14-way streaky bacon.

Here is the results of streaky bacon. Cows featured prominently throughout.

"Farmer Wilson's cows have been known to attempt very complex escape plans."-Justin

-Olivia

"Meanwhile, above the Midwest, the bovine biplane zoomed vengefully forward."-Jeremy

-Mooney

"Bessie's newly attached biplane wings made it much easier for her do dive-bomb the great lakes region."-Sasha

-Jeff

"Life in Wisconsin would never be the same; cows had broken free from the bondage of the dairy industry, took the skies, and unleashed their atomic fury."-Karolyn

-Roo

"The World War II era fighter cows bombed what was left of Africa" -Felix

-Melissa

"The cow revolution in Africa was sure to succeed. But they would need more TNT...MUCH more TNT." -Karen

-Tim

"The angry herd relished conquering its once feared foe with their old-timey weapons."-Lifaber

-Mike

"With crinkled brow and udders slung low, flaming with intent, the bovine trio stood tall on hind legs--they'd had enough of this unwanted groping. The metal McFeelsky would be the first to go."-Olivia

-Sasha

"The cows danced angrily away from the fumbling, pointy-fingered milking bot."-Jeff

-Jeremy

"The bull and cow cross-dressed into a ballerina and Charlie Chaplin to battle the rolling head with hands."

-Melissa

-Karolyn

"The cross-dressing cows bared their weapons menacingly, but it was no use. Gary the body-less demon continued to scroll past them, smiling."-Tim

-Karen

"Despite his sunny springtime demeanor, the devil could not earn the trust of the civilized battlecows."-Mike

-Justin

"The Devil manager has a relaxing tea break with a cow demon while the rest of the demon union pickets outside." -Mooney

-Lifaber

"Betsy the cow had the devil over for tea, despite his minions' protesting"-Roo

-Felix

"The cow has gone to dine with the Devil"-Olivia

Momento2

Terrence held his head in his hands. He quietly and quickly hyperventilated before looking back up at the impossible figure that had only seconds before fizzled into existence collapsed cordially on the seat across from him.

"You again." He monotoned.
"Well, of course." the Devil smiled, "You really thought you had seen the last of me?"
"I had sort of hoped, yeah." Terrence monotoned again.
The Devil smoothed his comb-over and adjusted his suspenders. "That wasn't the deal, my little friend. The deal was seven chocolates. And how many do you have left? Hmmm...."
"None." Terrence said.
"Two." Ginny interrupted. Terrence glowered at her, pointlessly. "Well, we do." She replied, "Besides, its not like he doesn't know anyway. Or can't find out..." She trailed off despondently, for a moment looked exactly half of her twenty-four years.

The subway car shuddered to a halt. The last passenger hurried home. Now they were alone, Ginny, Terrance, and the Devil. They waited. The doors creaked closed and the subway shuddered back up to speed. The Devil sighed.

"Listen you two. We can do this the easy way or the hard way. You have been a thorn in my side since that first phone call and I would rather be rid of you. I don't care if you win, lose, or end up chained to an under-demon for all eternity. Just as long as you get out of my hair." He grimaced. "Figuratively speaking of course. Now, if you would just eat those chocolates, we can be done."
"And if we don't?" Ginny mouthed petulantly, effectively halving her age again.
"Then I win."
"And if we do?" Terrence interjected.
"Then I might still win." The Devil grinned, devilishly.
"Well, how do I win?" The two asked simultaneously in the chord of D-flat.
"It all depends. See, I made a bet, which I won't tell you about, so don't even ask. But if you don't eat them, I definitely win." He smugly pulled a pipe out of his pocket and started smoking it. It smelled like brimstone and petunias.
"What's in them?" Terrence asked suspiciously.
"One is Certain Doom. The other is Probable Destruction. You can take your pick. If you want." The Devil punctuated this last point with a smoke ring.
"What does that mean? Certain doom, probable destruction? Of what? Us? How bad? Are we talking doomed forever?" Terrence paced, swinging from handhold to handhold like a parody of a monkey. "Doomed how? Destroyed how? Like if you destroyed my house, that wouldn't be so bad, I guess..." Terrence turned, too late, "Ginny, NO!!"

Ginny swallowed the last of the chocolate, smudged a hand across her face and grinned toothily, like a three-year old.

Memento

In this game, we will be writing the story backward, scene by scene or line by line. We all know where our heroes end up, but only time and collaboration will tell where they started. Posts can be as long or as short as you want, but they come temporally BEFORE the post above you. Make additions as comments and I'll add it together.


With a sickening "splat", Ginny stretched fourth-dimensionally, turned a brilliant shade of heliotrope, and vanished from sight. The Devil laughed hoarsely, looked at Terrance with expectation, and grinned. "You win" was all he said before performing his own disappearing act.

Looking around the now-empty subway car, Terrence drew the last of the chocolates out of his pocket. "Well I guess I know what this one does," he said with a dry snort and a smile. He popped it into his mouth and waited for it to take effect.

Collaborative Limerick

Here's the rools. You get to add one line to this limerick, and one line only. Follow the standard limerick cadence and rhyme scheme, and help me make an awful poem. Just select the edit option and add to this monstrosity

A fluffy white cat named Maurice
Fell afoul of a dire cockatrice
He had tried to be stealthy
But his paws were unhealthy
And now he's a stone centerpiece


Poem is DONE. I like it. Thanks for playing.

Oh yeah, we have a fiction blog...

Barry was never one to walk away from a fight, and today was no exception. Things, however, were not going as planned. He was feeling a bit dazed -- God, he thought, I hope I don't have a concussion -- and the bruises on his chest were only growing more tender. A small trickle of blood crept slowly from his nose and along his upper lip; he wiped it away with the back of his hand, gritted his teeth and braced himself.

Squaring his shoulders, he lowered his head and lunged forward. He could feel the muscles in his legs beginning to tire, and his traction slipped. A sudden impact caught him on the left side of his face, shooting a flash of sparks behind his eyelids, and he stumbled. The next shot landed hard and sharp, adding yet another throbbing bruise to his chest. A final blow tipped him off his balance; his stomach tightened as he fell backwards. His knees buckled, and he felt his tailbone slam into the ground. With a final burst of self-preservation, he reached out blindly with one hand and curled his fingers around something sturdy and hard. It slowed his descent just enough to avoid smacking the back of his head and going out cold. He breathed hard.

"Barry!" Juliet cried from above, poking her head out from around the dresser, "What the hell are you doing? Can't you see that it's stuck against the wall up here? You can't just force the damned thing up the stairs! Jesus christ, look at yourself! It's like you're trying to fight a brick wall!" Exasperated, she turned and disappeared around the bend.

You may have won this time, Barry thought -- he righted himself and let go of the banister -- But just you wait. My day will come. Oh, my day will come.

Happy Birthday Mike

The Ballad of Nicholas Fescue

Nicholas Fescue came to the rescue
Deep in a dragon's lair
Nicholas Fescue came to the rescue
And faced down a grizzly bear
Nicholas Fescue came to the rescue
Of all the maidens fair
Nicholas Fescue came to the rescue
And made all the townspeople stare

Nicholas Fescue came to the rescue
Of the young lass in distress
Nicholas Fescue came to the rescue
Then he left thru the egress
Nicholas Fescue came to the rescue
And now I have to confess
That Nicholas Fescue came to the rescue
Wearing a floral print dress

Knights are abound but all about town
None more of a rogue or a charmer
Than Nicholas Fescue who comes to the rescue
But doesn't own any armor

I Will Fix Everything

The following essay was inspired by a conversation with several business and English teachers over lunch yesterday. Also I am insane.


It is a known fact that difficult times in man’s history elicit man’s greatest feats of ingenuity. There is no greater stimulus for new thinking than grave hardship. Our darkest moments in history--the Civil War and the Great Depression being the most prominent examples--are responsible for some of our greatest developments as a society. The Civil War, for example, revolutionized American medicine by necessitating the development of a triage system, expanding knowledge of the properties of Southern flora, and forcing an examination of the sanitary conditions of Union cities. Out of the United States’ darkest hour was born methods of healing and hospital management still used today.

Today’s crises are not as bleak as the War of Northern Aggression, but their ill effects are far more insidious. Our environment, the world’s environment, is in grave danger. Every day, several dozen species teeter on the edge of extinction. We poison the air and sea with our waste and exhaust. And nobody in America seems to care, or if they do, nothing is done. Why is this? Why do we not simply shut down our oil companies, switch to green energy, and have done with the whole mess?

Because oil companies are far more important to our nation than we think. True, they represent many things that some people--myself included--detest. Mass consumption. Depletion of finite resources. Greed. But we must remember that oil companies are not inherently evil: they are simply businesses trying to make profits. From a Randian standpoint, they are the heroes here. They work very hard to produce refined petroleum for their nation, and they pay very high tax revenues in doing so. A great portion of our economy relies on said revenues. If the oil companies were to simply shut down, our economy would plummet far below its present state. As an added irony, many forms of alternative American transportation (Amtrak, for one) hemorrhage money and must be supplemented with taxpayer dollars.

At the same time, America’s interest in oil keeps us involved in deals we would otherwise eschew. To use an analogy: America does not have a Nintendo Wii, but its neighbor, Saudi Arabia, does. America loves to go over to Saudi Arabia’s house to play the Wii. But Saudi Arabia is a strange kid. He kicks his dog, occasionally screams quite loudly for no reason, and throws things when he loses Wii Bowling. He also makes America wear a t-shirt that says “I’m the prettiest pony” whenever America is in his house. This upsets America, but America hides his disdain so he can play more Wii. He wishes he could play his own Wii at his own house, but Saudi Arabia has hoarded all of the Wiis in his basement, so America must continue to be the prettiest pony.

I believe I can address our issues of the environment, oil, and the economy in one masterstroke. First, the government offers oil companies large subsidies to instigate a program which gradually shifts their focus from oil refining to genetic research, breeding, and marketing. The oil companies will take on responsibility for the lives of several endangered species, modifying their genetic structure and breeding stronger, more resilient forms of the creatures. These animals, in turn, will be trained into positions that supplement the gap created by the drop in petroleum production. Some creatures will become the cornerstone of public transportation. The marketing writes itself: “PanAm: America Runs on Pandas.” Some species may find work within the United States Postal Service, delivering overnight parcels. The oil companies could even get endorsements from Scholastic to emphasize their system’s similarities to the popular Harry Potter series. Our remaining petroleum reserves will be focused on development of plastics and other materials vital to our progression as a society.

Eventually, we will develop enough alternative sources of energy that the oil companies will be able to relieve themselves of the burdens of mass petroleum production without inflicting massive layoffs. Our atmosphere will become cleaner, our endangered species will thrive and learn the value of hard work, and our economy will survive. At long last, America will have constructed its own solar-powered Wii.

A Bountiful Harvest of Sheep

It was a downright balmy day in Sheepton. The sun was shining -- nay, beaming; smiling, even -- and the wide, obtrusive deposits of snow were beginning to melt. Paths that had been blocked by increasingly large obstacles were becoming accessible once more, and the ice was melting away with enthusiasm. It was still the heart of winter by anyone's calendar, but somehow it felt positively like springtime. Perhaps a warm pocket of air had gotten lost from its equatorial brethren and wandered, confused and alone, up to these more temperate climates. Whatever the reason, dormant bulbs were starting to poke out their heads, dipping a toe into the water, as it were, and the settlers of Sheepton awoke on a morning unlike any they had seen in quite some time.

The mayor of Sheepton -- a man named Rutherford D. Hingham, a well-loved official with a kind heart for the ovine and a keen mind for urban development -- was, perhaps, more excited than most by this luxurious day. He sprang from his bed and bounded to the window with great vigor. "Look at it!" he called to his wife, Katheryn, who had been roused by his vigorous leap, "What a brilliant day! Exactly what we've needed! With the ice thawed, we'll be able to give it the final push!"

"Lovely, dear," said Katheryn, "will you be wanting tea, then?"

"No time for tea!" Rutherford cried, and, changing from his striped pajamas into his overalls, he dashed from the house and into the town square.

Scaffolding surrounded the town hall on every side, an exoskeleton of wooden planks and braces that had been iced over for weeks, making it too dangerous to climb. Work had been halted when the first storm had hit, and had been unable to resume as the snow had piled up. Now the ice and snow were gone, and the mayor -- always one to lead by example -- grabbed his bag of tools and climbed, thanking the Fates for this good fortune, and the sound of his hammer nailing new shingles onto the roof began to raise some attention. Heads poked out of windows and doorways, and smiles began to spread across the faces of the settlers like a pandemic. A carpenter named Thomas Forrester hoisted himself gracefully up the wooden ladder and joined the mayor on the roof; Jedidiah Oreman, a mason, took up his chisel and went to work on the pylons flanking the front door; and soon, the whole structure was alive with the sounds of hard work and good cheer.

Around midday, a young shepherd named Theodore Ovison strode into the square and cupped his hands around his grinning mouth. "Oy, Mister mayor, sir!" he called. "Mister mayor, I've got news!" A murmur ran through the swarm of men, and Rutherford poked his head out through one of the large open windows. He wiped a trickle of sweat from his brow. "My good man Teddy! What news d'you have? Any word on the sheep trades?"

"That's exactly it, sir!" he cried. "I've just come from the markets. The gods must have been rolling with luck in their fingers! With the flocks we had, and the demand for sheep at West Port, we were able to trade for twice as many supplies as usual! We have everything we need!" The meek shepherd was standing taller than ever before. With a sweeping gesture of his hand, he stepped aside just as a ox-drawn cart appeared at the end of the main road, loaded heavily with wood and ore and many other things, a veritable gold mine of supplies. As he drank in this miraculous view, Rutherford's smile widened -- if that were even possible -- into a grin that strained every muscle in his exuberant face. But he didn't care. At this moment, he could endure anything.

The settlers set to work with renewed strength, a spirit of purpose jumping like electricity from one heart to the next, (not that they knew what electricity was). They dug in with the mind and soul: Jacob Cobbles setting flattened slabs of stone into the new Main Street; Margaret Payne fitting new glass windows into their openings; Kenneth Steele fitting the ironwork into the great new doors. Around three in the afternoon, Richard Piper announced that he was finished laying the plumbing system, and everyone took a five minute break to flush their homes' new water closets. A resounding cry of excitement echoed through the streets.

As the sun began to dip below the horizon, and the last piece of scaffolding was taken down, Mayor Hingham wiped a bead of sweat from his brow with a handkerchief and turned to address the expectant faces of settlers who had gathered in the square. The excited murmur died down; all eyes were on the mayor.

"Today," he began, "we have changed. Today the Fates smiled upon us, and we have prospered because of it. We came together, each man and woman here today, and we grew. Where once there stood farms and thatched roof huts, now there stand halls, and businesses, and homes. No longer will we be a mere settlement, scraping our resources together one by one; from now on we will produce great harvests, and our flocks will multiply. Today," the mayor's voice swelled with deep pride, "we have moved into a great city, and we shall prosper.

Welcome to Sheeptonopolis."

The Ramones do Sesame Street

I honestly don't know what came over me. I had just driven home from my grandma's when I discovered the chorus for this running through my head. "Why," I asked myself, "has no one at the Children's Television Workshop performed something like this?" At least, I'm assuming they haven't. Sesame Street hasn't created many as endearingly creative letter-based parodies of popular songs since the Coup d'Elmo.


A! O! Let’s go!
A! O! Let’s go!
A! O! Let’s go!
A! O! Let’s go!

You see them in POTATO
You see them in TOMATO
You find them in your SODA
SO-DA POP

They show up in your FAST CAR
They help you travel SO FAR
You’re driving like a ROCK STAR
GO and STOP

A’s and O’s, everyone knows,
Are always GOOD and not BAD
They give us HATS and DOGS and CATS
They even give us MOM and DAD

Let’s get into a ROWBOAT
That’s captained by an OLD GOAT
And share a big root beer FLOAT
At the ice cream SHOP

Then drive a brand new GO CART
And buy ourselves some POP ART
Because we are very SMART
And WARHOL’s TOPS

O’s and A’s deserve HOORAYS
They are the CAT’S PAJAMAS
We’re in control as we reach our GOALS
O’s and A’s give us people like BARACK OBAMA

So let’s go to MOROCCO
And buy ourselves a TACO
If we spill it we’ll just clean up
With a BROOM and MOP

Then watch a little STAR WARS
Cheer as Chewbacca ROARS
And HAN SOLO and ORGANA
Blow the Death STAR’S TOP

A! O! Let’s go!
A! O! Let’s go!
A! O! Let’s go!
A! O! Let’s go!

Grover: Part Deux

He panted, tongue waggling, waiting patiently for the inevitable.

And the inevitable finally came.  Although not in quite the way that Beeblezerblak (for as everyone knows, the names the humans give to dogs was rarely the name they gave themselves.  And "Grover" was no ordinary dog) had expected. There was, indeed, a squeal of rubber, a violent swerving motion, and the few breathtaking seconds that Beeblezerblak prayed for, where the car would crumple, the passenger inside would be hurled against the window and, if all went well, a human soul would flee the body.  

Because, all Beeblezerblak needed was a body.  He had been trapped inside this dog's body for long enough.  And there was no way, NO WAY, to achieve his dreams of world domination in a Jack Russell terrier frame.  They didn't even have thumbs, for Christ's sake.  And how could he make the masses tremble in terror without thumbs?  He could never make anyone tremble in terror.  The most he ever achieved was a shake of slight annoyance.  But his dreams were stronger than that...dreams that had begun over fifty years earlier...he could still remember  his first day on earth like it was yesterday. 

Th ship bumped gently into the shore of the lake, wavered once and then steadied itself.  All was silence except the gentle lapping of waves against this foreign body and a faint electric whine.  A door appeared in the side of the ship and two figures slowly eeped out.  For eeping was the only way they could be described to move.  It was not walking, no.  It was smoother than that.  But gliding implies that the figures moved in a graceful, floating manner.  And this was certainly not floating.  They eeped, sluglike through the door, adjusted their bubble-helmets and peered out into the new world.  It was noon.  The sun shone brightly on the shores of the secluded mountain lake.  It was not tourist season.  There was no human around to witness this miraculous ship and the two figures that eeped out of it towards the shore.  And the ship was miraculous, shaped almost exactly like a beanbag chair that has been sat in so many times it retains the shape of something resembling a chair.  But, like a chair, there was also the impression that, if poked or prodded, the ship would change shape and retain that too.  

The figures reached the shore and procured from somewhere on their bodies an instrument that immediately started whistling.  Like a bird.  A Baltimore Oriole to be precise.  There were no bird watchers around, either, for they would have known immediately that Baltimore Orioles belong in Baltimore, not high in the mountains of Montana.  But the instrument chirped and whistled, apparently transferring some sort of important information, because the figures seemed satisfied and removed their helmets.  

If anyone were around, they would have screamed.  

The faces were remarkably human. So much so, in fact that the incongruity of the features was alarming.  A human shaped head, bearing human-like hair with human like ears, atop a snail like body which eeped along.  But the face...Oh the face...

There was no face.  Were there should have been a face there was nothing.  No features at all.  No eyes or ears or noses.  Instead there was a blank canvas.  No.  Not blank.  It vibrated slightly, seeming more like static, white noise.  And yet, they seemed pleased.  The figure to the rear pulled something out of its pocket and unfurled it.  A flag vibrating with the same strange static that filled what should have been their faces.  It chirped to the other one.  

If anyone would have spoken their language, they would have heard the following.  "After years of searching for a home, free from the persecution of the High Command on our native planet, we have finally found a place where we can be free to live and love and worship in peace.  By the power vested in me by The Nine Sacred Waters, this land, all that I see and have not seen yet, I claim in the name of The Zemaphorious and our high priest, Beeblezerblak. All HAIL BEEBLEZERBLAK".  

The first figure bowed modestly and returned to the ship.  The flag was planted.  The planter was promptly eaten by a bear.

So long ago.  And so many trials since then.  So much still to understand.  But they would love him, when he ruled.  Oh yes, all the humans and the animals would love him.  All he needed was an out of this infernally cute body.  And when he ruled, on that glorious day, every last bear would be executed.  Immediately.  

The Ekharts watched the dog from the front porch.  "Awww.  Isn't he cute?  It almost seems like he's smiling".  Mr. Ekhart humored his wife, "Yes dear, almost".

Hiatus=OVER!

Hey peoples!  Okay so I recently realized that all of us have taken a hiatus from this collaborative fiction business and while we probably have not ceased to be creative people, we sure have ceased to be creative collaboratively.  So here is something new, something completely unpolished and something completely unrelated to anything anyone else has written.  Enjoy.  Also, I realized that whilst we all write, after we write, it mostly just sits there.  Collecting metaphorical fiberglass dust.  So, if anyone feels particularly kindly, you may all comment and critique my work.  Kindly.  I leave it on your hands.  

SCARLET ALPHABET

I wore my shame, proudly, an A not nearly enough.

Until you undressed me in your room, scattering letters like salt across icy roads

Or a dictionary caught delicately in a blender.

An alphabet soup of sin. 

D for desire, embroidered neatly on my jacket, unbuttoned

T on the Tips of my finger for Temptation and Touch,

Tryst,  pulled from my fingers like satin gloves.

You found M for Moan and Midnight Magic, nestled between my shoulder blades,

quickly dispatched it and S for Sigh and Secret, which slithered from my newly kissed neck, 

to rest beside Caress and Kiss, twin mockeries of modesty which once resided on my breasts.

G and H, Gasp and Hush, unlaced like garter belts from my thighs as you searched for vowels.

Ecstasy, Allure, Illicit and Unchaste collapsed in ruins, shattered by your mouth.

Not to be outdone: my scarlet tongue painted interlocking calligraphy Os down your body.

Grover

The neighbors had always been wary of the Ekhart family. It wasn't the fact that Mr. Ekhart was an abstract sculptor without sufficient studio space, prompting him to keep what amounted to a huge pile of scrap metal and rubbish out on the front lawn. And it wasn't that Mrs. Ekhart enjoyed authentic smoked meats such that thick, black plumes poured from her chimney twice a week. And it wasn't that their eight year-old son, Robert, had recently developed a love of both bicycles and fire engines, which combined into a single hobby of riding up and down the street while shrieking at the top of his lungs.

No, it was their dog, Grover. From a distance, the jack russell terrier was almost cute, a little bundle of white, bristly fur with a big brown spot on one side. His tail wagged perpetually, and his open mouth curled almost into a smile. But up close, the neighbors all knew that there was a strange glint in the dog's eyes, and his adorable outward appearance didn't entirely cover the uneasy feeling they got when his gaze met with their own. The Ekhart's thought they were all crazy, of course. They loved their little Grover more than anything else in the world.

The Ekhart's house was nestled into a small cul-de-sac at the top of a hill. The access road sloped down through a row of young elm trees before meeting with the busy street below. The traffic light defaulted to the main street, changing only when a car passed over a sensor at the end of the quiet road. Because of this constant cross traffic, the Ekharts tried to be vigilant in keeping Grover securely leashed when they let him into the front yard. They didn't want him to run off, or -- God forbid -- dash in front of a speeding vehicle. There was also a chain-link fence surrounding their property, but the little dog had long since learned to escape this obstacle, though the Ekharts never could figure out how. More than once, one of the neighbors had rung the doorbell and delivered Grover, tail wagging, leash trailing behind, back to the Ekharts after a daring escape. Every time, the neighbor would tell them that they found him sitting at the top of the hill, head cocked to one side, staring down at the traffic rushing past. The Ekharts would thank them profusely for saving Grover from harm, although often got the impression that they were less concerned with the safety of the dog than with the safety of the cars in the street below.

One day, Mrs. Ekhart returned from her errands with two new toys: a big, shiny red firetruck for Robert, and a big, shiny red rubber ball for Grover. Both the boy and the dog danced about with glee at their new gifts. Robert dropped to the ground and began to drive his truck from room to room, shrieking with renewed vigor at the top of his lungs. Grover followed right behind, pushing and kicking his ball as he was unable to grasp it in his small, smiling mouth. Once or twice, he accidentally got the ball to bounce, which seemed to delight him to no end. He played with the ball for hours, kicking and bouncing, and then trying to bounce it higher and higher. The Ekharts laughed as they watched him, his little tail whipping about like a propeller.

Around five o'clock Mrs. Ekhart began to prepare dinner. Almost at once, the red rubber ball bounced onto the counter and into the sink where she was peeling potatoes. She chuckled at the little rascal, and then put Grover and the ball out into the front yard so she could cook uninterrupted. She secured his leash to the tent stake in the middle of the yard, scratched Grover behind the ear, and returned to the house.

Grover watched the retreating figure of his owner as it passed into the house. He waited for a moment, watching as the door closed behind her, and then looked at the tent stake. He grasped the protruding end between his teeth and pulled it straight out the earth with a practiced movement. He shook the leash free and deftly replaced the stake into the ground, sliding it gingerly back into its hole. Then he turned his attention to the ball.

It was exactly what he had been waiting for all these months. The perfect toy; the perfect tool. He began to kick and bounce the ball, nudging it higher and higher into the air, until with one final leap he shot the ball, silhouetted for a moment against the late afternoon sun, off his nose and right over the chain-link fence. It swished gently into the hedge on the other side, sliding quietly through the leaves. He stared at it for a moment, then trotted to a small bush in the corner of the yard. He pulled at a loose scrap of Mr. Ekhart's sculpting metal, something corrugated and innocuous, and dove stealthily into the small tunnel hidden beneath. He appeared a moment later under the hedge on the other side, shaking the dirt from his fur, and glanced around. He located the ball, perched in the branches just above him, and carefully nuzzled it free. He looked right, then left; satisfied, he batted it cautiously into the empty road. He ran after it and, with mounting excitement, bounced it once, twice, three times into the air, nudging it ever forward. Then, abruptly, he stopped.

The dog sat down and watched as the ball bounced down the hill, gaining momentum every time it flexed and recoiled on the sloping concrete. He saw the glint of the sun on the red rubber, and also on the hard metal frames of those monstrous vehicles rushing through the intersection below. He panted, tongue waggling, waiting patiently for the inevitable.

Just a note

Dear all-

Why do they give you x amount of space in the little box you are supposed to type in and then reformat everything when it ends up being posted? Why? Severely distressing. I would like to apologize for the ridiculous and epic nbature of my last post. It is not supposed to be formatted like that. And as soon as I figure out how, I will fix it to be how its supposed to be. Until then, read it and enjoy.

- - -

In Response -

I fooled around with the CSS file and widened the margins for the text space, so in theory we won't have this problem again. Anything that you see in the post editor dialogue box should now appear on the blog exactly as formatted. If it happens again, I'll tweak it again...
-t

Explosion: Implosion

This post is somewhat different now that Tim has compiled all the explosions into one. I basically took the explosions from my original poem and then stole lines from all of them, thereby imploding the explosion. I have no idea how you would format THAT. Feel free to re-explode it, or just think of it as another experiment in writing.

RUN

Run
As far and as fast as you can towards treasure at rainbows ends or
Golden discord apples thrown through forest umber shadows, down rabbit holes
Where Alice lost and found and lost and found and dreamed acid looking glass dreams
Of smoke swirling up colliding with ceiling fans which fling strands wedding-rice-like
Not towards something, but away from this stagnant pool under lilies the water dies
Like echoes in canyons (poor Echo, I weep for her and she is ungrateful, returning
My tears mocking while the ghosts of lever leapt smile, thinking the stones
Have learned to cry)
Run
Fast and grab something, anything sharp to rend reality's fabric or
Take nothing but the shattered splattered sunlight in your cacophonous jungle hair
And the stubborn sand that stains the soles of your beach dancing bare feet in summer
Hopeful where the unknown beckons tripping skipping slipping you follow
Incongruous footprints trailing behind you like ants with green leaf sails drifting across
Dusty seas boats follow the ends of the earth (Sinking below the horizon
I almost remember when the world was a disc and beyond the harlot rouged waters.
There are dragons)
Run
Into fields of thunder and lightening naked to feel rain lashes on skin or
Stripped to nothing hoping electric amber sky light strikes and singes to illuminate
You like manuscripts where beasts make lovers of women and flowers woven
Into virginal bouquets thrown to the hopeful then tossed penitently into graves covered
By Adam's dust watered by river Lethe waters that glimmer gifts of souls ans
Coins from dead eyes (And I wonder if the payment for eternity has increased over time,
paired coins no longer promises enough and must we pay in gold ingots, or will
Voided checks suffice)
Run
Chastely passed through death and returned, transcending sin or
Never return at all stay lost weaving endlessly through warp and woof, spaces between
Crowds of strangers stare blankly reflecting time like mirrors in empty houses reflect
Dust spinning in moon light streams through fractured fractal windows curtains blowing
Sudden breezes sweep salt across abandoned floors like so many old receipts
Pasted in scrapbooks (carefully kept, but my lover deserted me anyways, leaving gentle
Paper trail traces of each movie concert play meal intertwined mementos, but
I don't remember)
Run
You can call me Eurydice shout it out or
Whisper the wind steals the words away
You won't look back
You promise
And I won't follow

Cages: Compiled

Now that we seem to have moved past our first experiment with a poetry explosion, I thought I would conclude it how I used to do it at my school -- to compile the poem in its entirety, noting where the additional poets added their words to the original.

---

Eyes shining you offer me a hand, lifting me through mire of my own making
Spirals inside rage self-righteous, you lead me to a white-washed wall
Draw a door

Draw a door.
Where does it lead?
Only as far as your mind can reach.
The unknown beckons.

Where does it lead?
Who can say, but if you lead the way
I'll follow after you
To depths not often known.

Who can say, but if you lead the way
Who knows what dreams may come?
A future open wide
Why do we open doors?

Let me turn the handle. Myself. Push through.

"You can be. Anyone. Do anything."
To prove your point, you built me a glass ceiling
Then shattered it, so I would be free
Laughing crystal slivers rain,

Laughing crystal slivers rain, crown me in glitter petal shards.
run fast and grab something, anything
sharp.
Quick, before I envelope such fractured light. In trying to heal, I poke and cut.
With eyes Magnified I cannot stop to find the problems as the crystalline seeds blossom
into seventeen perfect replicas of your left iris--Dark, and filled with swallowed possibilities.
Ferocious stranger of mine, dissolving into resonances,
and shimmering with offset oscillations,
you have left in me a piece of you.
But are you a hornet, or a bumble bee.
or a simply crafted wooden sculpture, being torn apart by termites.

crown me in glitter petal shards.
Distant and safe you watch.
I parody St. Sebastian,

I parody St. Sebastian,
climbing high among the boughs and limbs,
and hands of good people—
you whom I have known and changed
and loved, and brushed my fingers
past your faces that you may
know the stars again,
and speak to the ringing of halos
that flutter
past your once imprisoned eyes.

I dance through the veins of town,
las vías de las villas españolas,
I weave a ribbon through your windows
a mosaic of punctured names
scattered one by one across the catacombs;
I wave away Apollo's blackened hand,
and march with your sons
and daughters
into the fields of thunder and lighting.

And from these branches
through swollen slits of light
I watch
as archers lift up their bows,

As archers lift up their bows,
arrows do nothing:
The emperors club kills me.

pull taught their strings, and sing
the strains of violins, (each note
pierces with its graceful flight);

With every breath I know
the music is for me, and I
drip liquid rubies.

drip liquid rubies.

I gave you my heart, I suppose.

I gave you my heart, I suppose.
I did not know
You would want me to come and pick it up
When you were done with it.

I did not know
You would be so careless,
Leaving it here and there, dog-earing it,
Often forgetting you had it.

I had this shy notion
Of you keeping it safe and warm
Nestled close beneath the covers.

You grew tired of it;
You moved on.
You threw out the trash,
Almost tossed it away
Like so many old receipts.

Yet when I stood there in your room
Your back to me, your attention elsewhere:

I did not want it back.

It was more yours than mine.

You gave me wings, you said.
Sewed my butterfly chest together with

I've sewed my butterfly chest all together
with straps made entirely of soup-stewed shoe leather
butterfly patches and butterfly stitches
the scars are still burning, the rotten flesh itches

To creak my neck forward sends head-spinning pain
through cold coils of copper I've hooked in my brain
I look down my body through eyes dried and wired
and electrically flex muscles long since expired

One leg's from a dead man; one leg is a wheel.
I've a cranial disc made of thrice-folded steel.
I've no nose to speak of, but that's just as well,
since I'm made of cadavers I've no wish to smell.

A mortal no longer, I've shed my old skin
passed through death and returned, transcending my sins
the police, when they killed me, my spirit unfettered
and thus I return, all the stronger and better.

I lurch down the stairs, my sucking chest heaving
to wish all the village a... memorable evening.

Dark criss-crossed child crayons
"I have given you wings. Fly"
My breast, empty. My wings, fluttering, fettered.

No one hears a heart when it breaks.
In silence, a storm.

My Heart

Disclaimer - This poem draws from the last poem that I contributed, which in turn was taken from Karen's. However, it is removed enough that I gave it a new title, with lack of better category.

This is about my heart,
But not – NOT about Love,
Rather that fist-sized, spongy bag
That beats and beats me alive.
Tha-thump tha-thump.
 
It’s irregular, my heartbeat.
Sometimes it’s running along
And then it trips on its own feet-
All of a sudden, nothing:
Tha-thump, tha-…
 
This is a matter that conerns me
Why stop? Do you need a rest,
Oh driving beat that keeps me going?
Why stop? No lurch inside my chest
And then…
 
-thump
 
Not dead yet.
 
It makes me wonder:
How many beats must you miss
Before you are dead?
Two? Four? Six?
How do I know it will ever start again?
 
And what defines a “stopped” heart?
Hearts can’t just stop all on their own,
That’s bullcrap. One must have a part
In keeping it going.
One must not take it for granted.
 
Yet it's so easy to ignore.

John and Sara, Part 3

Tommy and Caitlin had long ago given up their attempts to “share” Flu as a family pet. Caitlin, the designated afternoon dog walker, found herself unable to coax the little mutt to use his legs. While Walnut, their German shepherd, would happily prance ahead of her, Flu would sit firmly on his haunches and allow himself to be dragged. As small as he was, this was not a difficult task, but the opposing directions of the leashes hurt Caitlin’s shoulders, and after two sessions she started leaving Flu at home. Though brief as Caitlin’s companionship with the miniature pet was, Tommy’s was shorter. Used to feeding Walnut from the dinner table, he was surprised by Flu’s ingratitude, and had to wear a band-aid on his fingers for three days. Tommy and Caitlin decided to leave Flu in Char’s care, and only acknowledged the dog as far as polite tolerance required.


Char, his parents noted, enjoyed having the dog all to himself. They spent their afternoons together in Char’s room or the backyard playhouse. Before school, Sara would check Char’s backpack to ensure he did not try to bring Flu to class again. Whenever Char sat--at meals, while watching television, reading in the living room--Flu was in his lap. John had noticed, as he tucked Char in one night, that Flu had taken to nestling himself inside the hollow of the boy’s detached leg prosthesis. It was turning into an unhealthy relationship, he and Sara agreed as they folded sheets. But the boy needed a friend, didn’t he?

John and Sara... Con't.

In fact, Char's only friend was Flu. "Flu" was short for Fluffykin, and Fluffykin was one of the family dogs. To be precise, he was the 0.3 of the family dogs. Like Char, the full name did not seem to fit him, and despite the family's best efforts to make it stick, the name had gradually shortened to Fluffy, and then finally Flu.

Flu was a mutt that the family had found in the park across the street from their house one night after dinner. They'd gone for a walk at 7:30pm after dinner had been eaten, the dishes had been washed, and the family was digesting. Beneath the bleachers surrounding the field that Caitlin played soccer on, a soft whimper had been sounding. After some coaxing, John had managed to reveal a bloody and limping puppy. John had quickly pulled off his sweater, wrapped the crippled canine in his cardigan, and the family had rushed to the vet's office.

Flu had come to live with the family after no owner could be found, and to this day, he had not grown to weigh over 5lbs. His miniature size was what designated him as 1/3 of a dog, but his attitude was far from miniscule. Char and Flu were seldom seen apart, and Flu was violently protective of the young lad.

John and Sara

John and Sara were about as average as they could get. They lived in a nice house with a small yard surrounded by a white picket fence. John worked as an accountant in the block of offices just off the interstate, and Sara always had dinner on the table by six P.M. They had 2.5 kids and 1.3 dogs, and were generally satisfied with life.

But it was hard to live up to the standards of the average, middle-class life style. John worked as the manager of a retail electronics business, though he was often putting in overtime hours to make sure he got enough money squared away every month. Sara was always a little bit frantic, making sure their kids got to school, got to sports practices, got to their doctors' appointments. It was a real challenge to get dinner ready on time every day, and that it was something that would satisfy everyone. They made the best of it of course, and they went to bed every night with a smile — albeit a strained one — knowing that they had done their duties as parents, and done them well. Still, it was hard.

A lot of it, they conceded one night, talking softly as they changed into their pajamas, stemmed from their children. As an average family of average means, it was difficult to raise their children. Quite frankly, they didn't know how other people did it. And it wasn't even their two oldest children, (they noted over the bathroom sink as they brushed and flossed their teeth), it was their "point five."

Tommy and Caitlin were great, actually. They got decent marks in school; they were well-liked on their respective baseball and soccer teams; they were responsible and polite, if not altogether clean and self-sufficient. No, it was their youngest, Char, who took up the vast majority of their parental efforts.

They paused, a momentary shadow of uncomfortable guilt passing over them both as they rinsed with Cool Mint mouthwash. His name, according to his birth certificate, was Charles, but he had insisted on being called "Char" since he was able to speak. His full name wasn't him, he said. It didn't fit his personality, his life. And so he cut it in half, so to speak, and refused to go by anything else. He was that kind of kid — stubborn and strong-willed.

It wasn't his fault, (they admitted as they kicked off their slippers and climbed into bed); there was nothing to be helped. He grew up in a world where he was supposed to be part of an average family, only he couldn't ever really live up to the expectations. He tried to join Tommy's baseball league, but with only one arm he couldn't wear a glove without making it impossible to throw. He tried to join Caitlin's soccer league, but with only one leg he couldn't keep up with the other children, let alone kick the ball without risking falling down and hurting himself. They had even tried a table tennis league, which required only one hand and limited movement, but with only one eye and the resulting depth-perception issues, he could never manage to get the ball over the net.

It was also a shock to John and Sara both, (they finally admitted as they set their separate alarm clocks on their separate night stands), when they learned that the average American family does not, in fact, have to deal with these issues. That all of the articles they had read talking about families having "two-point-five children" were describing the average number of children over a wide sample base, and that the average family had either two or three. Very few, if any, have half a child.

But despite all this, (they concluded, heads resting on their pillows, facing each other in the dark), they had done well as parents. Or at least, they had done the best that could be expected of them. And who could ask for more?

Cages VI

I've sewed my butterfly chest all together
with straps made entirely of soup-stewed shoe leather
butterfly patches and butterfly stitches
the scars are still burning, the rotten flesh itches

To creak my neck forward sends head-spinning pain
through cold coils of copper I've hooked in my brain
I look down my body through eyes dried and wired
and electrically flex muscles long since expired

One leg's from a dead man; one leg is a wheel.
I've a cranial disc made of thrice-folded steel.
I've no nose to speak of, but that's just as well,
since I'm made of cadavers I've no wish to smell.

A mortal no longer, I've shed my old skin
passed through death and returned, transcending my sins
the police, when they killed me, my spirit unfettered
and thus I return, all the stronger and better.

I lurch down the stairs, my sucking chest heaving
to wish all the village a... memorable evening.