Don’t like it? Don’t be an idiot

If you don’t like it, don’t be an idiot

There’s something about finding out random strangers happen to appreciate a fandom that drives people into rages they’d be arrested for if they were in public.  Here’s a news flash that shouldn’t have to be news: throwing a temper tantrum and insulting people does not make you smart or a better person.  Being smart and acting like a better person does.

Basics

Don’t let the basics of writing slip you by, especially when your rage is directed at something as silly as a show or book.  No one is even going to read what you write if you can’t prove you’ve passed kindergarten with the way you type.  Yes, people make mistakes, but intentionally writing like you’re three will just tell people to treat you as if you’re three.

You don’t like it is not enough

For some reason, it’s an easy thing to forget that just because you don’t like something, it’s not a reason to force others not to like it.  You’d easily say that someone who hates someone for their orientation, sex, gender, skin color, religion, or national origin should be called a jackass.  Yet, when you demean someone for something even more petty, you forget that doing so makes you even more of a jackass.

If you think that ‘because I don’t like it’ is a reason something should not exist, then someone else has the same right to believe what they don’t like should not exist.  Imagine a stranger coming into your home and changing your TV channel and saying ‘ don’t like that, so you shouldn’t watch it.’  You’ve justified that kind of behavior by demanding your opinions are the only right ones

Be objective and give proof

If you want to show that something is wrong with a show or story, you don’t just need a reason, you need to back it up.  You need facts to prove your statements.  People miss things, people don’t notice them, people don’t learn them, people forget things, people confuse things, etc.  But they won’t believe that happened unless you provide proof

You also need to approach things in an unbiased manner.  They are going to like fandom no matter what.  What endears is to them will stick with them no matter what you say.  Just as it’s easy to doubt a statement without facts to back it up, it’s easy to doubt facts if they are used to back up something biased. 

Use real logic

 Don’t let yourself fall victim to idiocy that looks like common sense and intelligence.  Be careful about logical fallacies.  Anyone with half a brain can figure these out and when they are spotted, they destroy the credibility of everything you say.

The reason they work is because they twist words to look like they make sense at first.  Take for instance, a hasty generalization.  You say that all fanfiction is bad and list reasons.  Someone you complain to notices there is at least one fanfiction in existence that does not qualify.  They wonder why they should believe anything you say if your list of reasons is now a complete lie.

Don’t evade

Don’t pretend questions asked or statements made by others has no merit due to the fandom they like.  It is not mature, it is cowardly.  If you are trying to convince someone of something, you are trying to educate.  A teacher answers questions.  They point out the answer with reasons why it’s the answer.  They point out flaws in statements and say why they are flaws.

How much would you trust a teacher that never answered a question you had?  Perhaps their wording was strange, perhaps you were confused, perhaps you didn’t quite get it yet.  Would you think they are good at teaching if they never helped?

 

Do your research

            As bad or unintelligent as you may think a fandom is, there will always be a smart fan. People are often smart in different areas of intelligence.  For instance, many people can use intelligence to analyze stories and explain why they are bad, but are not smart enough to type properly.

If you think something is wrong, make sure it is first.  One example I’ve encountered many times is about applying science to the supernatural undead.  A fresh male corpse has the possibility of impregnating a living female; similarly, female corpses have been known to give birth to live babies.  Added to those, most myths of supernatural undead beings involve their virility and fertility. These facts don’t show that a fandom is good or bad, merely that they can prove an argument right or wrong.

However, if your argument is wrong, you are not going to look intelligent—especially in the age of google.  You are going to look like someone kicking and screaming and might as well be doing so about the sun going around the earth.

Guilty pleasures

Opinions and facts are very different things.  You can prove things with facts.  Facts require knowledge. You can’t prove something with an opinion.  Opinions don’t require knowledge. These are very separate things.

Just because they are separate concepts does not mean they can’t apply to the same thing.  No matter how smart you are, you can still laugh at a cat and poor spelling. You don’t have to like everything because of facts. In fact, you don’t like things because of facts, you like them because of your opinions.  Knowing more about something doesn’t change your opinion, it’s your opinion about those facts that add up.

In the Star Wars original movies, the story tends to downplay feminism.  Leia abandons helping an entire galaxy’s safety and rights to rescue her loves.  Knowing that doesn’t change your opinion; your opinion on how feminism is portrayed either outweighs your opinion on the rest of the movie or it doesn’t.

Give fans the chance to still like the fandom you hate.  Educate them and let them appreciate it. They can know everything objectively wrong about it and still like it; they can still look at something the way one looks at cat with poor writing. 

Be polite

            No matter what you can prove, no one will care if you’re mean about it.  Consider what you’re being mean about: a TV show, a movie, a comic book, a prose book, a series or mix of them.  You are not fighting to aid cancer victims; you are fighting to point out something wrong in fiction.

Even if you are angry, don’t be.  No matter how important it is to you, your goal is not to piss someone else off.  It is to communicate.  If you ware walking by and mention a fandom you like, are you going to bother listening to the stranger who turns around and screams obscenities at you, or the one who is polite about butting in and mentioning something?

Even if they are a jackass, you still look like a jackass for stooping to their level.  Other people can see your argument.  You aren’t going to look any smarter with your obscenities, insults, or cruelty. You will look intelligent telling others in a calm, polite, and intelligent manner. 

Have a sense of humor

Laugh at fandoms, whether you like them or not.  Enjoy flaws in ones you like, in ones you don’t.  Enjoy the awesome parts of both.  Don’t stew in hatred.  Sit back, relax, point something out, and enjoy life.  Don’t let it pass you by and make sure to find humor in things.

Humor is a wonderful tool for communication.  It exaggerates, is mocks, it twists, and it is there for the enjoyment of both those who do and do not like a fandom.  It is a bridge between you and those you are communicating with.  Use it to your advantage, don’t burn it and curse when you’re hurt or ignored by it.

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The Best Parts of the Lime Pickle

“I can’t imagine what the world would have looked like,” said the child wistfully, “if I had never been in it.”

“You can,” said runningvein, and a new dawn broke across what was previously a miserable state.

“I still can’t see it,” said the child, “I mean, what are you actually saying? That when I enter the room, the lights don’t automatically switch off?”

“What kind of crazy contraption is that?” said runningvein.

“And mist begins to occur, within this darkness.”

“Are there elves?” asked rune-ingvein, “and orcses,” he took a short moment to thumb through several longer passages, and then added, “and orcas?”

“No elves, or orcses,” said the waning star. “But orcas. I can do that. I can give you a pretty good orca.”

“Tomas,” said runningvein.

“What?”

“Tomas. You were a doubting Tomas. But that is how it works, with trains, planes and teleportation. Begin with a healthy bit of doubt.”

“So you’ve been carefully looking at my face all this time?”

“Studying,” said runningvein. “There is educational vtgtherent here.”

Pigs at a Bar

Isma’il sat down at the bar. A man behind the bar approached him. The bartender seemed slightly frightened by Isma’il for reasons he could not explain. It could have had something to do with his race, being that he was from the Middle East, or it could have been because of how Isma’il looked with his hair covering his face and his tattered clothing hanging on his body uncomfortably. Isma’il did not recognize the fear coming from the bartender. Often in America he was discriminated against, so a small dose of fear from a bartender was nothing to him.

“Can I get you anything, sir?” The Bartender asked.

Looking up from the counter top, Isma’il spoke slowly. “A glass of water would be
fine, thank you.”

Reassured by his kindness, the bartender smiled and poured Isma’il a glass of water and placed it on the counter in front him. Isma’il took a small sip. The bartender pulled a chair behind the bar and took a seat in front of Isma’il. Taking another sip, Isma’il stared questioningly at the bartender.

“Do not take such a strong interest in me,” Isma’il said, through his thick
accent. “I am no terrorist. Just a simple man Turkey.”

“You don’t look simple to me, sir. In fact, you look like someone who has lived a truly full life.”

Isma’il did not understand what the bartender meant. He knew English as if it were his native language, but he did not understand some of the idioms that Americans often used. The credit of this misfortune goes to Isma’il’s English teacher who taught him 15th century British.

“Could you rephrase that please? I did not fully understand what you were trying to
say.”

“You look like an interesting man. Someone who could tell stories about his life or something. I guess you just look like a man with an intriguing history.”

“You’ve got that right,” Isma’il said taking another sip from his glass.

Closing his eyes, Isma’il pictured himself back home before he set off on his quest for a new life. He was standing outside his house in a small town outside of Istanbul. Being so close to such a great city usually meant a great deal of tourists. On the particular day Isma’il was picturing, there were no tourists. All that was around him was
the sound of busy men at work.

“Hey,” the bartender said. “Earth to Iran!”

“What did you just call me?” Isma’il said opening his eyes. There was an edge to his voice now. A frustration that could go nowhere good. “I am from Turkey, pislik.”

“pardon?”

“I said I am from Turkey, then called you an asshole,” Isma’il said sharply.

“My apologies, sir,” the bartender said, slightly embarrassed. “Is there
anything else I can get you?”

“peace and quiet.”

Isma’il stood up from his stool and grabbed his glass of water. He turned away from the bar and walked to an empty table near the back of the bar. He strongly hoped that the bartender would not get under his skin anymore. Having once lived with a similar man, Isma’il had lost all his patience for men with an aptitude for such annoyance.

He would have left that bar the moment that the bartender started to speak to him,
but unfortunately, Isma’il was waiting for a friend, Na’im, to arrive. Na’im
had only recently traveled from Turkey
to visit his best friend. Isma’il had begun to regret ever coming to this bar
and not just meeting Na’im at a restaurant. Even though Na’im was not
comfortable in a formal setting, Isma’il would have taken much rather put his
friend through hell than put up with pigs at a bar.

The reason for Isma’il looking like he had been through a lot in his life was to try to make people take no interest in him. Obviously, his plan backfired. Not knowing about Bar People Customs, he was unsure how to dress and what would help him be less approachable, so he decided to just go with what he knew about the upper class society and how they avert their attention away from such
disgust.

Isma’il took another sip of his water. Peering around him, he found that he was the only man in the entire bar aside from the bartender. Looking at the empty tables and booths, he quickly realized why. Everything had a layer of dust on it as if the place hadn’t been cleaned in years. This was very odd to Isma’il. Never before had he seemed to find a bar that that tried so hard to find ways of keeping costumers away.

The bartender noticed Isma’il’s observation. He glared at the Turkish man, and then turned to face the wall behind the bar. He picked up a rag and a glass. With frustration, he cleaned the glass. Looking back at Isma’il he saw that he was being watched intensely. With even more anger, he continued the clean the glass. After a few more turns of the rag, he pushed a little too hard and it broke, cutting the bartender’s finger.

”Damn!” he said under his breath.

”Something wrong?” Isma’il said uncomfortably. He did not expect himself to ask that.

”Everything is fine,” the bartender replied, speaking over his shoulder.

Standing up from his seat at the back of the bar, Isma’il made his way back to the bar. Snapping his fingers, he summoned the bartender to him. The bartender looked at him confused. Isma’il raised his eyebrows and smiled slightly to reassure the bartender that he wanted to help. The bartender turned to face him.

”Refill my glass,” Isma’il said sternly.

Disgusted by Isma’il’s attitude and harsh treatment, the bartender grabbed the nozzle below the counter and pointed it above the glass. Pushing the water button, he refilled the glass three quarters of the way to the brim. Glaring at Isma’il again, he put the nozzle back.

”Grab some salt.”

More anger flared inside the bartender. He did not understand why Isma’il required salt. The Turkish man had nothing to put salt on. Reaching under the counter again, he pulled up salt and slammed it on the table in front of his only costumer. Isma’il rotated the top of the salt shaker until it was off. Smiling, he poured a fourth of the contents of the salt shaker into the glass of water. Putting the top back on the shaker, Isma’il handed it back the grudging bartender.

”Stick your wounded finger in there,” Isma’il insisted. “It will sting like a bitch, so be prepared.

The bartender did as he was told with reluctance. He was unsure what this was going to do to him. In the 30 years he had lived, he had not once ever heard of sticking a bleeding finger in salt water. To be hearing it from a Turkish man that seemed to have a great dislike for him, it was hard to trust that this would do anything.

”Go ahead,” Isma’il said. “I have lived long and seen a lot. One of the things I have learned over my years of travel is that when you bleed, you put peroxide on it. When there is none around, you make your own remedy which is here before you now. Salt water will clean the wound and help it heal quicker.”

Sticking his finger in the water, he shut his eyes tight and let out a loud scream. The pain was unlike anything he had ever experience. It did not last long though. After a few seconds, the excruciating pain dulled down and he was able to open his eyes again. Looking at the glass with salt water in it, he saw that his blood had shrouded the water making it impossible to see through.

”Haha,” Isma’il laughed. “I told you it was going to sting. I learned that from a young woman in Scotland back in the 1890’s.”

”1890’s?” the bartender said in disbelief. “You mean 1990’s right?”

”No, I meant the late 19th century.”

”Sir, you do not look any older than I. In fact, you look younger.”

”Evet, I do.”

”Evet?” the bartender said, unsure if he had said that correctly. “Is that Turkish for yes?”

”Indeed…eh…what is your name?”

”Elliot, but my friends think that is old fashioned, so they call me El. I guess it is more masculine?”

”I disagree, your name is very masculine. My name is Isma’il. Sorry for my rude behavior before. I do not usually come to places like this. I do not like being around pigs at bars. From the looks of it, neither do you?”

”Evet?”

”Ah, we learn something everyday, even old men like me.”

”You say you were around in the 1890’s. That makes me wonder how old you are and if you need to be checked into Funny Farm.”

”I do not need to be checked into a mental institution, El. And if it gives you an idea of how old I am, I am the man who thought that Istanbul would make a good name for the Constantinople.”

”So you live forever, correct?”

”Evet, but only to view the world as a place to explore and enjoy, not waging war in.”

”I was right about you,” Elliot said. “You can tell stories, stories unlike any man on this planet.”

”Would you like to hear a few?” Isma’il offered. “I have some time before my friend Na’im gets here.”

“Of course I would. It would be my pleasure.”

“Where would you like to start, El?”

“The beginning. How was it that you acquired the ability to live forever? Or how was it that you learned that you have this gift?”

“Ahaha,” Isma’il laughed. “I do not remember much. I will do my best to retain the information for you, though.

The river

The river was thick with silt that day; Truly muddy waters. The air was clean and the trees were various shades of orange. Birds were singing a few of the seasons last songs as fallen foliage crunched under foot.  Under dressed as always I shivered against the cold and tried my damnedest to rub away the goose bumps. The perfectly blue sky providing virtually no heat this time of year. None of this however affects my young blonde friend. Kind of a short, stocky guy with a sunny disposition you couldn’t beat away with a stick. He’s a good many years younger than I, but the wife doesn’t mind me bringin’ ‘em around which is pretty rare these days. He can’t drive worth a damn worth so I chauffeur him in and out of town and to places like this particular river bend. A place where I sneak a mid after noon smoke while my friend takes a jog to admire the sights, sounds and smells of nature. We usually stop and admire the beauty our small town provides for about a half an hour before we retire to my place for a good meal and some football. There was something wild in his eye today. I could tell there was something I could never understand  rattling around up there somewhere. He had been doing wind sprints when a red tailed hawk let out a call as it passed over head. My friend looked over his shoulder just long enough to run blindly into the river. He was out in a shot and on the bank staring at the river in a state of utter betrayal. I could only laugh at the poor guy; not the brightest dog I ever had; but the wife lets me bring ‘em around, even if he’s gotta ride in the back of the pick up sometimes.

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The 12 Days of Sexmas

12 Days of Sexmas

 

On the twelfth day of Sexmas, my true skank gave to me:

 

12 used condoms,

11 anal plugs,

10 squirts of lube,

9 mini vibes,

8 hasty handjobs,

7 nipple nibbles,

6 asses clapping,

Fiiiiivvvvve golden cock rinnnnnnggggggsss,

4 prostitutes tooting,

3 fingers banging,

2 lapdances,

 

and a really bad case of herpes!

sweat shop

The day was long and slow; a tortes race as one of my coworkers insists on calling it. The monotony of my factory labors that afternoon hung on me like thousands of over packed saddle bags. My back was tight and sore; forever the poor pony who hauled a cowboy one fence post too far. My hooves steel toed but not nearly as strong. My eyes impermeable and yet not far reaching. Ears literally stuffed with a plastic designed to retard one of my most important censes. Finger dexterity all but lost beneath thick leather gloves. The taste of de-galvanizing fluid had been adhered to my taste buds for over 14 hours. The smell of us all was acrid and even clung to our cars. Our weekly visits to the bank were not anticipated. Tellers always an extra foot from the counter; rarely making eye contact. A line of defeated laborers stretches well beyond the door towards the parking lot where cars jockey for position in the eternally slow drive through lane; but at least they get to sit down. The rest, we stand; and wait for the feed envelope. $247.58, every week. Just enough to keep a horse healthy. Invisible saddle always strapped on. Then the stampede heads to the watering whole. Filling the cars; then  standing in line with large rectangular boxes of vital alcohaulic fluids for ourselves. The teller again an extra step away. Then we roam on paved pastures; bleary eyed towards where ever we call home. A few hours pass. A few naps, and we all wind up at the same spot we left off at and start on a down a fence that never ends; always needs middle management mends, but on which we all depend.

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My morning story, seriously

It happened again; as usual without warning. The vertigo makes it seem as though I’m looking up and falling back, but I’m really slumped over with my head half submerged in an open face sandwich. Last week salad, week before biscuits and gravy. The diner I frequent is rather used to my sudden face first kamakazi attacks upon appetisers and such. The staff and a few of the regulars usually hear the plate rattle and hoist me off my meal. Though on one occasion  an ill placed spoon was sent soaring from my usual booth in what I’m told was “a rather glorious arc that coulda been seen from across the street” according to the gentleman that woke me up. “Reckon a fella on a gallopin’ horse coulda seen a signal like that.” Today however I was early; I foolishly picked up a double shift and wound up at “Tuesday Tim’s Old Timey Diner” on a sunday morning; a day and time I can rarely catch a well made “Tuesy Tim’s” breakfast special. I’ve found in the south that a stranger is generally happier when YOU come too than your are yourself; and they sure have a fine way of describing it. And as usual those strangely comforting words seep in as the bits of sandwhich slipped from my snout. Another meal wasted. Another chipped tooth. You’d be suprised

The Genocide of Arcades

Seriously, what is the world coming to? Roasted tomatoes on my WHITE pizza, shoppers getting pepper-sprayed over a fucking video game, that video from Heart2Heart, and countless other atrocities seen daily. None of that compares to what I was witness to this Sunday here in snowy Denver, CO.

My lady-friend and I decided it was a wonderful day to go out and be active – you know, find an arcade I mean. There’s a nifty little bar out here called “1 UP”. It’s a bar with loads of classic cabinets; cabinets I can appreciate as an old fart. There is, however, one glaring issue with this place – it’s a bar. It basically just feels like any other bar, only there’s a smorgasbord of games to feast yourself on. This means you have to fight your way through a crowd of oversexed sorority girls and the horde of frothing-at-the-mouth bros looking not to kick your ass at Street Fighter III: Third Strike, but kick your ass literally. This is a problem for me. I’m a nerd through and through and it shows. I’m like a fucking filet oscar cooked to perfection on the dollar menu for these guys. So yeah, I wanted to go somewhere else.

Enter Dave and Buster’s. If you’re unfamiliar, it’s basically a sports bar and grill with burgers and beers. Yet there is a twist! It also houses a fucking arcade! Only the food and atmosphere suck and usually their arcades do as well. No matter, I thought ignorantly, we’ll just find some classics we’re comfortable with and avoid the crowd. The place is filled with arcade cabinets bigger than your mom, warranting enough room to house a mech per game. Most of these games either suck my balls or aren’t up my alley. I mean, fuck, there’s giant-sized Fruit Ninja. There are like five giant sized touch-screen games available for iOS and Android devices. The last thing I want to do at an arcade is play little time-wasters that I play on my phone whilst taking a poo. So we get cozy at House of the Dead II and Time Crisis 4 for a while until I want something a bit more…fulfilling.

This leads us past the four player battle air hockey (yeah, it looked pretty awesome) and the pinball machines. I spot a Donkey Kong Junior cabinet. Then a Galaga cabinet! I start thinking I’m on to something as my mouth does something funny that it rarely ever does – the muscles move upward, forcing my mouth slightly open; almost as if to convey happiness or something of the sort. Then…well…that’s it. Nothing else. I make my way back ’round the main area of the arcade. More shooters. Through the bar to the other side where noone else is and I’m pretty sure I just saw a tumbleweed blow by. This is it? Not only are they missing some real essential stuff, but…I seriously haven’t seen where they’re hiding the Street Fighter cabinet. I mean any fucking Street Fighter cabinet. Christ, not even a Mortal Kombat game in sight. I figure this means they must be hiding it in a secret room where I need a password for entry and there are a bunch of dudes standing around a cabinet with money in their hands, placing bets and cheering wildly. So I approach some guy wearing a referee shirt (jersey?) for some reason and figure it means he works there. I’m in luck, he does! “Excuse me…sir? Where’s your Street Fighter cabinet?” “Street Fighter? We don’t have that. I think we have a Mortal Kombat game over there somewhere, but it’s really old.” Yeah, thanks. A Mortal Kombat that’s really old? Oh, sweet merciful ancestors of Mt. Olympus! Why have you forsaken me!? You know what, man? Fuck you. I know you just work here and all, but dude. What kind of fucking arcade doesn’t have ANY Street Fighter? This is ridiculous. After my lady-friend and I exchange some incredibly shocked and disgusted glances followed by series of grunts, we collect ourselves in search of the dreaded old Mortal Kombat. Once again, nowhere to be found. I spot another dude in another referee jersey (still confused by this) and ask him where ANY fighting game would be held. Pondering my incredibly challenging inquiry, he repeats the question to himself and then points in a certain direction. I follow his finger to find he’s pointing to a giant-sized Infinity Blade where some buffoon is moving his arms around wildly on the massive touch-screen. Now I’m pissed and frustrated. “Dude, that’s not a fighting game, that’s Infinity Blade. Do you guys even know what I’m talking about? Where’s the Mortal Kombat?” He then tells me there is no Mortal Kombat.

My lady and I waste what’s left of the stupid ass “Power Card” that we had to pay a fee to obtain, followed by paying for the token amount attached to it. Furthermore, there’s designated place to obtain these. You have to find a server and ask them for one. That was a pain in itself. After some more House of the Dead II (since it was all they had that we could stomach), we left grumpy and dissatisfied.

Just thought I’d share my story of a modern day trip to the arcade with you all. Remember when arcades were fucking awesome? There was a real comradery between all of the kids. Even though you may be rivals over a few quarters of your time, you both loved the same things and respected each other for it. I miss the fuck out of arcades. Real arcades, not arcades that have good cabinets, but are nothing more than meat markets with some distraction. Not arcades that are really restaurants with some bland entertainment on the side.

By the by, I posted this on a new blog I started where I’ll occasionally write other stuff about video games. It’s pretty much exactly what you’re thinking. You can check it out at http://whippingforporkchops.wordpress.com

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Just a SHORT

The day bled out and left a pale corpse of a sky. It attacked me from above with a foriegn and formidable wieght. The roads weren’t wet yet; but soon the would be soaked in an inevitable downpoor of preposterous preportions. Propped against a street side lamp post awaiting darkness it happened. The truck stopped 20 or 30 yards down the roads with two wheels in the gravel and two wheels in the shoulder. The truck sat at an angry pitch; breathing heavily the way old well tuned V8s do. I could see the reflection of my hat at the very bottum of the tinted tailgate window. The smooth mechanical shift into reverse was audible  beneath the Suburban behemath and signaled by the nearly eye level tail lights. I shifted from foot to foot anticipating a ride; fastening my backpack; checking pockets; smile affixed appropriately. The gravel cried and groaned until it would occasionally explode from beneath a tread. I could see my eyes in the faded bumper chrome glowing yellow in the lamp light. The passenger side window so high above was open but full of darkness. Then out came the bucket water with a laugh; and there I was, a wet midget at a bus stop.

My defeat

And so it went. Paper air plane be damned. It eased its way down stream slowly dampening beneath the sunny oaks above. I studied its path briefly and resigned to roll a cigarette. A twist and a lick later i was absently watching it float again; lighter held at waist level in front of me. Saliva started wetting the end of the paper and I lit up; took the first drag in real deep and thought of jumping in. A warm summer breeze bumped into me and took some smoke a few feet away where it was lit up and expanded in a small clearing. My eyes closed. Looking up the sun was unrelentingly pleasant; showing the canopies movement in shade of red and black. My shirt hung slack on my shoulders; enclosed in cotton countless years old; warm despite its tattered threads. Shoes slowly sinking into the grassy wet earth at the edge of this meandering little stream. Luke warm water ambling over pebbles at a stageringly uniform four inch depth. A carefully arched underhand tap sends a smattering of as towards center stream while leave a few lucky airborne bits to drift towards the sunny circle to my right. The sound of Bees and sikadas all around me floods my ears and drowns out my inner monolouge . The sack on my shoulders is weighing heavily and this cheap cigarette is running low. Being bio-degradable it takes the underhand arch express into the stream. Perhaps destined to follow the path of my paper airplane I don’t watch it at all; just hear the tiny unmistakeable hiss of it hitting water. I turn to my opponent; my love. She reaches for my hand and takes it softly. ” I told you… you couldn’t get a paper airplane over there if you tried.” This was my momentof d

Night Barker

I walked through the corridors, barking filling my ear drums. I saw puppies jumping from their cages. Their food bowl tipped over and mushy brown slush dripped onto the floor. The guards grabbed the food, stuffing it back into the cages and waking the dogs on the head. I looked down, not wanting to really see the torture. A young husky jumped from his pen and barked happily. He had one blue eye and one brown eye. His fur was soft and his face was kind and gentle. He seemed to be cared for better than the rest. I looked down the fence and saw his brothers. Their thin black fur covered their body. Only the white patches around their eyes where visible. The jumped onto their houses and scratched the fence posts. The guards smiled and grabbed one. The stroked them and put them back, refiling their water bottles and cleaning their houses. I looked down at the white, black and brown husky and knew he was the one. He looked back at me and seemed to be smiling at me.

The guards opened the fence and let the five huskies run free around the corridors. The golden retrievers and beagles barked. I felt sorry for them so I opened the cage and took a young beagle out of the pack. I put him down and let him run amongst the huskies. The guards looked uneasy but didn’t say anything. A young girl immidiantly grabbed one of the black huskies and showed it to her mum. She gigdled in delight as they left with a brand new family pet in her

Eryn’s Dream

She awoke next to her dream on a bed of forget-me-nots. It was one of those rare moments that transcend reality, love, death, happiness, innocence, prejudice, understanding, fear. . .

She listened to the dream speak. In its voice she heard every person’s laughter, every child’s scream, every unfaithful lover’s lie. She heard the sorrow of every parent losing a child, and the bitterness of every brother or sister losing a sibling. She listened to all of the emotions she would vocalize, as well as the ones she couldn’t, or wouldn’t. . .

Looking into the dream’s eyes she saw every first crushes broken heart, every first love’s disappointment, every first-born’s wonderment. She saw the motivation on the face of a boy told he’s not good enough, and the nervousness of a boy afraid of rejection. She saw every crushed hope, every broken dream of a son, a daughter, a father, mother, friend, lover, who only wanted more for. . . someone. And in those eyes she saw all the men she would love and every inner-child she would hate. Every person that would love her but she couldn’t love back. She saw the people she loved and wondered if they loved her. . .

Inhaling her dreams breath she smelled the waste of a person alone, the desperation of a woman falling apart but trying to hold herself together. She smelled the sweetness of a teenage boy’s whisper, and the tartness of that whispers impure intentions. She smelled the odor of two bodies entangled as she let her body be taken by that whisper. And she smelled alcohol. . .

She tasted her dreams tongue and in that the flavor of tears lost in a public bathroom in some city somewhere and the drugs taken to forget those tears. She tasted the sweat falling off the faces, arms, legs of children and their parents working to survive. She tasted the blood lost in a hospital room for being human. Of blood lost on the street for being a different shade of skin. Of blood lost on the battlefield for being young. Of blood lost in the bedroom for grasping at innocence. . .

She reached out, and touching her dreams hand felt the goose bumps of a nightmare or fantasy realized. She felt the panic and guilt of a wrong-doing, and the tightened fist of a person done wrong. She felt every bruised, broken, bleeding wrist of a person who gave up on nothing but themselves. She felt the sting of a missed opportunity, and of a missed friend. She felt herself falling into this moment of self-actualization, self-awareness, self-realization, self. . . self. . . selflessness.

She had heard, seen, smelled, tasted and felt everything she was, is, and could become. Anyone could become. And she wondered, “Is this all there is?”

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