April 18, 2011

Girls Can't Eat Fifteen Pizzas

When, in the course of human events, a blockhead decides to set finger to keyboard and produce words, it's usually because he's bored, is trying to avoid something else, or is emotionally troubled or...up. For lack of a better word.

For reasons yet unknown to myself and the universe at large, I decided to write now because it seemed a rather fun thing to do, compared to the alternatives.

The hard part, for me, isn't writing, but finding something interesting to write about. That or something funny, profound, idiotic, or downright nonsensical. Of the above, at first sight, nonsensical appears easiest. Thus, I proceed.

"But, what?!" I say to myself, "Nonsense? I couldn't think of nonsense were I clouted roundly over the head with a ninepin! Then again, who could?"

As I spake thus to myself, the reader would be well advised to abandon everything and splash his or her eyes with water repeatedly, until such time as their eyes, or any other part of them, ceased forthwith to sting, itch, and generally torment them. Either that or completely leave this horrible narrative on its own.

On the whole, I guess, that's how I approach life.


If that makes any sense to you, congratulations, you're probably also all-knowing, have made a universe, and perhaps even died for the sins of many.

Otherwise, you're probably just guessing.

Regardless, as I sit here, author of some sort that I am, my fingers tapping and jumping to my idiotic desire, I imagine the ways in which my life might be better...the ways I might have done X better, or perhaps why Y hasn't heard from me in half a decade. My life is like that, believe it or not. I have little knowledge of how people think of me that don't know me properly. I get the strangest feeling that they think I'm a danger to all those younger than me, and I've absolutely no idea how they think I relate to those my elder.


It's of some comfort, every now and then, to realize one day I may hear, "Well done, ye good and faithful servant," from a loving, gracious, kind God. Until that day, I'll doubtless be scrounging through the waste of life to find some reason to think I've reason to live.

Not to make things sound to depressing, naturally. My peanut butter sandwich was rather good today. I've got most of my Chemistry done for tomorrow. Ah, tomorrow. Perhaps my least favorite day of the week, next to Monday.

So much happens that day. Yet I say and do so little. Why? Why do I restrain myself, keep myself safe? Well, there it is. For safety's sake. For the fear I have of the unknown.

Hard will it be to construe Noah Bertilson as a fearless explorer.

And why is it that I've been so set on finding someone to marry my whole life? Why couldn't I be satisfied with simply having friends, and hoping only with a mild fondness after the idea of one person, finally, to love and live with for life?

And why is it so hard to burden others with my desires, problems, and fears? It always feels like their lives couldn't get better, and thus spilling my rather befouled one into theirs would be so awfully selfish and terrible.

For one reason I live on; to find out what God's trying to do with/to me. To find out why I can't say ten words together in real life and communicate one idea. Why, instead, I was gifted the ability to communicate in a thousand words one idea so much more clearly, so much more profoundly, and so much more exhaustively. Why in a thousand words online am I effective, when in life it takes dozens, sometimes, to say yes or no?


April 17, 2011

For Some Odd Reason (pt. 8)

Ratchet had finally gotten used to the power she had. It made it rather obvious why Cook was there, in fact. Somehow, the universe was in danger, and he was there to help her put it back the way it was before. The problem was, that was too much power by far for one or even two. She contemplated the ways in which others might help her.

Before she could call anything more into existence, she blacked out.

She woke up what seemed like several days later in a hospital bed, with her family around her. When one attempts to imagine the said family, as any studious reader would, one would be well advised to pull out all the stops, so to say. To be precise, there were exactly sixteen relatives in immediate vicinity. There happened to be another dozen on their way, and several couldn't fit in the room without the unstoppable rage of the nurse.

Ratchet remembered, for a moment, the piles of carcasses, dead and otherwise, that she'd witnessed on a spot not far from this hospital. She then focused her rather taxed consciousness on focusing her eyes on the strange apparition before her. A boy of perhaps six years appeared to be examining her nose with great interest, and didn't realize immediately that Ratchet was waking up. He rubbed his eyes and squinted.

This was Joshua. If one were to bet money on anything in this world, they'd be perfectly wise to bet it on his becoming a high-ranking scientist within the next fifteen years. Unfortunately, he was also Ratchet's brother. This meant that her nasal cavities were the subject of rather frequent unsolicited examiniations. Ratchet was amazingly unaware of the huge majority of said examiniations.

Around him, at a greater distance, were spread a semblance of humanity well capable of knocking the sense out of anyone, given a week in a lonely cabin. There were a dozen children precisely, whose ages were seemingly all below Ratchet's.

It took a good couple minutes before she became the center of attention. At that point, she grinned a bit and looked around at them.

"It is good to see you all," she said.

"You have forty-three freckles on your nose, Ratchet," Joshua asserted firmly. Ratchet observed his rather sincere and serious visage and nodded. It seemed the only thing to do.

A lot of sighs of relief were released, and several of the gathered siblings retreated to their former positions, apparently no longer interested in the procedings.

She observed Joshua and Katrina, who seemed to have more admirable attention spans, as they likewise observed her.

"Tell me, Katrina, is my hair red?" she asked curiously.

Katrina examined the area above Ratchet's eyes and nodded.

"It worked," she muttered, and passed out.


April 15, 2011

For Some Odd Reason (pt. 7)

Ratchet wasn't the type to enjoy completely random things unless they somehow afforded her some sort of enjoyment. Thus far, she'd only managed to take out half a dozen thoroughly  (for lack of a better word)  ripped thugs. She grinned at the thought of it, but then wondered precisely how much damage her now dull pink fingernails actually had done. Dave seemed somehow linked mentally to her, so it was only a matter of time before she was back where she'd been tied, taped, chained, and gagged.

Unfortunately for Ratchet's rather lacking self-esteem, there was neither sign of blood, thug, tape, chain, or rope. On the whole, it appeared as if she'd gone crazy. Ratchet took this thought and inserted it into a crack in the pavement. She didn't feel her insanity could quite justify this complete failure of reality to act at all real.

Ratchet felt, at this point, slightly lonely. She didn't feel like admitting it, of course, but she was. Unsurprisingly, a tall, dark and handsome man approached her from a nearby doorway. His attire was akin in almost every way to the sort of thing a well-groomed, self-aware private eye would wear.

He addressed her calmly, "Hello, Ratchet. I'm Cook. Nice hat."

Ratchet raised a highly-skilled eyebrow in his direction and waved her now dull pink fingernails in his direction. He smiled.

"If you wanted me dead, I wouldn't be here in the first place."

She narrowed her eyes a bit, bit her lip, and extended her hand.

"Greetings, tall, dark and crazy," she said.

He raised an eyebrow.

"You can't have gotten in here without some sort of degree in insanity," she said, and started walking. He accompanied her and matched her pace.

"You know, I actually wanted to be in here, whatever you may think," he said, "This place is rather interesting. You're you, so you don't see the oddities, the things that are different. I see a lot of them. For instance, your hair's a most interesting shade of red."

She nodded.

"But why are you here? What are you doing?" she asked.

"Well, I've got to save the universe," he said, chuckling wryly.

Ratchet had become accustomed to taking things at face value at this point, and neither flinched or looked at him perplexedly. It seemed to make sense, after everything that'd happened.

"How?" she asked.

"You," he answered, watching her face.

This time she was a bit surprised.

"I suppose it's only reasonable," she said, unsheathing her sword and examining it. Beautiful script appeared before her eyes, as if etched by the rays of a dying sun.

Ratchet snickered at herself. Her usually overused sense of romanticism was returning to her.

"I have no master but duty."


For Some Odd Reason (pt. 6)

It was.

That is to say, the Great Red Spot was.

That is to say, it was turbulent.

On the whole, therefore, the Great Red Spot was, in fact, very turbulent.

Consequently, when Ratchet entered therein, it was with great difficulty that her trusty fedora kept her stationary while the mass of oddly-tinged gases raised Cain, as well as half a dozen other murderous sons whom the Bible failed to mention. Ratchet's hair, which had only briefly reacquainted itself with the decidedly interesting effects of zero gravity and a complete vacuum, was suddenly wrenched every which way without much concern for the fact that her hair had, up until this point, managed to appear what might be called auburn by some, and simply brown by others. Ratchet was a sort of sensible nut, so in this particular case, she had elected not to take the more imaginative or romantic option and chose, when asked, to name her hair brown.

This had given her little comfort, for whatever mild sense of nonconformist satisfaction she got out of it. In the end, she was truly open to options. As it was, the Great Red Spot obliged. From that day on, her hair took on an almost nauseating red tinge which was regularly accompanied by the oddest aroma of strawberries. Ratchet couldn't think what to make of this, in following days, but she considered the precise nature of her hair of little concern at present.

She felt, at this time, the desire to call upon her fedora to get her out of there, but found rather quickly that she couldn't remember ever having named the chap. This unsettled her mildly, as she'd taken care to name almost everything she'd come in contact with since the day she was born. Some of the names, fortunately, were not in English.

Ratchet decided on the spot that she'd better name him...

"DAVE!" she bellowed as if the storm around her were making a lot of noise.

"WHAT!?" Dave said, seemingly accepting the name without thought or pause, and screaming to such a degree that Ratchet physically felt her skull rattle.

"GET ME OUT OF HERE!" she screamed in similar tones and volumes. Ratchet had never had plans to sing professionally in any capacity, but any aspirations friends or family had for her to do the same died a miserable and altogether gory death. Dave obliged rather wholeheartedly. Ratchet's neck popped strangely as her hat dragged her body by the head from the whirling maelstrom. She wondered later if the same force might have killed her had she less control over this strange...happenstance.

Ratchet flew through the solar system rather effortlessly, contemplating her precise purpose and origin. To be more precise, actually, she contemplated her thoroughly nebulous purpose and oddly foggy origin.

At this time, Ratchet assumed a rather dignified stance from which any outside observer could, well, observe that she was in deep thought. To be honest, she couldn't really have pulled it out without the fedora, but then again, he was pulling her through the solar system, had a physical mouth and eyes, and had spoken audibly in a complete vacuum. He obviously couldn't be trusted.

Ratchet snorted at herself and chuckled a bit. Her imagination was kinda getting out of control. She pulled Dave onto her rather ragged looking mop and grinned.

Suddenly, a sword and sheath appeared around her waist.

Ratchet didn't even flinch.