boil, tigers to tame. I might even clean my ears along the way.

People, if I do this, I'm gonna need prayer like heck.

Dude, I'm so horribly dramatic at this hour.

Don't worry, most likely, I'll only get myself horribly shamed and lose all will to support myself and end up 40, jobless, 300 pounds, and playing video games 12 hours a day.

See? Told you so?

I'll get off, before I get into a full-scale argument with myself.


June 06, 2011

The Prison of Worlds: The Grand Entrance

The Grand Entrance

“All hope abandon, ye who enter here!” Dante Alighieri

The sun beat down on the clouds and thus completely missed the ground. The clouds in turn threatened to rain upon the Earth, but forbore to do so in a sort of grumbling fit. The result would have left a blind man searching for cover, but the avid meteorologist would simply wave away doubts and worries and say it would pass over.

This was largely due, in part, to the fact that there weren’t any meteorologists within fifty miles of this building.

Ah, the building. Yes, I told you I’d get to that. As if the rest of the world weren’t convinced it ought to go back to bed and sleep the day through, the building was the sort of thing that just looks out of place without rain pouring down in sheets, lightning striking every other second, and an terrifying tune playing in the background. In short, this building seemed to have been uprooted from some land of utter darkness and horror, and been flown to this place of relative joy and calm.

The reality was much less believable.

Still, the building itself was something worth describing. It had a couple wings, one on each side. Ivy crawled up and around to such a degree that, if it weren’t already a prison of sorts, it would have ensured escape was impossible. The front doors and a few windows here and there were the only places where the incredibly overwhelming ivy wasn’t beyond the management’s very capable handling. These few holes in the mass of wood were maintained regularly by the local handyman, who somehow had managed for twenty years to use a chainsaw as a tool for myriad lawn and garden tasks and, even more miraculously, managed to keep several of his fingers.

The windows and doors weren’t a viable escape option because the grounds were overgrown with gargantuan nettles. One footstep in the formerly brown and unpleasant lawn would quickly render one unconscious. Given a couple seconds, gravity, and the loss of balance, the nettles would pump into you more poison than an elephant was meant to handle.

In effect, therefore, nobody had ever escaped by any means. A few people had tried, and most of them had died. But I’m not here to rhyme.

The driveway was long, and somehow, gravel though it was, was also covered in the deadly nettles. A sign over the doorway explained, in bright and unpleasant colors, that footwear of any kind was not allowed in the asylum. It also explained that hope was pointless and one should abandon it. It used a bunch more words and probably sounded like it actually meant it, but the effect was more than I care to let my readers know.

As the limousine pulled up and slowed to a halt at the front steps, the man raised his head from the seat. The driver looked back, unsure whether to pity this man or deride him. The insane are hard to judge.

“We’re here,” he said, apparently compromising. The information was unneeded, as the orderlies had already begun to escort the man out of the car. Oddly enough, he didn’t resist. He walked rather proudly and managed, once or twice, to keep pace with the men who guided him. His head was held high and he appeared to be taking the sight in. The orderlies saw his attentive gaze and tightened their grip on his arms. It wasn’t like he could escape, but the job paid well, so they were willing to do it well. The limousine hummed off behind them, leaving nothing but nettles to be seen.

They continued up the front stairs, which also seemed to have been recently cleared of ivy. There were green clippings and fresh, wet, angled pieces of wood, some large, some small. The pieces of ivy got between the man’s toes as he strode on toward the door. The threshold was rather large, and the handyman seemed to have done a bad job this time. The man instantly imagined that the handyman had found love and thus become distracted from ordinary life. A slight breeze passed them and overturned some leaves.

“Weird day, eh?” said one of the orderlies. He had obviously forgotten he was guarding a man certified insane by the top doctors in the United States.

“Yeah, aren’t...” the second man started saying.

“Yes. This place is odd even without an odd day to go with it. Peculiar,” said the strange man, interrupting the second orderly.

The orderlies blinked and remembered who was next to them. They blushed, faced front, and resumed their stoney expressions.

The asylum was an asylum. The strange man sighed. He had expected no better.


The Prison of Worlds: A Strange Man

A Strange Man

“I can’t believe that God put us on this Earth to be ordinary.” Lou Holtz

A limousine rolled up the road toward a building whose precise appearance the author will for the moment not secrete. The limousine, however, was of a black aspect that permitted little of the slight breeze outside to make any difference inside the metal walls. And yes, they were walls. The cars they used to transport men like this were indeed prisons.

Men like this, you ask? In complete honesty, no prison was actually enough for the man who now laid in the back of the limousine, in a straight jacket and unconscious. The reason he was now helpless and unconscious was due solely to the fact that he thought he was normal. Ordinary. Average.

In truth, he was no different from you in any observable way. That is to say, he was certainly human. One would be hard-pressed to find a way in which he either appeared, or actually was, not human.

Still, one would be even more hard-pressed to believe he was simply ordinary. You couldn’t put your finger on it. He exuded something, but you would never figure out whether to puke or fear or collect it. You would wish for a sixth sense more dearly than ever before. There was something about this man which could be sensed, but only vaguely. You could tell something was different, perhaps even wrong, but you would be driven insane trying to find it.

Insane. This is the word most had found for him, when the word, “human” was no longer enough, when his simple oddity and strangeness made you deny him as a fellow on this rock. In short, he had something inexplicable. Something science would laugh at, that reason would cower away from. This man baffled everyone without moving, without speaking, without so much as twitching.

Enigmatic? Perhaps.


May 23, 2011

For Some Odd Reason (pt. 9)

Ratchet was in a cruel bind. Well, to be perfectly honest, she was just tired of flying around. It was probably something to do with her hat, whose name the author has now forgotten. Still, she was tired, and, for whatever reason, she decided she'd really love to run at this particular point in time. For this reason, her hat, whose name, again, the author can't remember, let go.

Consequently, she fell. Gravity, of course, wasn't particularly on the ball at this point in space, but it has this unpleasant habit of becoming more important the more you pay attention to it. Therefore, because Ratchet began to fall, her observance of whatever pysical laws dictate or explain gravity began to heighten rather speedily.

In short, she fell faster. By the time she reentered Earth's atmosphere, she was practically fully aware of the reality of gravity. One would be quite correct, therefore, to conjecture that Ratchet plummeted. She practically descended with incredible speed, even!

However, as Ratchet fell closer and closer to the planet's surface, a sudden realization came upon her. If she were to name her hat once, in the rather odious face of disaster, what in the world would prevent her from renaming her hat a second time in a situation of similarly uncool disaster?

(The reader should be aware, at this time, that the author is using all his cleverness and a bit of what he'd have to call cheatyness, for lack of a more authentic word, in order to render this story sound in some small way.)

"NINETEEN!" she screamed, as ozone whistled past her, nitrogen threatened to remove her skin, and oxygen failed to play any significant role, positive or negative. With a uncanny screeching sound, Nineteen careened onto her head, and, at the last second, allowed her some abstinence from obliteration. Unfortunately, the last second was constituted by a stretch of rather a lot of feet, and a couple miles to boot.

Should scientist, mathematician make it this far in the story and prove, somehow, that, at one second from impact, Ratchet couldn't have been this far, or this close to Earth, the author recommends respectfully that said person get a life.

Regardless, Ratchet had time to talk to her renamed hat. Its name continues to allude the author's mind, so until such time as it is remembered, both Ratchet and her hat have obviously somehow forgotten the whole Big Red Spot incident.

"Odd," Ratchet said, observing the Earth beneath. It was strange, after having gone up so speedily, to float down so pleasantly. Her unquenchable desire to run remained, but she was a patient girl. She hadn't the best vocal cords to speak of, but she could spout absolute nonsense without end should the situation require it.

The situation respectfully required exactly that.

The hat, Ratchet found, could communicate subconsciously to her. The effect, therefore, was that she found Nineteen rather displeased. She wasn't surprised, but she felt the same way. Forgetting something like that wasn't done every day.

"The Girl in the Fedora," she thought, grinning. It seemed unique. It seemed a tad clever.

Then she remembered. Cookie! Or Cook, rather. How could she forget? Save the universe. Or was it just the galaxy? How could she know what was supposed to be what? What could tell her that? How could she even trust Cook?

As if to answer, she landed. Well, to be perfectly honest, it didn't answer anything. But Ratchet was an odd type of girl, and she felt, for whatever reason, that she ought to trust Cook.

As if it were high time something got ruined, something ended, or some action came into play, a dozen thugs with muscles the size of Mars jumped her. The precise meaning of this phrase isn't exactly known to the author, but the meaning seems to be that they simultaneously, and without warning, tackled Ratchet. For this reason, Ratchet's superpowers kicked in. As she seemed to have exhibited both flight, strength, and half a dozen others the author can't remember, she decided at this juncture to turn into gas.

Therefore, it was with little reluctance that she joined a rather large club of molecules in varying degrees of closeness. It was a big club. A very big club.

Her hair was still red.


May 22, 2011


Today, on the 21st of May, the elect were scheduled to be beamed to the heavenly places, to ascend to the skies never to return. Or so Mr. Campman would have us believe. Mr. Bertilson witnessed his own watch swap from the overwhelming quantity of 23:59:59 to 00:00 mere minutes ago, missing not this unhistoric event.

He immediately leapt into the air spasmodically, gasping for breath, yelling incomprehensibly, and eventually looking rather depressed.

"It wasn't today..." he muttered bleakly, staring in odd directions. He slumped down onto a rather battered sofa and examined the insides of his eyelids. It appeared he was deep in thought. Within seconds, he leapt up, solution on the tip of his lips!

"I KNEW IT! I"M A HEATHEN!" He screamed madly. It seemed there was nothing to convince him otherwise. Eventually, though, he calmed down and said, "No...I haven't a golden calf to speak of. Not to mention this slight obsession with one particular deity," he added, thoughtfully caressing his facial hair. The situation appeared to bring the thoughtfulness out of him, but try as he might, it became difficult after midnight to appear in the slightest degree sane.

"I KNOW!" he said again, ceasing his mindless pacing for a few seconds to exercise his vocal cords. "EUREKA! YES! IT MUST BE!"

Were we seated, our rears would nearly be gone from that wondrous surface we call a chair. In short, we hung on his every word. There couldn't be a more intelligent person in, well, the house! The next words which exited his mouth were guaranteed by nature and half a dozen other aspects of our reality to be mind-numbingly brilliant.

"I must be wrong about everything! I've been reading the Bible awrong the whole of my life, every word from the mouths of my parents must have been a planted falsehood in the mouths of innocent people! There can't be another explanation!" Mr. Bertilson paced the room with a sort of methodical, rhythmic intensity. The floor quaked in synchronization with his incredible brain! His noggin could be seen visibly bulging to the rhythm of his manliest of steps! Mr. Bertilson truly thought his best when on his feet. The great brain throbbed and sparked with ideas, with conclusions! He could not be said to be anything but a thinker, on the level of such sages as Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, and, last but not least, Speedy Gonzales! This was his greatest moment. This was his greatest occupation! He could do nothing else better! He was...

Asleep. We found our awed silence broken by the house-shaking snoring of Mr. Bertilson. His mind still seemed to teem with activity, positively charging the air around him...furthermore, he continued to pace as if his mind were still well in control of everything.

He was dreaming. It seemed rational to us, once we got back to HQ. The brain, according to the best of scientists and most of us all, operates at significantly fuller capacity when the body is asleep. However he'd managed it, Mr. Bertilson seemed to have accessed this. He paced away the night without halt, brain well on its way to an explanation to it all.

The intensity of the whole encounter left us all rather shaken, and we retired to our beds inspired and humbled by the awesomeness that was Mr. Bertilson.


May 14, 2011

For Little Things

I just wrote this.

For Little Things

For great things was I made
not of myself,
that I would be proud

For great things was I made
not in this world
that I upheld could be

For pride, it would tear me down
for power, it would strip me bare
in small, great victories
do I find joy

For great things was I made
by men seldom praised
for only might makes right
to them

For great things was I made
by princes never upheld
for only might makes right
to them

For pride, I have enough now
for power, I need none
in small, great victories
I now am loved

For little things was I made
on this earth
pride to abandon me

For little things was I made
in this world
servant to others

Good men money never made;
Good men pride never made;
Good men power never made;
Good men for little things were made.

I'm not sure what I'm going to do with it. I'd like to write music for it and sing it myself, but I'm not sure I'm a singer worth squat, and I don't know if I can write a tune to save my life. Gotta try, though. Sometime...


May 08, 2011

Wits End - parts zero and one

Wits End
by Noah Bertilson

The End

I was at my wits' end. Literally. That is to say, by whatever freak happenstance that calls itself fate, I was physically holding onto the very last inch of the very last strand of my also thoroughly physical wits. On the whole, the situation was unpleasant and rather bad, for lack of a better word.
This only proved my imagination was obviously completely unconnected in magnitude to my wits.

How precisely could I tell it was my wits I hung so ineffectively onto? On the whole, it seemed to me that nothing else could possibly appear so frayed and deranged than my wits did at that moment. They stretched, rather literally, up an unpleasantly long way. The tall and short of it, then, was certainly more on the tall side.

Regardless, I found myself at my wits' end. Or ends. The author can't be positive which is the correct alternative, but go boil your head. If you even care about that, you obviously care nothing for this completely purposeless narrative.

To explain the whole thing, it’s critical the reader know that mere days ago, on the 16th of March, 2011, I proposed to Emma Connor. Why I did, how I did, and what happened before, though, requires me to go rather a bit farther back, to the 21st of June, 2010. On this day, I properly met Emma. I’d seen her in class and said hi and bye on regular occasions, but to say we had a relationship of any worthwhile quality would have been flimflam. Or balderdash. Or humbug. Regardless of what, precisely, it was, it wasn’t the truth.

For whatever reason, I feel compelled at this time to remind you that I’m very likely a dead man. Not because I proposed to this fine young lady, but rather because I am, in fact, at the end of my very thoroughly NON-proverbial wits. If I were you, I’d really expect the narrative to end abruptly with an unpleasant conglomeration of randomly pressed keys assembling themselves into something not unlike what is found above.

That is, nonsense.

Still. I’m here, and, by whatever means, I’ve been given the chance to write myself an epitaph. Or something of slightly similar nature.

Still, if you are to learn, let alone enjoy, any portion of my story, I doubtless ought to hurry things along. Thus, I’ll start at the beginning. This is perhaps the least adventurous way of doing things, but it’s very frequently the best. Thus, I add to their ungodly number.

The Beginning

The reader ought to know, most likely, that this narrative isn’t intended to make oodles of sense in any era, let alone this present one. For that reason, the reader will doubtless have to surrender his reason, intellect, or sanity in order to proceed. I can’t really force you to, but what follows may shock you, it may terrify you, it may perhaps even cause you to break out into...giggles of death.

It began an unpleasant time after high school when, on the whole, life seemed to be ending. People were going off to college, other people were staying in their rather secluded households to continue school, and a select few proceeded to enjoy themselves in a horribly exclusive way. I was in the second of the three groups. Unfortunately, I’d not finished all my topics during the school year, and was thus incarcerated a few hours a day to finish the unpleasantness that remained from the year spent in study and terror.

Emma was one of the third group, unfortunately. To say I talked to her on a regular basis could reasonably be equated to saying elephants frequently hung the moon in their broom closet. On the one hand, elephants are certainly not responsible for hanging the moon anywhere, but on the other hand, it is entirely debatable as to whether elephants, in fact, do have broom closets.

The point, though, is that we didn’t really know each other. School hadn’t helped with that much, occupying us now, and then, well, occupying us later, as well. For reasons I won’t go into, I met her one day when sun was shining, when birds were singing, and all nature seemed to sing that couples were being formed by the dozen. This made me feel unpleasantly left out.

Should the reader forget, I hadn’t yet properly met Emma. I hadn’t really introduced myself, let alone gotten to know her. Still, I knew rather a lot about her. We had classes together, of course, but beyond that, I knew she was around my age, of similar political and religious conviction, and had an uncommonly strong liking for mac and cheese.
To put it simply and rather abbreviate the whole shebang, she seemed just my type. To me, love seemed only a step and a cleverly placed word away, but oh, how wrong I was.

As I ambled aimlessly through the blooming apple trees in the park, I couldn’t possibly notice, in my rather foggy mental state, that I was approaching a dip in the sidewalk, which most people would probably call a stair. However, being familiar with the area, I could confirm beyond a doubt that said step was indeed a simple dip in the sidewalk, whose original equilibrium had been upset in a rather slow manner through the course of my entire life to produce the thoroughly stair-like appearance it had now. It dipped a full six inches on weekends. Unfortunately, this was a weekday, so it had increased to a full six and one ninth inches.

Thus, I tripped.

To characterize the miss, sudden jerk out of my daydreams, and the sudden flailing of hands in a completely purposeless attempt to regain balance as anything else--well, it’d be idiotic and utterly pointless. I did, in fact, trip. Furthermore, I fell face forward onto the unblemished sidewalk before me. Were it not for the aid of an unseen passerby, I would most surely have found myself dripping nauseating red liquid from my nostrils. As it was, I escaped with a couple grazed knees and a feeling of adrenaline and a bit of fear. After a second, though, the passerby seemed unable to continue the task, and I dropped the extra couple inches to the ground and managed, somehow, to avoid fatal injury.

In mere seconds, I was back on my feet, quite ready to nervously thank my savior and continue on my walk, determined to nip daydreams in the bud.

I proceeded to miss the bud entirely. Before me stood an apparition which couldn’t possibly be real.

Emma wasn’t the type to use makeup of any type with any regularity, but her beauty, for lack of a more superlative word, was enough, on regular occasions, to cause my hands to sweat, my head to reel, and my knees to fail me.

She had hair of about shoulder length, which couldn’t exactly be called golden, blond, or anything in between. It seemed to have the sort of quality one thinks of when hazel is mentioned, but neither the word nor the color seemed to fit. It also rather bedazzled when accompanied by sufficient sunlight.

Her eyes were an odd juxtaposition of a sort of grayish green and yellowish green. The colors, on their own, failed to elicit compliment, but together they had an interesting effect whose precise quality was yet to be put to words.

Caught up as I was in attempting to describe her, I failed to converse for a few seconds in any form. My mouth also threatened to drool, which my handy palm threatened to end abruptly. No such intervention proved necessary, as my mouth forbore to drool, and initiated, instead, a semblance of noises which affected communication of some sort.

“Hullo! I’m Frank. I’m in a few of your classes,” I said, assuming the discouraging position of one attempting to remember something while simultaneously trying to keep up a conversation.

“Hi. I’m Emma. I think I’m in four of yours. You sit in the front in half of them,” she responded, smiling.

It was probably just me, but the level of her perception boggled me at the time. It was also probably unwarranted, but sometimes my life felt like that.

“Glad to meet you,” I rejoined, euphoric yet unwilling to hope.

At this point in time, it seemed prudent to gain control of my faculties. My legs seemed quite well able to manage on their own, and my hands, however sweaty and unsuited for hand-shaking, were well-placed behind my back. It seemed I might pass for an ordinary guy.

“It’s good to meet you too,” she said. It felt as if she meant it.

“Good,” I said. I limbered on somewhat unsteadily. While my legs had been well-trained throughout life to serve me well all the time, my control over them was directly proportional to my control over the rest of myself. For this reason, my legs acted as if inebriated. To be perfectly honest, I acted rather inebriated, although I had a certain unbridled caution which allowed for little of this madness within to show without.

“How many siblings do you have?” she asked, looking me in the face as we paced through over the sun-baked and shoe-battered concrete.

On this question, oddly enough, I had to think a bit. Sometimes people asked me how many there were of us, indicating our family, but didn’t really indicate whether I was to be included in said number, or whether my parents were also to be included. Emma seemed to know the trouble and head it off immediately. Nip it in the bud. Whatever that means. She’d had the sense to ask how many siblings I had, instead of something ambiguous and unpleasant, like most other people.

“Four. There’s Abby, John, me, Erin, and Joy. I’m in the middle,” I said, with a tad of pride.

It seemed rather natural, to me, feeling pride about being in the middle. There was the top, its responsibilities and unpleasantness, and then there was the bottom, whereupon one would doubtless be mocked rather mercilessly one’s whole life. The middle, on the other hand, presented an inconspicuous place in the family wherein one might perhaps remain unnoticed, enjoy some of the benefits of both sides, and have a sort of reasonless pride to boot.

I really did feel blessed, every now and then. I couldn’t fully explain it, but I figured God wouldn’t just make a place like middle of the family for nothing. I guess I felt sometimes like I was an ambassador, a person between the raging upper and lower classes, to dramatize it rather excessively.

Emma nodded. It seemed she understood.

“How about you?” I asked, as the cankering tooth of curiosity began to gnaw at me unpleasantly.

“I’m in the middle too. Unfortunately, I’ve got four siblings either side of me,” she added, an irritated edge to her voice. Her face was expressionless for a while, and then she smiled. Somehow I felt I knew what she meant.

“Hmm. I’d kill for more siblings. Well, not really kill. Well, actually, I might kill ants for more siblings. But I’d probably kill ants anyway. But my point. Yes. I’d like more,” I babbled incoherently.

“Really? Feel free to take mine,” she said, grinning, “I can’t remember their names half the time, and the other half I wish I didn’t need to.”

“While I wouldn’t mind meeting them, perhaps even knowing them, I feel your parents wouldn’t willingly hand off their children to nearly complete strangers,” I said.

“Yes. Priceless are progeny in the perception of parents,” she said, and then laughed.

I laughed with her.

Edited a bit. Thanks for reading!