Half-Broken Busy

For a friend in mourning...

2012-02-13T08:16:00.000-08:00

I'm sorry you have to say goodbye. I know it's hard – the hardest thing in the world. Everything else fades away as you try to grasp the concept of never again hearing a new word from this person. It breaks your heart, and it will continue to break it for the rest of your life until you, like her, pass from this world and leave someone else as broken as you are now. The world will never be the same.

Home Sweet Home

2012-02-07T20:52:00.000-08:00

I haven't even moved there yet, and already I am missing my new home. Josh Garrels wrote this song a few years back, and I think it fits the moment.

-Indiana Sky-
Let’s dance upon our bare feet
Underneath sycamore tree
Climb up through that canopy
To see the Indiana sky

There’s no telling what we’ll find
On back roads forgotten time
We let our wonder be the sign
That’s gonna lead us on this ride

We waited for so long
To hear the Spirit’s song
And He wants us to sing
It’s time to taste and see
All the things we’re meant to be
It ain’t too late to try
And it’s not too soon to fly

We’ll awaken with the dawn
Spread our wings and gaze upon
This new day where we belong
It’s all an unfolding design

Follow the rhythm of
All that cultivates our love
And every star that hangs above
Will rejoice with us each night

~RUCK~ Chapter One

2012-01-30T06:09:00.000-08:00

Well, I wrapped up Chapter One of my novel last week. In many ways, it feels good to have those first 6,200 words complete. It's also kind of intimidating to think that I'll be doing that 7, 8, 15 more times before I have the finished product sitting in front of me. But I really love these characters, and the story is coming together nicely. So, for the sake of a great adventure, I'll stick this one out and see it through to the end. Chapter One introduces us to the protagonists Ruck Holland and Shallum. They are two of the three main characters and we'll pick up the third at the end of Chapter Two, I think. Anyway, Ruck is a bartender and Shallum is his token patron. Through a series of odd circumstances, they set out on a seemingly unavoidable tour of the world, fraught with danger and promise upon the seven seas... if ever they get that far.

And so our story begins...

Words said 1/19/11-1/22/11

2012-01-22T19:40:00.000-08:00

Some memorable quotes from the Fort Wayne Hanukkah trip this weekend. Snow makes folks say funny things. Thanks to Brie, the Hannahs, Kelsey, and my amazing sister Connie for making it Fort Wayne so awesome!

1. Kevan: "It's a diagonal listening experience."
- The stereo in my van, Colossus, is on its way out. At the beginning of the trip, Travis and I realized only the front-right and back-left speakers were working. Best results came from sitting at an angle in the center of the van.

2. Travis: "Reduce speed ahead? But I just found out it's 70! That's cheap!"
- This one is pretty self-explanatory. He was really upset.

3. Travis: "Oh it's 70 again! ... And I have two trucks in front of me. Come on!"

4. Kevan: "I feel like we just went into hyper-drive!"
- When we passed trucks in the mountains. It was thrilling to me.

5. Travis: "I'm going to drive as unsafely as humanly possible."
- It's not true. We just wanted to sound hardcore.

6. Travis/Kevan: "No you can't! Don't do it, pretty girl! Don't do it! Stop tempting us, you maniacal wench!"
- Listening to a Lisa Mitchell song in which she says she's at the beach, so she can take off her blouse. Not okay, Lisa!

7. Kevan: "Oh this is the song where she plays harmonica and my heart melts!"
- Speaking of Lisa Mitchell again. What can I say - the girl can rock a mouth-harp.

8. Brie: "I like to eat philosophy for breakfast."
- She mentioned eggs with basil, and I thought she was referring to Blaise (common mis-acronym) Pascal. She informed me that indeed she was.

9. Brie: "Don't threaten someone with a shamash!"
- Brie caught Kelsey preparing to strike me with a Menorah candle.

10. Kevan: "We just pwned the Jews and their latkas."
- Well, we did! We had a Jewish recipe for latkas, a very tricky recipe in secret Yiddish code and everything. And Brie made it happen, schooling that recipe in the face.

11. Kevan: "I hate being bündledorfhed. I feel like a ball of cotton."
- Bündledorfhe: verb (boon-dal-dorf) to layer obnoxious amounts of clothing upon one's person for the purpose of warmth and survival.

12. Brie: "I threw down the dreydel and you threw down people."
- Brie was tearing it up in the dreydel game while Gabe was recording sweet harmonies in the other room... He gets violent when he sings.

13: Brie: "There's hot meat in the kitchen."
Kevan/Kelsey: "You're hot m..."
Kevan: "umm..."
Kelsey: "ew... not right."
- I'm just gonna leave that one where it is.

14. Kelsey: "Why don't we just hang Jewish people from the tree?"
- Discussing how to re-decorate the Christmas tree to be a Hanukkah tree. I don't think she meant all that that statement implies. Let's hope.

2011 Album Review that I missed!!

2012-01-17T19:26:00.000-08:00

**I was recently given a 2011 album by my brilliant cousin Josh Field. The album was "Apocalypse" by Bill Callahan. Josh wrote a spot-on review that sold me on this album, so I'll just copy it here. Pick up the album if you like the review as much as I did, and check out Josh's blog -->here.**

Bill Callahan - Apocalypse

"I consoled myself with rudimentary thoughts/And I set my watch against the city clock/It was way off."
Bill Callahan has been making records for over two decades now, and I never paid attention. I really probably should have. Especially when he used to dated my favourite artist of the new millennium (so far) and lent his deep baritone voice to one of the truly magical moments on her breakthrough album. This year however, as with Braids, it was a single which kept popping up and demanding my attention. A simple guitar picking - somewhere between Josh Ritter and Johnny Cash - accompanies "Baby's Breathe", a song which tells a story of a marriage doomed from the outset, the lyrics and accompaniment are perfect. Delicate, sad, regretful, but changing pace, moving, and then bursts of percussion to drive the madness, and atonal guitars howl like wolves, and yet the gentle melancholy never leaves.

The rest of the album follows suit. Tales of isolation, complaints of misrepresentation, ironic nationalist manifestos - this is lyrically my favourite album of the year. And musically it stands up as well. Where Josh Ritter is happy to stay fairly safe in his folk-rock tower (which I'm quite fond of actually), Callahan explores: "America" is almost disco(!!); "Free's" is reminiscent of Astral Weeks' folk-jazz fusion with its flute solos. Callahan is a first class story teller, and his deep and rich voice, and melancholy soul draws me in to his beautifully painted worlds.
Favourite Track:
This is really hard for me to pick. "Drover" drives against convention. "Baby's Breath" is devastatingly beautiful. "One Fine Morning" has that two chord back and forth (which I love) as it spins with hymn like piano into a hymn to becoming "the hardest part [of the road.]" But I think it's the quietest moments on the album, the most earnest moments, which are the best. And the quietest moment comes on "Universal Applicant." Trapped at sea, a flare goes up and silence fills the track until, with almost hilarious mock solemnity, Callahan whispers the sound effect "Fwooshh..." and "to the universe [the flare] applies." And I am reminded of that great poem "This is how the world ends, not with a bang, but a whimper." But it's not over. To add insult to injury, the flare, both the hope for survival and the icon of life's brevity, returns to his small life boat and it burns. All he is goes down with the ship.
"And the punk/And the lunk/And the drunk
And the skunk/And the hunk/And the monk in me
All sunk
Sunk, sunk, sunk, sunk, sunk"

2011 Album Reviews & Memories

2012-01-02T09:25:00.001-08:00

I'm doing the year-end review a bit differently this time. I was going to write movie reviews and album reviews and a summery of the year. Too much work though. I saw 28 movies that came out in 2011 and listened to almost as many new albums. So I decided, instead, to write about my connection to a few of 2011's albums, why they left impressions on me. I'll also "rate" those albums, along with other albums of the year. As for movies, I was left pretty wanting from this years films, with a very few exceptions. 50/50 was a great movie and so was Captain America. I liked The Muppets too. Attack The Block took the cake though. Best movie of the year, hands down. Just imagine Sandlot meets Shaun of the Dead and you've got it. Anyway, on to memories and reviews.

(Rating Max - *****)

Love & War & The Sea In Between by Josh Garrels ***** – This album was easily the soundtrack to my road-trips this year. Hayden Cook and I went to Ft. Wayne twice and listened to this on repeat on more than one occasion. The mix is perfect and the feel of the album is great for driving through cornfields toward the sunset. It's as if the rest of the world slows down and goes hush to listen in on this brilliant work of art. Profound, I think, is the best word I can muster to describe this album.

Broken Voice by My Epic **** – This album was a breath of fresh lyrical air. It inspired me to write more honestly than I ever have before, and I am forever grateful. Also, it came out while I was in Victoria with my family. So listening to it brings back wonderful memories, especially from my daily walks with cousin Hannah (a favorite pastime).

With Shivering Hearts We Wait by Blindside *** – Oh the new Blindside album! I like it as much as the next guy, unless of course that guy is Jake Duncun of MATSOD. I went to see Maylene one night and mentioned this album in passing. Jake got so excited and we ended up sitting in my van, listening to it after their set. He was so enthralled by the album, it was kinda funny in a way to see such a successful rock star geeking out about another band. Plus it's just a good memory of hanging out with him. It doesn't happen often enough.

The Collection EP by The Collection **** – We've had mutual friends for years, but it wasn't until a few months ago that I really met David Wimbish and his collection. Like My Epic, Wimbish challenged me in my writing, encouraging me through his lyrics to dig deep into my own heart. There have been several songs that I've written while at Collection shows, and they tend to be my favorites. Plus, following this band has opened up a whole new social circle for me to reap from, for which I can't thank the Lord enough.

It Was A Dark and Stormy Night by Five Iron Frenzy ***** – I wrote a blog recently about FIF and their place in my heart and life, so I won't linger here long. But this single came with the announcement of the band's reunion after 8 years. It also came the week of Thanksgiving, which meant Connie and Kelsey were here and my cousins were on their way. Needless to say, it was an awesome week! That Tuesday, Connie and Kelsey picked me up in High Point and we spent the afternoon at DeBeen with the one and only Thomas Lees. Then we met a ton of people at Prissy Polly's for BBQ and good times. If I wasn't on high enough a mountain already, that night the most influential band in my life announces their reunion and releases this amazing new song. Everything was right with the world.

Other Albums of 2011 -

Brokenness Aside by All Sons & Daughters **
Cymbal Crashing Clouds by Ben Shive ****
Chasing Someday by Drew Holcomb & the Neighbors ***
Showroom of Compassion by Cake ****
Arrows by The Lonely Forest ***
Barton Hollow by The Civil Wars ***
To the Victor – the Spoils! by Flashman *****
IV by Maylene & the Sons of Disaster ****
Songs in Secret by Great Awakening ***
Ghosts Upon the Earth by Gungor ****
Hawkboy and King Folly EPs by Hawkboy **
Simple Math by Manchester Orchestra *
Kilroy by Mercury Radio Theater ****
Bad As Me by Tom Waits ***
No Doubt of Sunshine by Waterdeep *
An Unfinished Tale, Volume Two: Truth by Don Chaffer ****

The Case of the Witch's Wagon

2012-01-01T18:59:00.000-08:00

**My sister and I took on a writing challenge this weekend. We each picked two prompts from The Writer's Book of Matches. Then we "Doyled" them - we intertwined the two prompts so that one was the ringer and the other was the answer. My two prompts were 1: It took him years to get back on the wagon, then three days later all the wheels fell off. And 2: Late one night, a woman has an epiphany that her life has been unfulfilling, but what she really wants is neither socially acceptable nor legal. So here's what I came up with.**

“I really wish people would lose their minds after breakfast,” grumbled the doctor as he emerged from his carriage. “Or at least after sunrise.”

He stepped into the muddy street, adding yet another layer of stains to his once-shiny, black shoes. It was a cold morning, though the rain had ceased on his way to the sight. He shuffled across the street to where a crowd of EMS workers were huddled. They just couldn't understand the scene.

A man sat in a wooden box in the mud, weeping uncontrollably and biting at anyone who would come too near. They had seen this sort of thing before, or at least the doctor had, but the trick of this one was the accessories. At the four corners of the box in which the man sat lay four spoked wheels on the ground. The axel to hold the front wheels was missing entirely, and the rear axel was ruined. The man wailed about the witch what swiped it from under him. He damned her to Hades' flames and said she could burn forever.

The doctor stood at the back of the crowd and made notes. In passing, his bullet-point jots would seem to anyone else a mere breakfast recipe – eggs, scrambled; wheel of cheese; eye of newt, if available. He knew exactly what he was writing and it was the start of an answer. He scribbled for another moment and then looked up as an officer announced the need to remove the crazy man from the scene. No one could get a hold of him though, slick with rain and sharp to the teeth. The doctor watched for a time, then finally put away his notes and walked through the crowd. He approached at the most opportune time, when the man was distracted by others, and struck him across the neck. The man fell silent and dumb, forgetting his place and collapsing to rest. Before anyone had time to thank the good doctor for his services, including the detective what called him, he was gone and forgotten. He had circles to pace on his office carpet in town.

“Another intriguing case, sir?” asked his bored secretary.

“Another indeed,” muttered the doctor as he dropped his coat and tossed his scarf onto a chair. He was focused, deep in thought.

“And I wonder if we'll get paid for this one.”

“The intrigues are pro-bono, Gladys. You know this.”

“Dr. Rankin,” Gladys said resolutely. “I'm afraid you don't understand our financial distress--”

Rankin didn't care.

“The man's name is Alfred Swathing, and I'd like him here as soon as possible. Set up an appointment for Thursday. Cancel whatever else is scheduled.”

“Sir, that's two days away. Do you want him sooner?”

“I do, my dear girl,” the doctor replied with a smirk. “But his headache will only get in the way. He should be fine by Thursday.”

The rain returned Thursday, which the good doctor appreciated for psychological purposes. Mr. Swathing came on time, escorted by nurses and a guard. Rankin insisted on meeting alone with him, to which the entourage acquiesced when faithful Gladys offered treats and coffee. Once the two were alone, client and doctor, Rankin introduced himself.

“I am a psychologist, as you may have already learned. I requested your presence, I was not hired, and I did so because I want to help you.”

“Help me,” retorted the senile Swathing. “You mean pump me full of drugs.”

“No,” corrected the doctor coolly. “I want to find the witch.”

The man perked up at this and slid back in his chair. His eyes were heavy with prescriptions and his hands shook violently from shock therapy, no doubt. The black circles under his eyes folded as he leaned forward with interest.

“You believe me?”

Rankin did not answer, but only stood and paced the room.

“Tell me about her,” he demanded of the man.

“She came from beneath. I don't know if I ran over her or what, it was dark and rainy when I--”

“Scratch that,” interrupted the doctor. “Tell me about the wagon.”

Swathing set back, confused but relieved at a new subject. The witch, even to just speak of, frightened the feeble man greatly. He rubbed his hands together and took a slow breath.

“I found it, maybe five days ago. I had one just like it when I was young, but I had fallen from it and cracked my head. Since then I have avoided them due to paranoia. It was just recently, I came to terms with my fear, which I have been battling for many years now. And so I went in search of such a similar wagon. I found this one behind an abandoned barn and took to driving it. Once I began, the thrill of my victory over this seemingly unfounded fear took over and I kept on driving without cease for three whole days.”

“Until you met the witch,” inserted the doctor. He stood by the lamp, which lit the room. Swathing nodded and it was then that the doctor flicked the lamp off, leaving the two in total blackness. The rain crashed down upon the roof and washed over the windows. The client squirmed in his chair and then began to whimper.

“Now,” Rankin said in a low voice, leaning into Swathing's face. “Tell me about her.”

Swathing burst into tears and shoved his fists into his eye-sockets. He wept aloud for several minutes, muttering nonsense. Then finally began to explain that he never actually saw her.

“I saw nothing,” he mourned. “It was me and my wagon, and I know I know I know I sound crazy, but I swear to you, a woman was there! I felt a presence! A witch, I tell you! A witch!”

“A smell?” inquired the doctor. “A taste? a shadow? Something, man. Something! My God, if you were so certain, did you not have the sense to pull off and search with a lantern?”

The man sobbed under the pressure, swearing again and again he was alone. The doctor eventually let him go, ending the session with frustration.

When he was alone, Rankin slumped down into his chair and rubbed his temples. Gladys came with a hot towel and asked what else she could do.

“The wagon is the key,” he said through the towel. “Call Agent Flynn to see if the results are back from the lab yet on that splinter I snatched at the scene.”

“I already called, sir,” said Gladys proudly. “I have a name and address for you. And it's not far either.”

“Thank God,” moaned Rankin. “I'll go when this towel is cold.”

The barn was run down, unlivable and unusable at best. In front of it, closer to the road, set a little cabin of similar state. Rankin roamed the grounds around the barn, checking for evidence of a wagon living there at any point. He found a set of wheel tracks leading out to the road, confirming Swathing's claim to some extent. Further up the road, he discovered muddy tracks returning and cutting across to the front porch of the disheveled homestead. They began as jagged lines and evolved slowly into clods of red and brown clay. At the porch, mud was smeared and splattered this way and that, and the front door hung busted open.

Upon approaching, the doctor met a young woman repairing the door. She had a mop and bucket nearby as well, and she looked tired. He introduced himself and she did the same, pausing at her work.

“Looks like you've had a rough time here recently,” he observed.

The woman nodded, “Aye, the storms ain't good to m'house.”

“I'm sure,” responded the doctor, peering through the door. “And neither are wagons.”

The woman gave a look of horror and shrank into her doorway. He noticed now that she clutched her ribs and walked with a heavy limp. No doubt, results of her terrorism.

“You know what I'm talking about, then,” he whispered. “Your wagon was stolen, so you sought revenge by taking back the front axel. I see your point, but you sent a man into a nervous breakdown, dear. Not to mention the accident could have killed him. And you as well, for that matter! And all of this over a measly wagon.”

The woman bowed her head in shame.

“You don't understand,” she stammered. “I hear them saying that I am a witch. It's true. And the wagon was mine, but I meant no harm; and anyway, I did not take the axel.”

Rankin was confounded for once.

“I,” she continued. “I was the wagon axel and I only wanted to be left alone. Three days he drove me and I was more stricken than he, so I sought escape. I didn't mean to hurt him.”

Without another word, the doctor carried the woman to hospital for care. Then he made his way back to the office for another hot towel. Gladys awaited him, eager to hear the news.

“Well, what is the answer?” she pleaded.

“Simple enough, really,” he explained. “A lonely maid with a cauldron and too much time on her hands. She had resolved her life of witchery was a bore and wanted to experience life as a wagon axel. She knew it was unorthodox, to say the least, so she constructed an old makeshift thing and hid herself within its wheels on the dark side of a shabby old barn. No one would notice her there and no one would care, except, of course, for a man overcoming his fear of that very thing.”

“Oh dear,” the secretary sighed.

“Indeed,” confirmed the doctor. “I suppose that is why it is neither socially acceptable nor legal to turn ones self into a wagon axel.”

“Is it illegal, sir?”

“Well, Gladys, it certainly should be.”

Fever's Greetings

2011-12-21T19:28:00.000-08:00

**This is a short something I wrote tonight for my sweet cousin Sam, who is sick and away from home this holiday season.**

“Fever.”

The little girl giggled, her pigtails flopping under the streetlamp. She'd never met such a funny person, it pleased her fancy and she stepped closer.

“Your name is Fever?”

The old ragamuffin nodded, coughing violently. His coughing frightened her and she stepped back again. He asked her name with a painful moan. She could barely understand him.

“Sweet. My name is Sweet. That's what my mother calls me, anyway.”

Fever coughed again, or maybe he laughed. He pushed himself up and leaned back harder against the brick wall. His hands were dirty and wrapped in rags; they gripped the bricks callously. He couldn't stand, and slumped back down onto the sidewalk with a gargled sigh.

“So, Sweet. What are you doing for Christmas?”

Sweet scuffed her feet in thought. She bit her lip and squinted her right eye. She decided out lout that she'd open presents that morning and then spend the rest of the day eating treats and playing with her new toys. Her hope was for a new pink dress too, so she would wear that as well. Fever seemed to approve of this plan and nodded slowly.

“What will you do?” she asked him.

He opened his mouth to answer but got caught up in hacking instead. He chewed on spittle and wiped his chin with a tattered scarf. The girl took another step back, leaving the comfort of the warm streetlamp. His coughing frightened her, but she pitied him too. She reworded her question.

“Do you have anywhere to go?”

He shook his head, looking down with shame.

“Well,” she said sheepishly. She wanted to invite him to her house, but it didn't settle well with her. She knew her parents wouldn't approve. What could she do to help? What could she say? Be civil, answer like anyone else does. How do people respond to the homeless? She thought back to times with her parents, what they would say to a passing ruffian. Finally she came to it. She bowed slightly while taking another step back. Fever couldn't even see her now, but he heard her small, apologetic voice.

“I'm sorry, Fever. I wish I could help, but merry Christmas. You'll be on my mind.”

Mightiest: Pt. 4

2011-12-19T12:50:00.001-08:00

My arms fall slack to my side, my sword point-down in the mud. The handle rests limp in my worn, trembling hand. I heave for dirty air. There's hair and sweat in my eyes and itching my nose, but I have not even strength to reach up to clear it. The muscles in my shoulders are numb and rubbery. My enemy stares at me, edging closer, taking their time. The look in their rabid eyes says it all – they will not let me die quickly. They're going to have fun.

The first comes with a shoulder to my chest. I stumble back a few steps. He's big, but even in my weariness I am bigger. He returns for another charge and, this time, drives spiked knuckles into my stomach. I deliver a kick to his groin and he throws his head up into my chin. My head rattles, my sight abandons me for a flash. Another shoves me from behind and I fall on a solid kick to the face. Blood comes and I choke on it. My enemies laugh, wait a moment and then pile on with all they have.

But a moment is all God needs.

The one with spiked knuckles will be the first to die. My blade will drive into his ribcage and through his heart, and I'll slide it out as smoothly as it went in. He'll hit the ground lifeless, followed suit by a half-dozen of his comrades. Some will receive similar strokes, others will lose their heads. I won't have time amidst the flood to study my hand, but it will feel cold as flint, tingling, pulsating. My grip will be set, fingers locked around the handle of my blade, fused as one piece. Lightening running through my rubber shoulders, a surge of energy like nothing worldly. My arms will swing and stab with speed not my own, and my senses will keep track of every movement. The clouds will flee and the sun will roll across the canvas skies, and wicked men will die. A thousand shall fall at my side and ten thousand at my right hand. And as the landscape is painted red, I will catch sight of my King doing his part across the yard. His youthful smile shining pride and his laughter ringing out praises to Almighty God for another victory against all odds.

Pulling Through

2011-12-14T14:32:00.000-08:00

Just writing in to say how good God is! Today has been a mediocre day at best, with a few really crappy moments thrown in. And it's only 5:30, who knows what else will happen. But even in the rough times, the Lord proves Himself to be good over and over again. When I hurt, He holds me and gives me the strength to endure. When He sees fit, He provides a way – help. And when He doesn't it's because He knows I can handle it on my own. Now, I don't always step up to the plate like I should. But even when I fail, He pulls me up again. I'm sorry if this is vague, cliché, or preachy. But at the end of the day, and throughout it really, I need Him. I'd be done a long time ago if it weren't for Jesus Christ.

Biggest one-liner letdowns in film: pt. 2(Public Enemies)

2011-12-05T13:54:00.000-08:00

I like mafia films. I'm a guy, it's what I'm into. I like good mafia films. Miller's Crossing, Road to Perdition, The Godfather. So when a movie comes around about John Dillinger himself, interest is going to peak. He's a classic. Team his story with Johnny Depp and Christian Bale under the direction of Micheal Mann, and you've got a winner... or you should, anyway.

Mann has some great stuff in his portfolio. Heat, Collateral, The Last of the Mohicans. On the other hand, he more recently made Miami Vice. And there's our high sign!

Mind you, Public Enemies was not a flop. Mann is known for these epic showdown scenes where the two stars meet and verbally duke it out. In Heat, it was DeNiro and Pacino, finally meeting over halfway through the movie. One of the best scenes ever filmed. In Public Enemies, Bale finally catches up to Depp (Dillinger) in a jail cell and the dialogue is, not as powerful as Heat, but still pretty awesome. "What keeps you up nights," Bale asks Depp. Depp glances at him, stone cold killer serious and says, "Coffee." Nicely done. Marion Cotilard was a nice touch as well, especially in her moving scene with Christian Bale. Certainly the best scene in the film. This movie had some good things going for it...

And then came the line...

It's the closing scene of the film. If you haven't seen it, Dillinger dies. It's history, folks, not a spoiler alert. But the man who killed him goes to see Marion Cotilard (Dillinger's lover), and she gives, as always, a profound performance. "Why are you coming here to see me," she asks. "To see the damage you've done?" The man is calm and sombre. "No," he says. "I came here because he told me to." Her countenance changes, anger turns to frailty. The man goes on to explain that he heard Dillinger saying something when he was dying. He says, "I put my ear next to his mouth..."

[the audiences tenses, leans in, waits with bated breath]

"... and what I think he said was this..."

Now I'm not going to tell you what he said, because it is beautiful and I have a soul. But the buzz-killer - did you catch it? "What I think he said was this..." What you think? What you THINK he said? You're sitting across the table from a broken woman, you are the killer of her love, you have a final word for her from him. The woman, and the world, hang on this word... and it's what you THINK he said?! You're not sure?! What if, by some ill fate, you had gotten it wrong? Would you feel better because you prefaced it with "I think this is what your lover's dying words to you were... but I could be wrong," really?

This gives a whole new meaning to the phrase, don't shoot the messenger.

Mightiest: Pt. 3

2011-11-30T18:08:00.000-08:00

The wily King flew deep into the serge of warriors and was lost to me in the commotion. I knew he was alive only by the silver flash of his sword, I caught it in the corner of my eye, and his laughter ringing out with every close call. His excitement and the peace of God Almighty – these kept me level in the rampage of battle, especially one in which I was alone with my blade.

I am surrounded by the Philistine forces, and I alone. They have yet to realize that I am their singular resistance. All others have fled, the weak and the strong. King David is making a scene somewhere in the crowd of on-comers, and I strike down those within reach, but the rest continue to charge forward. Their numbers so great, even the many dead are but a drop. As they rush past, I stand my ground, clothes-lining and stabbing one after another. Ten men down, twelve, twenty. I will make my mark, if it be my last, upon this enemy. Thirty, forty, forty-five, fifty. I glance around, from every direction they come. Hundreds. And my King has slain his ten-thousands, but he had an army behind him then, the same army what just abandoned him. It still wrecks my mind, why they would run away. But I am here, so I continue to fight with all my strength and will.

Sixty, seventy, eighty, eighty-four, eighty-five. My hand loosens, my arm slows. One can swing for only so long. And it is now that the brutes begin to notice me and the corpses strewn about my step. And where is David? Good God, is this the end, and should Your people fall for my weary limbs? Like a pack of ravenous wolves, drooling with hunger, the army – a thousand burning eyes – turn to me and move in to feed.

Undead Frenzy

2011-11-26T08:12:00.000-08:00

Writer's Block

2011-11-23T13:18:00.000-08:00

I have trouble writing when I feel like there's no one out there to read it. I write most prolifically when I think there's someone out there who understands me and will like what I write because it reminds them of me and they like me.

There's a lot of story tucked deep down inside me, and it's all dark and funny and a little hard to follow... like a cave. The story in me is a cave. And there's no point for its existence than to be explored... to be... spelunked...

Oh Lord, great Descender, remind me. You are the One who bore this cavernous soul in the first place, and You carved it for Your dear pleasure anyway. I pretend like there's any other reason, but You are the reason. Forgive me, for the bats and vermin I allow in through my mouth, wide and dank and swallowing all things worldly. Send a washing flood through my passages, deep and foreboding maze that I am within. Burst the dams overhead and waterfall Your grace down to river my tunnels and drown me, good God, drown my selfish loneliness. My soul, crass and unimaginative. Renew my mind, great Creator, Descender into my soul and story and world.

Christ the Artist

2011-11-19T13:16:00.000-08:00

"And if He was cultured... if He was as civilized as most Christian people wish He was, He would be useless to Christianity. But God is a wild man, and I hope that in the course of your life, you encounter Him. But let me warn you, you'll need to hang on for dear life... or let go for dear life, maybe is better." - Rich Mullins

I found him! I found him!

2011-11-18T10:11:00.000-08:00

I spent the morning hopping from phone to Facebook and through a number of rabbit-trail websites, cracking clues and moving forward. A scavenger hunt! And for what? For this picture, and a promise for more teasery on Monday, November 21 at 9:00pm... That's it. Again you ask, for what? I have no idea. But every once in a blue moon, you find connection with a legacy. You grow up listening to a band and growing close to the members, the fans, and the message. Every once in a while, a band becomes more than a band. The music and the people become an entity, a friend worthy of experiencing any and every thing with - the good times, bad times, and the docile times too. It becomes the grace you need when you fall down, and a dance-partner when you're on cloud-nine. And you can't help but cry like a baby when they die, because a part of you died too that day.

Five Iron Frenzy is that band. I remember laying on the floor of my parents' living room and listening to them early on, borrowing "Our Newest Album Ever" from a friend. I remember getting my first FIF CD that Christmas - "Quantity is Job #1" - and playing it on repeat for God knows how long. That's when I discovered that CDs can get worn down.

In youth, we struggle to know who we are. The sound and focus of FIF geared me to understanding myself. It may sound silly, but it's true. My identity was found in the character of a band, like when you meet a kindred spirit and realize you're not alone in an otherwise wrecked world. And when you hear them, no matter what, you know you'll be alright. They were stupid at times, and maybe ridiculous is a better word than stupid. But that was just part of it. After all, we have fun and also get serious with our friends, don't we? And I could relate to their randomness. I also related to the wisdom they offered in Christ. I was already a Christian, from a wonderful family, but FIF walked me through it to further grasp the reality of Christ and my place in His heart. At their last show, they spoke truth over their fans and friends, to carry on loving God and sharing His love with the world. "We're passing this mantel down to you," they said. "Do good things with it." And when they finished their set, they sat on the stage in humility as 3,600 fans sang hymns and prayed blessings over those kindred spirits.

That was just shy of nine years ago, and now there is a stirring in the wings. Murmurs of a return, or at least a remnant. Who knows, but that's why I care about a dumb photo of Brad as a zombie - because I (and about 10,000 other fans) will take whatever we can get of our dear old friends. So we'll see what happens November 22... or 21... or whenever they feel like it...

Thanks, Five Iron, and we'll see you soon.

"How beautiful, how vast Your love is. New forever, world without an end."

Mightiest: Pt. 2

2011-11-16T18:37:00.000-08:00

The field laid wide, miles of dead grass standing high; to the waist in some places. We held ranks scattered along the hillside. Lines were droll, according to King David, limiting greatness in the art of improvised maneuvering. He set us in a kind of scrimmage formation so that the enemy never knew who to strike first. Lines were droll and vulnerable. This way, we could see each other and shift forces as we saw the need. Our King and Commander trusted us to make those calls, he knew us well and we knew him. I stood near the epicenter, by his side and ready for the encroaching enemy.

As they come into view, so do the clouds and rain begins to fall upon the dead field. Thin streaks glance our shoulders and swords. It is a cool rain, stinging and lively. We keep our focus, because we look to David and see that he keeps his. The rain dodges his skin when Philistines are near. The rain does nothing to extinguish the flame in his eyes.

I look back to see the Philistines coming over the distant knolls, hundreds and never-ending. The more, the merrier. We are few but we are enough. I bend my knees to flex, and roll my neck, full of pops and snaps. Three-hundred yards from impact, two-hundred. They break into a sprint and raise their arms of bronze and steel. A cry rises up among them, crude and brutal. And their ranks continue to billow over the hills like a flood of flesh and bone and rage. One-hundred yards, I crack my knuckles and look to my left. My brothers have taken steps back. What are they doing? To my right, I see fear in the eyes of Mighty Men.

Let them go, my King says to my with a nod, keeping his eye on the approaching hoard. We've got this covered, you and I. He knows I am steadfast, but I thought the others were too. He knew better, or if he didn't, he doesn't care in the moment. Our ranks scatter like the petty Jews we defend, shrinking into shadows and homes. But remaining, my King and I with our swords, we stand ready. Fifty yards and David leaps to meet them, roaring at the top of his lungs, and audible over their tumult. I tighten the grip on my sword and race after him, roaring all the same.

Mightiest: Pt. 1

2011-11-15T08:47:00.000-08:00

Tired. We were all tired. My hand ached with the cold that day, gripping tightly to my sword, but the battle had just begun. The Philistines, Godless savages they were, sent in their childish front-lines to thin us out before kicking down the door, so to speak. And we held our ground, though suffering blows, against their first wave. Midway through, the laymen took to hiding as they always do, ducking into caves and shallow wells.

Cowards, but then again, they can be; they have us to hide behind. King David's Mighty Men of Valor and Strength, the songs call us and we walk in it with as much honor we scoundrels can muster.

As I see the weaker ones folly to shelter dark and damp, I grit my teeth and squeeze my sword. David beside me glances my way and curls up his ever-youthful grin. He reminds me, not of who they are, but of who I am in his ranks and kingdom. It is what I need to hear, bringing me back to focus on my duty at hand; to ward off the enemy without halt. I strike down another goblin and count my brothers still standing. Mighty.

With the first flank past and done, we take heavy breaths and wait with readied arms. David spins his sword through flicking fingers, he bounces from foot to foot, dancing with eagerness to move, swing, dodge, and strike. My king, a boy at heart, was born for the ventures of war and their woes seem to take no toll on his spirits as they do other men. His eyes shine with brilliance, daring death to deal its hand against his. Lions, bears, kings, and giants; none have slowed him and now he stands in the field with his Men and God at his side. Mighty.

We waited and our hearts pounded in anticipation, all in unison it seemed. But it was more than heartbeats. It was the air, the ground itself that shook in rhythm. They were not even in sight yet and the whole earth trembled at their coming. We were all tired. My hand ached with the cold that day, gripping tightly to my sword, but the battle had just begun.

Tribute Zombie

2011-10-28T06:18:00.000-07:00

In honor of The Walking Dead: Season 2!

Spiders of God

2011-10-21T19:22:00.000-07:00

Often times, I return to my current residence late into the night. As I reach the porch, a motion-sensor light flicks on and I make my way to the now-visible door. But my segue from ramp to door is fraught with a community unexpected. Granddaddy Longlegs creep around in pairs and solitude, covering the porch like monks in a garden. I imagine they live in the brush and yard during daylight, praying fervently to the God of soil and sky above, and come out at night to commune with one another. They move with the practical humility of age, stretching out one off-centered limb as a cane for guidance. Their eyes have grown weak with crying their prayers into dirt day-in and day-out. The cane-limb taps around to clear the way and they stagger along in a funny sort of zig-zag. A drunken geriatric stumbling under his habit, but he's not alone. The whole lot of them move this way and so it seems normal compared to my direct gait from point-A to point-B. And careful to not disturb them as I pass, I must slow down and watch them. And they leave a strange impression upon my soul, their steps seem noble to me. Men of God, take notice! Piety and honor found in a spider named for its legs.

Reel Life

2011-10-04T07:48:00.000-07:00

I awake to clambering. My bed is warm, but this sounds serious. Glass breaks in the hallway and I hear a stifled shriek. A stampede of feet rumble past. My bed is warm, but I climb out anyway and go to the door. I find my fellow students exiting their rooms and hustling down the crowded hall. Where are they going? To the basement, one explains in whispers. More glass breaks and I turn to see a gray and bloody arm reaching through the window at the opposite end of the hallway. That's enough, I understand. I grab a hoodie and join my peers in their exodus.

We make it to the basement, less than a dozen of us by then. A lot of them went roofward or just straight out the front door. Both terrible ideas. At least the basement has resources and an emergency exit. I look around to see who's in my company - my band of survivors. I spot the one that matters. Ramona is still in her pajamas and half asleep, but coming around. She's safe, good. Of course, her evil ex is nearby too. I remind myself that the only enemies right now are the undead ones trying to eat us.

After counting heads and checking our resources, we decide to send a few up for some necessaries. I grab the evil-ex to help me secure the emergency exits. We round the corner and check the doors. They'll hold.

"Listen," I say before we return. "Two things..."

He nods acknowledgement, keeping his eyes lowered. He doesn't like me, but his fear of the undead overrides his hatred for me at the moment.

"First," I continue. "You know how to kill them, right?"

He nods and mumbles a yeah.

"Ok, and the second thing," I lean in to make eye contact. "I get to kiss her right before the credits roll."

Batman - DC's Saving Grace

2011-09-28T19:36:00.000-07:00

I would like to make some clarifications after my outburst earlier. It should be made known, in all fairness, that DC is still putting out a handful of good reads and I will continue to enjoy those. Two with which I have been especially impressed are Snyder's Batman and Johns' Aquaman. Batman #1 was probably the freshest, most enjoyable read for me since Millar's Red Son, yes even in lieu of Flashpoint. So all that to say, they're not a spawn of Satan and they're not just vomiting out garbage upon garbage. They still have a few good writers and artists and some great story-lines worth following. Just don't go out buying anything DC and assume it'll be awesome, like you used to be able to do. But hey, keep an eye out for Scott Snyder and Greg Capullo, 'cause they've got it going on with this new Batman!

Click on the picture to check out Comics Alliance's review...

A 7 year-old gets it... Now why can't DC?

2011-09-28T08:08:00.000-07:00

DC is sexing up their female superheroes in this big "reboot" deal, and it's pretty much disgusting. One journalist (from io9.com) recently decided to interview her 7 year-old comic-fan daughter about it. And this girl hits it home!

"[Starfire] is not doing anything... I mean, grown-ups can wear what they want, but she's not doing anything but wearing a tiny bikini to get attention... I want her to be a hero, fighting things and being strong and helping people... Because she's what inspires me to be good."

Maybe DC should hire her as the chief editor. Good stories and strong characters sell comics - not sex and digitization.

Click on the picture below to read full article...

Cons and Piracy

2011-09-23T14:25:00.001-07:00

Raging monkeys. That's what the news tells us, but we all know better. There are icebergs the size of Texas melting just north of us, the Middle-east has bombs, Japan is buried in a cloud of radio-action, and Yahoo is malfunctioning. Eat your heart out, Cronkite - it ain't monkeys...

A boy of eight, with bottle-cap glasses and a cowlick, sits patiently on the floor with notepad in hand. He listens carefully to the reports coming in and makes chicken-scratch notes to himself about inflection and word-usage.

What began as simple curiosity spawned into a full-fledged conspiracy theory. The boy noticed how news casters spoke in a timbre and phrasing uncommon to everyday dialogue and he wished to understand. Upon further examination, he realized that half of what they said was lies and one could decipher between truth and lie just by listening closely to the delivery.

So he listens.

"Chaddeus," his mother whispers, poking her head out from the kitchen. "It's a little too loud, dear. Could you turn it down, please? Your father's trying to read the paper."

She's sweet and her husband is a wise man, but they don't always understand their son. Chaddeus is much nerdier than either of them ever were in their school days, and they'll always be a bit soar that he never makes the JV baseball team. But that is, in all fairness, due partially to the fact that he never makes it to high school.

Chaddeus becomes so skilled in discerning truth and lie by speech patterns, that he begins to dissect the lessons taught at school. He finds that the majority of basic math is in fact not so basic, if accurate at all. He debunks half of the English language, not on principle, but based solely on how unconvincingly Ms. Wilcomb teaches it. But the problem comes when he starts calling the bluff of his history teacher. Little does he know, Mr. Richmaldt is actually a retired CIA operative with old friends in the Pentagon. When Chaddeus begins questioning Mr. Richmaldt on who Glen Miller really was and what really happened to Amelia Earhart, the Pentagon starts asking questions of their own. And when the boy figures out the Yahoo fluke isn't a fluke at all, they start bugging his house.

"Reports confirm that the Yahoo issue is attributed to a virus from raging monkeys. The monkeys recently escaped from an undisclosed mid-west testing facility, and their infection has spread now even to the interwebs. God help us."

Chaddeus doesn't buy it. Too deliberate a phrasing, breathing too steady for the subject at hand. The reporter either doesn't realize what he's saying, or he knows it's all bullshit. But what's the real story. Chaddeus starts listening to more stations and more reporters. One reoccurring theme he finds - sources are never revealed.

"Reports confirm," but what reports? Whose reports? Chaddeus starts poking around other media outlets. Newspapers, public speakers, political activists, musicians. Everyone's talking about it, so there's plenty of voices to listen to. And what does he find, but that the further up the food-chain he goes, the guiltier the voices sound. It goes all the way to the top, he decides. Beyond the President and even past the UN.

The answer comes from an awareness video released shortly after the whole issue begins. An Irish man with whiskers and purple-tinted glasses sits beside his MacBook Pro and delivers a heart-wrenching message of hope and change in spite of technological adversity. His band's music low in the background only accents the already over-emotional sentiments, guaranteeing every viewer will be in tears by the end of the three-minute blurb. It also guarantees the band will sell another ten million CDs in the next week and a half. But Chaddeus watches the video, and listens carefully, and is not subdued or swayed in the least. He sees the lie for what it is and, what's more, sees the man for what he is...

Bono is to blame.

Tem's Ballroom

2011-09-16T22:30:00.000-07:00

His left wrist twitches within its sleeve. The tailor-made suit hangs loose on Tem's shoulders and boosts his confidence as he slinks through the crowd of champagne and diamonds. There are a hundred women in this room, all of them beautiful and charming. There are a hundred men too, but soon there will be one less.

Tem shifts his eyes to study the lives of each guest as they laugh the night away, and his gate – creeping – goes unnoticed among them. He never hides in the shadows; shadows are conspicuous. No, he chooses to hide in plain view, lingering in and out of conversations and taking single sips of his wine at each pause. A smooth Cabernet, room temperature. Just as he likes it. He holds it casually between the fingers of his right hand, churning it gently.

A blonde woman in furs touches his back as she passes by, sending shivers up his spine. The shiver reminds him of a saxophone he once heard in the war, but he's brought back by a conversation that catches his interest. It is an argument between a nearby couple. They bicker quietly, to not disturb the rest of the party, but the affair grows heated and Tem steps closer to get a better listen. The mistress is disappointed in her sir's choice of tie, while he dismisses the whole matter. As she presses him, he becomes more distant; and the more distant he becomes, the more irate she becomes. The sir attributes it to her drinking problem. She pounds on his chest, sobbing.

Tem stands inches from the scene and stares at the mistress' tears as they soak into the very tie she loathes. He takes a sip of his wine and turns to survey the room. A group of fellows, five of them, stand in a circle and share jokes with one another. Their square jaws stretch like cartoons, Tem is reminded of Tex Avery, as they laugh at the crass punchlines. He approaches and considers laughing along. Instead, he just listens and sips from his glass. The jokes are only slightly funny but seem to be the by-product of some story Tem had missed before and so thus misses the true humor as well. His left wrist twitches again and now he finds his chin dropping a bit toward his chest. Perhaps his mouth finds the jokes funnier than his conscience does and is trying to laugh without him. He takes another sip to calm his nerves and moves on before losing more control of his body to the snare of jest. As he sneaks away, however, one of the men takes a hold of his arm and asks him why he's leaving. Tem, astonished, responds in broken words his reasons for being at the party in the first place. He is here to blend in, to move among the guests, to finish his wine and then assassinate a gentleman. His claims are drowned out by the man, who insists it is Tem's turn to tell a joke. The group of five turn their focus to Tem and wait for his delivery. Tem feels his throat go dry and he sips again at his glass. It only buys him a few seconds and he finds himself again at a loss before the audience. He realizes the whole room has grown quiet and everyone is waiting to hear him speak. They are on bated breath and their wide eyes burn into the back of his neck. The man still holds tightly to his arm and the grip seems tighter than before.

Well, he begins. I do know one joke...

He first explains its origin – he learned it from his father many years ago. He warns that it is lewd and may offend some of the women, but he reassures them that it is a funny one.

They wait.

Well, he begins again. There was this Jewish man and...

But before he reaches the punchline, a woman out of sight calls his name. The crowd parts to reveal the blonde woman who earlier touched his back. She sits on a stool at the bar twenty yards from where Tem stands in his unwelcomed spotlight. She speaks to him as if he is the only other person in the room besides herself, and he listens to her in the same way. Her voice is dark and warm, and her gypsy green eyes pierce his soul from across the room. His left wrist twitches again and and his feet carry him convulsively toward the woman. He tries to fight them, but it's no use – he's lost control of his feet and now his chin begins to go again too. The man has released his arm, but now Tem reaches for him as a ship to an anchor. The man pushes away with a whimper and cowers behind the group of jesters, now just snickering shamefully.

Tem looks miserably at the hiding man for a moment and then gives into the direction of his shuffling feet. His left wrist twitches more rapidly now and he tucks it into his chest to hopefully steady it. Ten yards from the woman. She gazes cooly into his eyes as he moves closer. He can't look away, can't break her eye-contact. He swears she has him under some spell. She has the whole room under a spell, he decides. She's gorgeous, but she's a witch. He could never love a witch. Witches are evil.

As he passes people, like a wave, they go back to their conversations as if nothing has happened. The only person still acknowledging him is them woman. Five yards, three, one. He leans against the bar and asks her rudely what she wants with him. His opinion of her has done a total 180º from when she first touched his back, but she laughs like an old friend and bites her lip. She points out that his glass is almost empty.

Tem glances down to see for himself. He swirls around the shallow puddle in the glass, hanging loosely between his metallic fingers. The two hooks shine handsomely under the chandeliers, but leave little nicks in the stem of the wine glass. Tem sighs at the scratches as he kicks back the last of the red liquid, room temperature. He opens the hooks and leaves the glass there. The woman places a hand on his back again and he wants to pull away, but his body won't let him. She whispers her vixen words into his ear and leads him to his bed. He follows limply, like a dummy by his puppeteer. She reminds him that his bed is by the window because he likes to count the stars. He half-nods and lays down on the cold, gray cot. She covers him with a blue fleece, points to out the barred window toward Orion's Belt, and says goodnight. And Tem is already up to thirty-two stars by the time the blonde woman returns to her desk to update her charts.

Two extremes: pt 2

2011-08-26T14:01:00.000-07:00

I have been pondering the strange dichotomy the moon presents us in the realm of the love. Let's look at two men attempting to woo their women, and doing so by promising them the impossible.

First, we have Jimmy Stewart's George Baily in the 1946 film "It's A Wonderful Life". He is walking Ms. Mary Hatch (portrayed by the beautiful Donna Reed) home after a school-dance-gone-pool-party. And my, how he waxes eloquent in that quiet neighborhood.

"What is it you want, Mary? What do you want? You want the moon? Just say the word and I'll throw a lasso around it and pull it down. Hey, that's a pretty good idea. I'll give you the moon, Mary... then you could swallow it and it would all dissolve, see? And the moonbeams would shoot out of your fingers and your toes, and the ends of your hair and..."

He then pauses in that way only Jimmy Stewart can, and asks Mary if he's talking too much. Well, apparently Tom Waits thought he was. In fact, Mr. Waits thought his whole plan was just way too involved. Sure, it's poetic but let's just cut the crap, honey! At least that's what I understand from his notable "Black Rider" album.

"I'll shoot the moon right out of the sky for you, baby."

Two extremes

2011-08-04T08:27:00.000-07:00

I am sick today, and so I am doing what all modern-day sick people do. I'm surfing the web aimlessly. And I've come upon two major news bulletins - one awesome and the other... not so much. The first thing I found was the debut single from the upcoming album "IV" by Maylene and the Sons of Disaster. All I can say is this album will kick your face in and you will like it! These guys have never let me down and I'm proud of them for producing yet another great work to add to their spotless track record.

So I naturally felt like I was on a winning streak here and, with this new song in my head, I continued to comb the web for news. And lo and behold, what did I find but the first look at Zack Snyder's new Superman incarnate. Now mind you, this is Zack Snyder, so I'm not expecting greatness... in fact, I'm expecting a plastic, bastardized take on an untouchable icon. And that's exactly what we're getting - impractical snakeskin/pleather suit, rubber props, and no Superman curl. Essentially, what was once a true hero, and a brilliant work of art and story-telling is being "revamped" by the acclaimed film-ruiner. This will no doubt fall into the horrible mold of his last (how many films has he made? oh right...) 5 films - take a good idea and then throw in a ton of bad acting, bad CGI, big explosions (already proven by the photo), sweaty men, and naked women. Oh and don't forget the slow-motion...

Fortunately, all is not lost because I still have Maylene to make my day!

Aquaman

2011-06-26T18:30:00.000-07:00

o' Captain, my Captain

2011-06-22T07:43:00.000-07:00

I spend weekends often with my friend Charles. We met years ago in a coffee shop and have been fast friends since. He is wise and bitter, comical and grumpy, kind and crude. All the things that make up a great character. Maybe he'll show up in a story one day. Until then, we'll continue to play Backgammon and discuss conspiracy theories and theology.

Liddell wisdom

2011-06-18T20:06:00.001-07:00

Eric Liddell once said "God made me fast... and when I run, I feel His pleasure." I know God made me with many gifts, but I'm currently trying to realize that pleasure. Do I feel His pleasure when I write, when I counsel, when I play harmonica, when I record? I don't know. What does His pleasure feel like? Is it when you sense those gifts developing freely? Inspiration and joyous drive, maybe. I will continue to pray that the Lord make Himself and His pleasure known to me and evident in my life, so that I can place my focus where it is most pleasing to Him.

Observations and Conversations

2011-04-16T11:25:00.001-07:00

"The house was large but the room she invited Libor into was diminutive, almost like a room in a doll's house. There were prints on the walls of rural scenes. Shepherds and shepherdesses. And a collection of porcelain thimbles on the mantelpiece. She was too tall for the room, Libor thought. She had to fold herself almost into three in order to fit into her chair. Her height made Libor feel foolish. Even with both of them sitting down he had to look up at her." - segment from Jacobson's The Finkler Question

direction

2011-04-13T10:05:00.000-07:00

I just helped a man find the bathroom. Yes, I have been here before.

Below the Face of Heaven

2011-04-05T13:49:00.000-07:00

Last night, a great thing happened. Sky met earth in a twist of fatal violence, and anyone with ears to hear heard it. And anyone with eyes to see, let him see its wake today - not only across the ravaged land, but just as much so in the heavens. As I drove to camp this morning, I couldn't help but notice the clouds moving overhead. They were battered and bruised. Yet they still stood mighty and moved gracefully through the ocean above, like war-torn ships treading the coast of nations they just conquered. A ragged dog returning home through the alleyway after a fight. He's limping and bloody, but still not to be reckoned with. Yes, the clouds still moved with strides higher than our own.

This afternoon, as I was driving home, I decided to try my hand at a bit of cloud-bursting. It took some time and a great deal more patience than I really had to offer. The cloud I focused in on was small, as I am by no means an expert of this art and I didn't want to get in over my head so early in the game. And though it was small, it was a feisty bugger. He dodged this way and that, ducking behind trees and hiding behind the rear-view mirror. But I wouldn't give up and eventually it gave way into pieces. Proud of myself, I moved on to another of about the same size. Look at me, picking on these little runt clouds, a mouse bullying the armor-bearers. This one held onto its shape with more vigor, but ultimately fell apart as well. And so my pride grew even more and I began to think myself greater than the clouds, that I could perhaps be their king. The vanity of insects. But this was not a long-lived thought as my second victim disappeared into blue, for behind him loomed a cumulus army that filled the sky in ranks spanning as far as my pitiful cloud-bursting eye could see. Oh God, I was terrified! What a fool I was to think I could even come close to challenging these white and gray masses who fly higher and perceive more than I could ever imagine.

And then there's the God who made them...

Here come the King Bats!

2011-04-04T13:17:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking a lot lately about The Princess Bride. Maybe it's time to go back and read it again.

The children lose their minds.

2011-03-25T15:22:00.000-07:00

Upon hearing the newest song today by Margot & the Nuclear So and So's, I began writing a response song to their singer. Richard Edwards has been one of my favorite songwriters for nearly a decade. His brutal honest and poetic touch make a lot of sense to me. Even when I don't agree with him, I understand where he's coming from and appreciate it. And this is the case with his new song, but this one breaks my heart. Its chorus says...

"Fire from the sky.He wants to know your shoe size,
And all the weird shit in your brain.
He's gonna wash it away with blood.
But Jesus breaks your heart every night when he doesn't come."

It makes me so sad, that someone would feel this way. He's missing so much Truth and Love and Joy and Peace!!! And if this is what he's carefully, protectively writing into his songs, how much more is in his heart?

Margot is playing in Carborro in May and I'm praying for an opportunity to speak with him, talk to him about who Jesus really is. Please be praying with me about this. What a battle we're in here, and our General is calling us to put on the Armor and go into action for the souls of our brothers and the glory of God. The fight is not against flesh and blood, or the barbiturates and alcohol there within. The fight is not against Richard Edwards. It's against the enemy, the bastard that's got a hold of him so tightly. As I said, I began writing a response song and here's the start of it...

"Your house is burning down, my friend, from the inside out.
And I can't blame the matches or the gas.
Did you bring home the bonfire from church camp way back then,
Or find it in the basement where she lied?
'Cause your house is burning down, my friend, from the inside out
And you're just laying there in your bed."

But the enemy will not hold on for long. He simply can't, because the Lord is stronger, His love is greater, and His hand is bigger. Praise God, from whom all blessings flow! He sets the captives free!

Barista love song on a dreary day

2011-03-05T10:17:00.000-08:00

I think I'll die here, sitting in this chair, sipping this cup of coffee. Any day now, this disheveled ceiling above me will collapse and that disheveled barista will go down with me, and it'll be tonight. We're the only two in this little place and that's probably best. She'll never know how shitty the coffee really is and how much I hate coffee anyway, and she'll never know how shoddy this construct really is until the beloved patchwork ceiling falls in on us and our hearts will bleed out of our heads onto the unexpecting floor. Tonight is a night of truth. Reason ran out long ago and love is what chased it off. What have I said to her? “I'd like this drink.” And what has she said to me? “That's my favorite.” A quick “It's ready” and “Thanks” and our lives were done crossing. But I love her, not for the drink and not for her charm (not her strongest suit anyway). She's not sure when to smile, she's still getting the hang of the service, and the cash register doesn't seem to like her. But she's what I know in this moment, she's my familiar, the priestess of my sanctum on this rainy day and lonely night. She is my sister, my mother, my daughter, my lover, my friend. My barista. At least for tonight and at least until we die. She puts her hair up and wipes down the counter, she's forgotten I'm here and I've lost track of time. I stand and walk toward the door, keeping an eye on the ceiling. A crack forms and follows me as I move. She's not paying attention. The door is 5 feet away... now 4... 3. The crack moves jaggedly along overhead and flakes fall onto my shoulders and onto her counter. She wipes it down again without question and says, “Goodnight” to who I can only assume is me. I nod and push the door open and enter the cool, wet night and all of its darkness.

What went wrong? Maybe next time.

outrunning clouds

2011-02-25T11:35:00.000-08:00

Driving to the camp this morning, and these shadows kept crossing the highway and passing over the van. It's a sunny day and there's clouds everywhere, moving through the sky like the children of Israel through the wilderness. I couldn't help but find it funny, watching these shadows move with the wind. Sometimes it even looked like they were racing us from overhead. And they moved fast, but we were faster. Every time.

Clouds fascinate me.

soul so thick...

2011-02-24T12:33:00.000-08:00

Back at DeBeen this afternoon, and catching up on blogs. My two favorites are from missionaries - my sister Connie updates from Indiana and my friend Kate updates from Nicaragua. They're both teaching and living among those they serve. They have so much love to pour out onto a hurting world, and their hearts come through the updates they share with us at home. It doesn't hurt that they're both wonderful writers and have brilliantly poetic outlooks on life. I told a friend recently that we all have our own great stories and adventures, and some people just have the gift to tell theirs better than others. Doesn't make one greater than the other. And then I look at my own life, not to compare myself to these two amazing women, but to put it into perspective. Am I where I'm supposed to be, and am I making the most of it? Because sometimes I wonder.

What is my life? I often feel these days like I'm in that "starving artist" phase of my life. Like this is all just fodder for a good book/movie someday. I mean, to my name I have a record player and an Atari in a bachelor pad that I share with an OCD youth pastor with a master's degree, and a cat who's as confusing as the book he's named after (Finnegans Wake). My days are spent hanging out on a farm with 13 (currently) ex-addicts who just want to get right with God. I listen to their stories and thoughts, pray with them, laugh with them, and break bread with them. And when I'm not there, I'm at DeBeen reading, writing, making up drink combinations and naming them. This is my life and it's alright with me. Sure, I'm single and unemployed and the lack of such things sometime leaves me at a loss. And my George Bailey itch to skip town is ever-nagging. But I'm living in God's will and that makes it all right, doesn't it?

I'm sitting here, listening to The Urban Sophisticates low in headphones. Low enough to still hear all that's going on around me. Rob runs the coffee orders, smooth jazz whirs on nearby, he greets her, she smiles, kids play behind me, newspapers shift, chairs slide with a scratch, more coffee, scissors, she goes out for a smoke, door opens and shuts again. And The Urban Sophs blend with it all like a soundtrack to life. "I can see Jesus smile and there's not a better feeling." Yeah, I'm where I'm supposed to be. It's not just a limbo period, not just fodder. It's a life and it's wonderful.

Print – The End ofa Legend by Kevan Chandler

2011-02-22T12:16:00.001-08:00

It was shallow, but unmistakable. A slight sink in the red dirt, ridges running through the middle like dams along an empty river. He stood motionless before it, nearly afraid to cross this little Jordan in the road. The heel of the indention was deepest, and the stream of blood from his chest dripped to the ground and trickled its way into the canal. Blood flows differently from other liquids, he thought as he watched his own fill the space. And whose boot made this mark? And when? A lone traveler like himself, not long ago but long enough that they'll never meet along this road or in this life. Still, there was a print. A foot print that held in its sole a thousand stories and more promises than that. He dropped to his knees before the memorial of life and hope. His weight sent a ripple skipping through the thin, crimson puddle as his knees hit the dirt. He watched as it settled again, and the dust around it too. Then he reached to his right with a cupped hand and moved a scoop of earth across the divide, covering the track. Hope. Is it worth the life it inspires? His chest continued to bleed.

Come away! Come Away!

2011-02-16T14:24:00.000-08:00

Peter Pan, one of fiction's greatest tragic heroes...

one too many mornings

2011-02-10T10:39:00.000-08:00

Day #4 at DeBeen Espresso, and today is a Bob Dylan kind of day. I have my headphones cranked, Dylan picks away and sings to me, and I get lost in the half-melodies and rhymes. But then he breaks in with harmonica. I say "break" because it's so much louder than anything else in the recording, and my knee-jerk response is to tap F11 (volume down) a couple times for the duration. After a few songs, I realized what I was doing and scolded myself. That was the mix he wanted, the dynamics desired of the creator, so that's what I'm gonna listen to and appreciate. Putting it that way gets me thinking about the perfect will of God and my place in all of that. I'm not going to sit here and tell you that the world is running exactly as God would like. I don't think he ever wanted hunger, sex trafficking, and abortion, and I can't tell you why he allows it to go on. But what I do know is that he is good and he still holds this pit of chaos in the palms of his hands. He knows what he's doing. He has a plan and it will happen, come Hell or high water. I mean... high water already happened, and he's still on the thrown, isn't he? So I take comfort in this, and I hold onto hope of his sovereignty. And I leave the volume of my faith just where it is, despite the loudness swallowing this world and crashing through the caverns of my head, because I know it's his mix and he knows what he's doing.

There Ain't No Grave

2010-12-31T12:15:00.000-08:00

Some of the things listed below fit into the "Best of..." category, while others make up the "Worst of..." category. My commentary should make this clear. But either way, the following list is of the things that left the greatest impression on me this past year.

Movies:
1. Shutter Island was the last movie I ever saw for free (legally, anyway) at Carmike Theatres. It came out Feb 19, and Carmikes nationwide decided to stop letting handicaps in for free on Feb 26. It was a decent movie, and whether or not Scorsese meant to, it gave us the first really legit image of Batman's Arkham Asylum.
2. Inception blew my mind, as it did to the rest of mankind. The Matrix of this generation, I'd say, in that I left the theatre questioning reality. No other movie can touch it on so many levels. Plus I got to see it in IMAX with four of my favorite people!
3. Get Low was underrated by the media. A classy, well-paced film with an ending that leaves you meditating on God's forgiveness.
4. Despicable Me was the single funniest movie of the year! It fills me with joy every time... and I've seen it enough times to be sure of that.
5. Scott Pilgrim vs the World was the most highly anticipated film for me since TDK, and it ended up just about as epically. I know it's a dumb comicbook movie with bright colors and loud music, but I honestly connected with it. I mean, the plot and characters, the point of it all, everything just made sense to me. Plus Edgar Wright is the man!
6. Social Network was much more than I expected. David Fincher is hit/miss for me (Se7en - yes... Benjamin Button - ummm...), but this time I think he hit a home-run. The soundtrack (courtesy of Trent Rezner and Atticus Ross) was brilliant, and the acting was grade-A. Most of all, the story was so well laid out that I found myself emotionally caught up in it. For a week afterward, I considered deleting my Facebook account because of all the corruption involved.
7. Survival of the Dead was sobering proof that - just because you are the Godfather of zombie films, doesn't mean everything you touch is gold. Keep your wits about you, Romero, and don't let the greatness go to your head.

Music:
1. Johnny Cash's "American Recordings VI: Ain't No Grave" is the definitive album of this generation in America. Sure, Cash has been dead for several years, but the genius of Rick Reuben has kept his spirit alive and music relevant to the ever-changing culture. As a result, we have the age old message of strength and hope accompanied by equally raw and true music of Cash's soul.
2. Maylene & the Sons of Disaster released the Deluxe Edition of "III" and proved to be just a nice reminder of how awesome they really are!
3. Jack White followed George A. Romero's lead this year with The Dead Weather's "Sea of Cowards", which was pure disappointment to me. I wish I knew the man personally so that I could discern whether he's cocky or just plumb out of good ideas.
4. Showbread's "Who Can Know It?" was a breath of fresh air, and a clear sign of their freedom from the tyranny of T&N. Truth through-and-through, BOLD TRUTH! And they showed us that confidence is not in attitude, but conviction.
5. "Buzzard", the 3rd... or 4th (depending on who you ask) full-length album from Margot & the Nuclear So and So's, was a shock to the system. Much grittier than their previous albums, their Weezer and Nirvana roots were made especially evident. Every once in a while, I like music (the mix, the lyrics, the... music) that makes me uncomfortable in a way, and Margot delivered. I've referred to this band time and time again as "my cruel mistress", in that it's awkward and rough but I can't get enough. When I first listened through this album, I thought "this could be a hit, mainstream pop-rock album... if it was a better mix and he used a different distortion pedal," and then I caught myself... THAT'S THE POINT! RICHARD EDWARDS, YOU'RE A GENIUS!
6. Mumford & Sons were introduced to the... whole world with the release of the debut full-length "Sigh No More"... and there was much rejoicing...
7. I saw a band last December called Paper Tongues, and thought "who the heck names their band Paper Tongues?" A freaking good band, that's who! Their debut album dropped a month or 2 later and was very instrumental in keeping Jantzen and I awake on the road at 3:00 AM this summer.

Books (read):
1. G.K. Chesterton's "Manalive" made me feel... not so alone in my logic. It also brought more understanding of worldview, priorities, and relationship dynamics. When I get engaged, I plan to ask my fiance to read it... maybe we'll read it together.
2. "Fiddler's Gun" was the debut publication from A.S. Peterson and it was an encouragement to me concerning modern literature. I can't wait to read more from him!
3. Four months ago, I had no idea who Walter Wangerin, Jr. was. Now I am scrambling to find as much from him as I can. "The Book of the Dun Cow" was especially great to me, redefining the "Beast Fable" genre and restoring the classic truth of good overcoming evil, though not without pain and struggle.
4. My Spanish teacher in college gave me Cormac McCarthy's "The Road" and I have just gotten around to reading it, three years later. I'm not finished with it yet, but I feel a connection to the father and I take comfort in his character. He is a weak man, dying in fact, and broken by a terrible world, but he has a boy to protect and so he pushes himself to do so... against all odds.

Memories:
1. The beginning of March, Vineyard and I took a weekend in Nashville. We stayed with the Goodman family, and Zach and Abbie joined us there. We went to Waterdeep's acoustic CD release show, and got to see our old friend Roman. It was a refreshing weekend of good family and dear friends. At the end of the month, Vineyard and I reunited with Zach and Abbie in Kentucky to record some epic musics. Road-tripping with Vineyard and recording with Zach are two of my favorite things in the world, so this was a weekend in Heaven.
2. Later that spring, Danny and Heather got married... finally! Just a great time of celebration, and very fond memories that may not be discussed outside of bachelor party circles.
3. July found me on the road with my friend Jantzen, and we followed Maylene and a ton of other bands on their Scream The Prayer tour. We met them in Charlotte and ended up in Orlando after a few shows and saw/heard/experienced so many crazy things, on stage and off. We met some really amazing people and learned so much through conversation and prayer. Jantzen and I left Orlando and spent the rest of the week in Ft. Lauderdale, where my most cherished memory occurred - my last visit with Uncle Jud. I spent 6 hours, sitting with him in his living room, talking about life, love, and Jesus. That visit was the culmination of my 5 years with him as my mentor. I will always hold dear that day and our time together.
4. In August, my cousin Curtis got married. So Vineyard and I packed up the ol' Charred Monkey and hit the road again, this time to Ontario for a whole week. We stayed with Curtis = awesome! We surprised my dear cousin Sam. Seeing her dance around the van in sheer joy = awesome! Beat my uncle Colin in Blockus (though he would claim otherwise) = awesome! Saw Scott Pilgrim opening day with Sam, Vineyard, and Connie = awesome! Recorded with Sam = really awesome! And Curt and Val got married = best awesome ever!
5. In September, my friend Reba and I ventured to the top of a parking deck in downtown Winston. We could see the city for miles, and we ate jell-o and played shadow puppets. Good times all around.
6. Over the autumn, my amazing sister Connie entertained Reba and I with a Choose Your Own Adventure story about a girl who talks to crows. Need I say more?! It is a story not yet finished, still in progress, and I can't wait to see where it ends us up.
7. November was a really difficult month for a lot of reason, but the biggest part was saying goodbye to Uncle Jud. He fell ill and just couldn't make the recovery. His daughter Jenni wrote to me and said, "I think his great heart is giving out." I spoke/prayed with him the night before he died, which was a blessing. The next weekend, I went down to Ft. Lauderdale for the memorial service. I could write a book about the things he taught me in these five years, and another book on all that went on in my heart and mind that weekend alone.
8. Most recently, Orson Scott Card did a book-signing at B&N right up the street from my house, and my friend Eran and I went to meet him. We ended up talking with him for over half an hour and I learned so many things about writing and publication. He turned out to be a really neat guy and I hope to meet him again some day.

Also this year, I began renting a house with my good buddy Thomas and have been counseling at a drug/alcohol rehab camp. Thomas has been a perfect house-mate, patient as allgetout with me, and I love counseling. Life is... well, I'm not sure what to say of life - it's unpredictable, up and down, emotionally draining and reviving all at the same time, nothing is certain... but God... God is good, and that's what matters, isn't it?

And by the way, it's the first time in my 24-year life that I haven't been scratching desperately to get out of North Carolina.

Soup with Grandpa, Part 2

2010-12-22T19:28:00.000-08:00

The soup was more broth than anything else, and it rippled on his shaky spoon as he raised it to his mouth. By the time it reached the gaping hole, most of the contents had sloshed off so that numerous puddles of seasoned water collected on the table between points A and B. With each bite, though, he seemed surprised at the loss along the way. Not necessarily disgusted, just taken aback as if he didn't expect it. One would assume that after... nevermind.

He seemed surprised, yes, and then he would shrug and enjoy the remaining bite anyway. No one at fault. No one to blame. Just another spoon of soup. He would also recall something of old with each bite, and a single "humph" sort of chortle would rise from somewhere behind his chin. Eventually I asked about it, what he was fondly reminded of.

"My wife," he said proudly between swallows. She was an amazing cook, as I recalled.

"Did she used to make this for you?" I asked, and he burst into uncontrolled laughter.

"No, boy!" he managed between gasps of air. "She hated it, the smell, taste, color... all, all of it! I remember her eyes rolling as she leave the house because of this when I make it. So charming she was in those moments."

They loved each other and worked through every problem together. Like one unit, they depended on each other totally. When he returned from war, when she lost her job, when my uncle committed suicide, when my sister grew ill, when I was born with complication. They were the solid rock that stayed strong and held onto one another. And oh how they romanced one another through the years! But this... a soup. He would insist on it and she would leave the house to escape it. And even this, seven years after her passing, made him joyous at a thought of her. This is love.

Sound – The End ofa Legend by Kevan Chandler

2010-12-12T21:16:00.000-08:00

“Step off m'land, ya sorry sack o' rusty shit, or feel the burn o' my piece.”

They were the first words he'd heard from another mouth in nearly a decade, bubbling like vomit from between the teeth of an old straw hat and denim. He stumbled back a bit at the sound and took it in like cool water rushing over his body. The raggedy man in front of him, crouching with shotgun ready, looked confused for a moment but then straightened again. There was tension here, with pride nearby. But the land was dry and dusty, with dead trees to match the rest of the world. Nothing worth a threat or a drop of blood. He gazed dumbfounded at the raggedy man in silence, unable to respond himself but hoping for more words to come. Never mind that they were wretched curses. They were words, and they were beautiful. Like a symphony from a phonograph. Better. In person. He stood hunched and dazed, savoring the fresh memory in his cracked and lonely ears. The words, coughed and scratchy, echoed behind his eyes and he closed them to get closer to the quickly aging sound. He found himself inside a chamber of darkness, replaying the words over and over and over and... they fell apart a little with each echo so that eventually all he heard was sound, words inarticulate. But indulged still he did, and would have forever, until he was brought back by a heavy click. Then an all-too-familiar sound, like thunder crashing, and all fell silent within himself and without.

But I Remember the Escapeby Kevan Chandler

2010-12-01T12:33:00.000-08:00

Concentration camps are not comfortable places, unless you're insane like Villiam Troth. He'd been there longer than any of us and was quite happy with wandering aimlessly through the compound day-in and day-out. He knew those grounds better than the back of the right hand he'd lost when he first arrived. They say he was a feisty bastard and tried to resist, but one swift slice robbed him of his hand and his sanity. He wasn't quite to the state of drooling; the guards joked that they'd keep him around as long as he didn't drool. His friends carried handkerchiefs, just in case. Troth wasn't in enough of a right mind to want escape for himself, but he was the only one who knew the grounds well enough to pull it off. So how, for the sake of the rest of us, would we get him to help? It wasn't as difficult as we expected. One of the children just asked him and he told her. A break in the wire on the southern fence and a spare transport van at the east gate behind the barracks. Send sprinters through the fence, load women and children into the van floorboards. No one else mattered. Those who knew they wouldn't make it were to rebel and divert the guards. Our plan was set and we spread word of a date and time. And what about Troth? No answer. Just a smile of insanity and oh look a new leaf! Poor man. The night before we left, they beat him for fun and it was impossible to tell whether he was laughing or crying.

Fat Isaiah Mulligan was the first to be gunned down, but we had three through the break by then. They spread out in the field, and four more were crawling through to freedom right behind them. Barracks #12 and #17 were set ablaze by the rebels, and an army of screaming, half-naked geezers and gimps flooded over the struggling guards. Women and children made their way to the transport van, hidden from the riot in the yard, and began carefully loading into the floorboards. Two older men went down in the violence, but they proved their worth and the guards were well distracted. A guard finally fell in the onslaught, which only further fueled the other guards and they redoubled their efforts against us.

There were at least twenty out of the camp on foot and home-free when the snipers started in. Shots from a tower have a different echo than shots from the ground. Those twenty were dead before their faces hit the grass underfoot, and all was still and silent in the field within seconds. Then they turned their attention to the east gate, grinding open across the camp. It was either the squeaking of the gate's hinges or the revving of the van's engine, but the women and children were found out. First, the tires were blown. Then open-fire on the windows was unleashed until the vehicle was barely recognizable and there was no chance of life within it. A few rebels were still putting up a fight until the snipers finished them off.

Stronny Dalshen was the last to fall, finally giving in to six bullets and decapitation. He was always a tough soul. Brave. Hopeful. Some say it was due to his deafness – he wasn't swayed by the lies and curses spoken, or the gunshots echoing from towers above.

But what about Troth? Poor man. The night before we left, they beat him for fun and it was impossible to tell whether he was laughing or crying. No one could say when his wailing died out that night, and no one saw him the next day. The day of the escape. But there was no blood fresh on the beating post at sunrise and his bowl of broth went cold at the splintered table of lunch. And as those twenty sprinters raced against whizzing bullets southward, a single track of half-crushed grass lead northward. Drool dampened the staggered path toward the mountains of spring and peace, and so did a sound like laughing or crying.

The Death of a Black Suction Bugby Kevan Chandler

2010-11-20T12:35:00.000-08:00

His crooked legs stretched out on either side of his sleek body. The shelf was dusty, but he was fresh, recently making his bed atop the black and white magazines. His death bed. He was belly up and lying still as a stone. He was not at eye-level. He didn't want to be at eye-level. He was always a loner. But this way, who knows how long he would go without being noticed! Which would normally be okay, but not on your death bed. How long would he go?

He would go unnoticed until the blonde, pigtailed seven year-old came tottering in with her mother. Her mother was a business woman, classy to the nines. But she liked artsy coffee shops, and so did the little girl. Her mother liked them because they were an easy escape from the recycled-air offices she flew in and out of all day. The little girl liked them because she always found the oddest things in the smallest corners. She, as it turns out, was at that sort of eye-level what caught sight of all the normally unnoticed things. In this case, she spotted our dead friend, belly up and unmoving to the nines.

Her mother ordered a peculiar drink that sounds much better than it tastes, I assure you. And while the transactions took place of money and drink (there may or may not have been a muffin involved), the little girl poked her head into the shelf where he lay in peace. She didn't dare touch him at first, one must ask permission before poking beyond shelves. But she did stare, and marveled at his body. For you see, as I told you before, he was belly up, but his belly was not that of normalcy. With this in mind, and recognizing his lack of life, she reached out a finger and poked him. Sure enough, he was a bug. A grasshopper, she concluded from a study of his wings and face. And another poke confirmed he was a toy bug of the plastic family. His belly bore a suction and he more than likely enjoyed using it because it was flat, as if pressed often to surfaces.

She whispered a little prayer for his suction bug soul and followed her mother to a nearby table, where she proceeded to draw crayoned pictures of him alive and well. She drew him leaping through fields and forests, swimming through waterfalls, and flying to the moon. His family came next in her drawings, a wife and a little girl suction bug (a daughter) with pigtails. And then she drew their house and showed her mother, who encouraged her with a kiss on the cheek. She concluded with a scene in Heaven and the suction bug stood before God, who was of course a cloud so far. The little girl stopped for a moment and considered the scene. Then she smiled and took to finishing the body of God. She made His arms outstretched, like the suction bug's arms on the shelf, and He was greeting the creature with a beaming embrace.

Soup with Grandpa, Part 1

2010-11-03T17:52:00.001-07:00

"Eat, my son," he mumbled excitedly in broken English. "See how well the taste!"

I choked down an unexpected kick of pepper and smiled, tears filling my eyes. My grandfather's rhetoric was the kind that only makes sense if you just skim it to get the general idea rather than lingering on details. After all, that's how his mind worked. He was a genius, simply put. Worlds of imagination raced through his mind and pulsated through his jittery fingertips at all times. He kept toothpicks in his hands to fumble with as he carried on the most whimsical conversations with anyone or anything what would listen.

Worker Ants seemed to understand him the best and he enjoyed walking alongside them as they marched to and fro. They had a daily path from beneath his front porch out to the man-hole located in the middle of the street 20 yards off, and back. And grandpa would pace with them each morning for at least 3 hours, sometimes regaling old war stories and sometimes just humming an accompaniment to their labor. One would typically whistle, yes; but humming better suits the work of ants anyway. He explained this to me once. So he hummed and they marched on to his tunes.

Absolutes

2010-10-13T14:14:00.001-07:00

The smallest bird
Is making the strangest sound
Outside my frontest door
And I'm not sure what to make of it

Hammer – The End ofa Legend by Kevan Chandler

2010-10-05T13:04:00.000-07:00

The hammer lay heavy in his grip, heavier than it had been thirty seconds earlier. Now blood dripped from its end and the gravities of life and death pulled it downward. He loosened his fingers on the tool and it thumped fast onto the carpet floor, the wooden handle bouncing to rest. Out of bullets, but at least he knew now that he could survive without them, even if he felt closer to Hell with any other weapon. His gaze swayed between the hammer and the corpse at his feet. Dead people try to eat us, so we kill them. Then comes the great war within ourselves in which reason tries to balance the scales of whether or not we are in fact murderers. This girl, for example. She was already dead, and had been for a long time before he came along and she started moving again. But a body, freshly dead or long gone, falls the same every time. He allowed himself a moment (it was all he could spare) to wonder when his time would come – when he would finally fall, and if there was anyone else left out there to wonder the same thing.

The Fishward City Dialogues: Eighteen

2010-09-26T14:25:00.000-07:00

“Wow,” joe laughed at his weary friend. “Twice in one night. This is unusual for you, man. What's the rumpus?”
“Hey, can't a guy catch a break here and there?”
“oh sure, sure. It's just that you're normally...”
Jenkis shook his head with a grin. Joe inched closer with excitement, hoping he understood the gesture.
“You mean...?”
“Yep,” Jenkis filled in with a smile. “We caught him!”
“Well, huzzah! Cheers, my friend! So, what now?”
“um...”
“I mean, you've got him locked up. So, where do things go from here?”
“um...” Jenkis' eyes shifted anywhere but towards Joe.
“Court? Life? The chair? Hey, it's gotta just feel good to have him detained!”
“yeah...” sighed Jenkis. “sure...”
Joe slouched with realization.
“you let him go...”
Jenkis leaned over the table and pressed his palms into his eye-sockets.
"I don't know,” he mumbled in response. “I guess I just had to."
"Really?" came a sweet voice from the thick air of depression that clouded the detective's mind. "No other choice?"
The dark haired waitress appeared at his side, refilling his coffee. Jenkis was startled and somewhat ashamed that he had been thinking out loud. She winked at him and patted his shoulder gently as she turned to leave. She... spoke to him. More than just Do you want eggs with that? or Have a good night! These were real, personal words.
"It's now or never, my friend," stoked joe.
Jenkis shoved away the porcelain mug and turned to stop the waitress. His stomach leapt to his chest, and his heart to his throat. But it was now or never. Good thing he'd read her name tag a thousand times.
"Kimmy!" he called after her. His voice cracked and he shrunk a bit into the booth. But she turned, visibly recovering from a giggle, and made her way back to his table. “I-uh,” he began roughly. “I'm sorry, I didn't realize I was talking to myself out loud.”
She smiled sympathetically. “It's okay. You do it every night.”
This was news to him and it showed on his face. Kimmy laughed at his shock.
“I mean, I always thought it was kind of cute,” she admitted. “Talking to inanimate objects and all. It takes imagination.”
“or just a screw-loose,” he interjected shyly. She laughed again and then began to walk back toward the kitchen. Jenkis stood to his feet and called again after her. “Hey, Kimmy!” She turned again, but stayed by the kitchen door this time, leaning casually against it's frame. A twinkle of orneriness was in her eye.
“I need to get this coffee back there before it's cold.”
“It tastes terrible either way,” he said before giving himself time to wuss out. “Trust me, that's not why I come here.”
“Really?” she fumbled.
“I was wondering if you'd wanna go out sometime,” he offered with a quivering stammer. “Maybe in the morning?”
Kimmy blushed. “I'd like that,” she said with a thoughtful nod.
Suddenly, the moment of bliss was shattered. The rookie rushed in through the front door and scanned the room for his mentor. “Boss,” he shouted without regard to the company or the vibe of the mostly-empty room. “We just got a call in, they need you on the scene stat.”
Jenkis' heartburn welled up as he formed his response with a forced smile. “Stat is a hospital term, wrong field. And what's the situation?”
“Really, in front of everybody like this?”
“Yes.”
There was a moment's hesitation from the rookie before he began. “Some guinea kids trashed the bank wherefrom we just came, frickin' putzes. One of 'em's cold and there's a cop down too. The whole place is a mess.”
Jenkis sighed and looked at Kimmy, who just shrugged and smiled.
“Hey,” she suggested with ease as she sloshed the black brine around inside its pot. “I still need to take care of this coffee.”
Her smile could calm a raging sea.
“I'll see you later then,” he said affectionately. Then turning to his side-kick, “Let's move, all-star. I've got a date to get back in time for.”
Traffic had died down in the streets while he was inside the diner. And upon stepping out onto the damp sidewalk, Jenkis considered the cool mist of the night air. A young girl selling pastries was at the corner and the smell of her artistry lingered along the whole block. Jenkis breathed it in deep.
Fishward City – maybe not such a bad place after all.

Smoke – The End ofa Legend by Kevan Chandler

2010-09-23T12:10:00.000-07:00

The hulking train rushed by, sending his coattails flapping high into the dusty air. A desolate world, and still trains ran – leftovers from conductors dying at the helms that day. They sped along like bulls through a city, until they met another or crossed rusted tracks. In the mean time, the quake they sent through the countryside reminded a dead world that time still pressed on without remorse. Its raging smoke and violent axles choked out every sense he had left, from smell to taste and everything in between. He closed his eyes and inhaled, the fumes burning through his chest; maybe they'd kill him where everyone else had failed. The black beast continued to tear through his world, deafening with every pulse, and he just stood there as smoke flooded in from all sides. Eventually, silence approached with a staggered gate and the grey settled and cleared. The weight of the rifle in his hand brought him back, his senses crawled out of hiding as his fingers curled around the cold barrel.

A Bed Time Story:of Chivalry and Snails

2010-09-21T12:23:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time, in a land of pine tree forests and other interesting attractions…

… there lived a Green Lady, and in her country it was forbidden to speak the name “Victor.” The reason for this was that the land was inhabited by tiny purple snails, who were viscous and poisonous and each one of their names was Victor. Not Victor 1 or Victor 2, Victor 85 or even Victor Alpha or Beta or C or D or whatever you want to call it. There was no way to tell them apart. It was just Victor. And if you spoke the forbidden name, you would quickly find yourself being swarmed by a plethora of mean little snails until you couldn't breathe anymore. I hear it's a very, very unpleasant experience.
Now our Green Lady was named so for a couple of reasons, the first of which was that she was obviously green in color, and she pulled it off rather well. The second reason was that every day she would walk through the pine tree forests and her smile would bring new life to the pine trees and the little plants that lived there, and they were very, very appreciative of this. And since pine trees don't smile back, all they could do was just shine more green.
One day our Green Lady was walking through said forest and she happened upon a lizard. He appeared from behind the trees and promptly introduced himself as Ralph. He took her hand and he began to tell her of all the great things he had done and all the great things he was capable of and what a great friend he would make. She was very surprised and very happy of this, as anyone is when they find a new friend. After a couple minutes of boasting about himself, he gripped her hand tighter, looked her in the eye, and with a sick smile he began to scream out the forbidden name several times. After this long breath of just the forbidden name being spoken, he darted off into the woods, never to be seen again by the Green Lady. Before she knew it, she was swarmed by the purple snails. It got to a point where she could no longer breathe. They just kept coming out of nowhere.
But from the forest, two other lizards appeared and decided to save the day. Their names were Ringo and Guatemala. And as they were running toward the Green Lady, they were singing out a song they had made up on the spot: “Ringo and Guatemala, the twoe so brave. Fear not, Green Lady! We will chase those snails away.”
Our two heroes climbed on top of the Green Lady and began to forcibly remove the snails that had piled themselves onto her. After a couple of minutes, she was finally free. They sat on the ground littered with bits and pieces of the purple snails. She smile, took a deep breath and gave it back. She thanked Ringo and Guatemala for all they had done. They looked at the Green Lady and they asked her if she would join them on their way and become their good friend. In return for her friendship, they would protect her from any snails that would ever come across her way again. And they promised and swore to her that if they ever found the lizard named Ralph, he would wind up like one of the snails. And to this she didn't really know what to say except, “Thank you.” She accepted their offer. So they went along their way, and as their new friendship was forged – her new protectors and their new friend – they were walking through the forest and they were singing this song:
“Ringo and Guatemala, the twoe so brave. Fear not, Green Lady! We will chase those snails away. Don't you ever speak that name, or suffer someone else to say what isn't theirs to say. Ringo and Guatemala, the twoe so brave. Our dear Green Lady, are you going our way?”

And feel free to buy the book here!!!

Hearst vs. The World:an alternate history you can't escape

2010-09-20T13:32:00.000-07:00

It's the mid-1920's and Adolf Hitler is rising to power in the “back alleys” of Europe – a.k.a. the remains of Germany from WWI. But no one is really concerned with him, for two reasons; first, post-war Germany is a wasteland and second, there are bigger fish in the proverbial sea right now than a Charlie Chaplain wannabe. After all, the recent assassination of the Secretary of State for the Colonies, Winston Churchill, has everyone's attention and we all know who did it but no one will talk. The New York World blames Italy and Italy takes it, because they would rather take on all of Britain than face Joseph Pulitzer himself. The editor-gone-dictator left his impression on us all in WWI, and the smoke still lingering over Germany 5 years later keeps his might fresh in our minds. Amidst all the mayhem of Churchill's demise, Hitler was able to sneak in under the radar and easily succeed at the Beer Hall Putsch, therefore never going to prison and therefore never writing Mein Kampf. Of course, his success in the potentially historical coup afforded him the position of leader over...

Meanwhile, back in the flourishing land of America (once a democracy), George Randolph Hearst wanders the streets of Pulitzer City, New York. As he passes the massive office buildings and publishing houses, he smirks tiredly at the shiny slogan overhead: Pulitzer City – Home of The World. “Freedom of speech really backfired,” he thinks to himself. Free to speak as long as it complies with what's printed in The World. People hustle and bustle by with glazed eyes and half-smiles, pretending to agree with what they read. As long as it's cheap.

In a world where the pen is indeed mightier than the sword, a young and aspiring novelist sets out to challenge the press and the god who runs it. Fortunately for him, he has a nearly one-way ticket to the top, as his father handles Mr. Pulitzer's personal property affairs from St. Louis to Portland, Maine. A few favors and cordial greetings gets 20 year-old George Hearst a desk on the 34th floor of the Pulitzer Journalism Tower, and now he must bide his time and wait for the opportune moment to make his mark.

Biggest one-liner letdowns in film: pt. 1(Spider-man 2)

2010-09-17T12:24:00.000-07:00

Let me begin by admitting, I nearly fell asleep in the theatre during Spider-man 2, which is very very rare for me. But what a bland movie! I was hoping from the trailer for some redemption in at least one scene. Of course, trailers give us all the flashy highlights, and I'm not one to be swayed by such enticements (especially after A History of Violence). But amid the craziness, this trailer also featured a line from Peter Parker which he delivers with composure and resolve.

"There are bigger things happening here than me and you."

The shot doesn't show who he's addressing, and I had my hopes. I was rooting for it to be toward MJ, who is so caught up on their teenage-drama relationship that she misses the big picture. She gets upset because he's not around or he misses dinner, but... well... HE'S SAVING THE FREAKING WORLD, LADY!! Seriously, priority-check? You're dating a superhero, these things happen! So I was ready to see her sobbing and complaining that he's leaving again - "We only have 30 minutes left of Pride and Prejudice! Can't Doc Oc wait, honey?" I'm reminded of Frozone and his wife in Pixar's The Incredibles - "Don't you even think about running off and doin' no daring-do! We been planning this dinner for two months!" And this line from our friendly neighborhood web-slinger could be just the dose of reality she (and the rest of the American female population) needed.

So, I'm sitting in the theatre and the scene comes up... and no MJ...

Peter is standing in the penthouse of rich-kid Harry Osborne, his ex-BFFF* gone arch nemesis. Harry has been eyeing MJ for a while, but everyone knows she's going for Peter and it's gotten a little too far under Harry's skin. Okay, so far in the plot, I can understand and appreciate the line fitting here. "Harry, a crazy man with giant metal octopus arms is robbing banks and tearing apart New York city. This really isn't the time to discuss girls."

But that's not all Harry's peeved about. After all, Peter did kill Harry's dad (...sort of) in the first movie. This is where it gets tricky. Because Harry is pissed, and nothing's going to shut him down from seeking revenge. And Peter misses something, apparently, because this is where the line decides to land.

"There are bigger things happening here than me and you."

Really? You killed his dad, dude! (well... sort of) And you don't think that little issue should be resolved between you two as soon as possible? If killing your best friend's dad (sort of) isn't a big thing, what the heck is?! Go get 'em, Tiger... go get 'em...

(*note: yes, BFFF is a reference to Pineapple Express, starring the same James Franco)

The Fishward City Dialogues: Seventeen(The Conversation: Pt. 2)

2010-09-15T18:42:00.000-07:00

“Curiosity is getting the better of me, I'm afraid.”
“uh oh”
“Yeah, I know. Anyway, I'd like to ask you a question, just off the cuff.”
“Must be some question.”
“... off the record.”
“Ah, finally – a real conversation! Alright, what d'ya got?”
“Forgiveness.”
“What about it?”
“What's your take on it?”
“Well, it has no place in my line of work... or yours, for that matter. A gun is unforgiving, but so is a pen. We're both murderers, Jenkis. I just have more immediate results. You sign papers to lock 'em up for life, I shoot 'em in the head. Same thing, at the end of the day. The world keeps spinning. Forgiveness has got nothing to do with it.”
“But there must be something for men like us. I mean, I know we've followed a jagged path, but we still fell from the same nest as the saints. We were carved from the same wood, formed by the same divine hand. I have to believe that this master Craftsman made us for some reason, and will still consider us in the end. And I just can't help but wonder, if repentance finds its way into our stone-cold hearts before He gets to us in line... will that change anything?”
“Careful, you're sounding like a churched man.”
“I slip in on occasion.”
“Really? I wouldn't have pegged you for the type.”
“Yeah, when I'm not playing hide-and-seek with you.”
“Fair enough.”
“But you don't wonder if there's hope for us? When you stand before your Maker...”
“Let me stop you there. One thing is certain. When that day comes, I won't be standing before anyone.”
“And why is that, Tom?”
“Because the only way I'll stop running is if I've lost my legs.”
“Fair enough.”

another zombie sketch

2010-09-11T14:44:00.000-07:00

you've got to wonder what could have possibly happened to blow the skin off this guy's right arm and completely remove his entire lower half... my answer: not enough to destroy the brain, unfortunately.

The Fishward City Dialogues: Sixteen

2010-09-09T12:32:00.000-07:00

Sweat coats my forehead and the back of my neck pulsates with awareness. My feet are planted firmly into the red carpet and although I am eleven feet from any wall, I can hear the rain striking the ocean outside. Everyone in the room is dead except for him. They were dead when I arrived, and the barrel of his blunderbuss is still smoking in his hand. He wants a showdown, he's sure as hell got one. The weight of the .50 in my hand reminds me of one simple truth – I'm loaded, he's not. I tilt my head to the bodies floored between us, not wavering my aim at his calm face.
“You got bored, I see.”
“Oh, I just thought I'd give you a break. You know, hell; it's the least I can do.”
My eyes are locked in on his, trying to remain as calm as him. Any moment now, I expect him to flip his chair, reload the blunderbuss, and end me without a second thought. Instead, he continues to sit, one leg crossed over the other. Slippers... he's wearing slippers. He lifts his wine glass with his free hand and carries it to his lips. It's empty. He frowns slightly and sets it back down on the table beside him. Clearing his throat, he glances around for the bottle and continues speaking to me with indifference.
“So, you killed Annabelle. Must have been hard for you. I'm sorry.”
A chill runs through my spine and finds it's way down my arm to my trigger finger. I have to consciously keep my hand from reacting. It's a chill I'd not even felt when I watched her collapse earlier tonight. I slow my breathing as best I can before answering, trying to keep my heart-rate steady.
“It was easy. I just pulled the trigger like every other time. You should understand, after all. You're the one who taught me.”
“What, how to shoot?” he laughs.
“No,” I answer, a tear creeping across my right eye. “How to kill and how to ignore remorse. How to look into someone's eyes and tell yourself they won't be missed, the world will go on just the same without them.”
“Well, it's true!” He looked around the room, fanning out his fingers in display. “We're still here, aren't we? The world carries on without missing a beat.”
I still won't move. Keep focused.
“So they won't miss you?”
“Take, for example, Loaded Tony,” he continues, ignoring my remark. “Now, he was of some import to me. He was actually useful, unlike your soused girlfriend. I just kept her around for the weekends.” He smirked to himself at the memories. “But Tony was an intricate part of my business, he provided the fire power... as well as various other commodities.”
“And I killed the thieving piece of shit.”
“And yet,” he spreads his hands again to reiterate the point. “Here we are, Tommy; aboard my yacht, enjoying a vintage '58 Basie record and a Merlot of the same year.” He stands cooly to his feet and saunters over to the bar, fetching the bottle of wine to refill his glass. Maybe he'll even offer me a glass. If he does, so help me! But no, he doesn't. Instead he uncorks the bottle and looks at the gun in my hand, still locked on his face as if they're playing a staring game. Suddenly, he kicks the bottle back and takes a ravenous swig. Very unbecoming of a man of his caliber and class, but who will judge a man on how he chooses to enjoy what is to be his last vice on earth. “Not only does life go on, my boy... but it still tastes pretty damn good.”

The Fishward City Dialogues: Fifteen(The Conversation: Pt. 1)

2010-09-06T09:31:00.000-07:00

“You know how we caught up with you, right?”
“Some would say a theme precedes me – sloppy with my work, I leave a trail... heh... bullets are my bread crumbs.”
“Bread crumbs... sure...”
“But that's not it, is it? You only caught up with me because I slowed down. I hesitated for one damn second and you were there.”
“And God forbid someone lives to see the sunrise because you missed a beat! Please excuse my sarcasm; but there's still right and wrong to consider, and murder still falls under the latter, last time I checked.”
“Do you really believe that, Jenkis?”
“No... but there's a girl in a diner up the street who believes it. And there's a cup of coffee in that diner that will wait for me each night, regardless of what I believe.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means I chase who the boss tells me to chase, and I've been chasing you for a long time... long enough for you to kill good and bad people.”
“No one's good, my friend.”
“The girl in the diner is.”
“You believe that?”
“It's about the only thing I believe anymore, Tom. That and...”
“... and?”
“And you... I believe you – that you'll keep going, and I can't stop you.”
“Well then! Where were we?”

Confessestina

2010-09-04T09:17:00.000-07:00

It's easier to lie to your face
when I have it all written down.
That way the paper is to blame.
And I am free from over there.
Augustine said it best,
when he entitled his book.

They say you wrote the book
on exactly how to save face.
But they also say mom knows best
when you've fallen down.
She'll say, "there, there;
no one is to blame."

And still I point and blame
the authors of boring books.
The world's asleep and they're
too busy to surface
and bring us down
from what we know best.

You were always the best
at knowing who to blame.
But now you're calming down.
I guess you shouldn't overbook.
No time for face-to-face
anymore, is there?

I've decided that there
is no reason to be the best.
At that take value face.
Webster is to blame.
Damn his boring book,
through the years on down.

Down
there
is the book,
best
known to blame
its readers in the preface.

They threw their best book
down in disgust, but don't blame its face.

Dervish – The End ofa Legend by Kevan Chandler

2010-08-31T13:56:00.000-07:00

A dervish of dust and leaves kicked up just outside the window and cut at the glass by his face. The leaves were dead, of course. Everything was dead. The cards in his hand were dead. The hair he pushed back from his eyes was dead. The man across the table from him was dead. Only one thing was still alive – the smoking rifle in his lap. The heat off the barrel loosened the muscles in his knee and the weight reminded him of home, of the child that used to sit there and play. Sometimes she played with his beard, other times she would just occupy herself with her own dress. All the while, she would giggle and fidget so that he would keep a hand wrapped firmly around her waist for safety – not just her safety, but his too. She was his joy, his heartbeat. Her survival meant his. Now everything was dead, but for this gun, and he kept a hand wrapped firmly around its thick mahogany stock … for safety.

His Back Pages

2010-08-24T18:22:00.000-07:00

My existence led by confusion boats,
Mutiny from stern to bow.
Ah, but I was so much older then.
I’m younger than that now.

-Bob Dylan

Green Lantern

2010-08-23T17:35:00.000-07:00

Not exactly up to par with Ethan Van Sciver, but it's the man without fear nonetheless!

The Fishward City Dialogues: Fourteen

2010-08-14T22:42:00.000-07:00

clink clink
Two coins. A penny and a nickel. It's all I have and now it's his. I pause a few steps later and consider going back to add a bullet casing to the mix of change in his tin cup. After all, I've killed everyone else I've come in contact with tonight. Why stop now? Then something unbelievable happens, and I have only myself to blame. It was that pause. That damned pause. I slow down for a split-second, and it's just enough to let the world catch up – it comes running with a knife aimed for my heart.
“Thank you, son.”
I dare a slight turn back and cock my head at the strange words from the strange man.
“Excuse me?”
“Thank you,” he mutters again, patient and feeble. “And God bless you.”
The alleyway is dark and full of smoke so that I cannot see his face, but I hear his coughing. I also hear dew trickling down the brick walls on either side of me, and I hear the water under my feet as I turn my heels slowly and make my way back to him. As I draw closer to him, his face becomes clear to me in the shadows and I see his facade matches his voice – old. I stand beside his hunched body for several moments as silence passes between us.
I have no idea why I'm standing here beside him, this man with whom I have no dealings. We aren't even conversing, and I only know he is alive by the jingle of the tin cup in his quivering hand. I focus in on the jingle and soon find myself taking a seat on the puddled ground, resting my back against the brick wall. The docks are to my left, the man is on my right.
After what seemed like ages of silence, I braced myself to stand and the man suddenly grabbed me by the shoulder. His hands were shaky, but his grip was firm and I remained seated.
“Stay, my boy,” he said gently. “Rest easy, even if only for another minute. Your heart-rate is still a bit high. Don't want a young buck like you having a heart attack out here.”
“How can you tell?” I asked like a curious child, forgetting myself.
He smirked.
“I am blind! I sense things like your heartbeat and scent. But you seem like a smart lad, I should wonder you didn't figure that out yourself.”
I blushed, thankful he couldn't see it.
“Thank you, sir. You're right, I should have known better. I guess I'm just off my mark tonight. Your response-time to the sound of my gift should have given it away, although your recognition of me the moment my footsteps entered the alleyway could have done the trick as well.”
“Oh my boy,” he laughed aloud. “I heard you coming from a block away; knew you'd turn this corner before you even passed the pizza shop. But why is a handsome guy like you hanging around here all alone? Shouldn't you be on the other end of town, in a snazzy joint with a sweet gal at your side?”
I shrugged in the darkness and gazed back toward the docks. My target was there, his yacht just a few yards ahead and a turn or two away. He was probably tasting his evening glass of red wine to a vintage Basie record, classy bastard.
“That's just not the life I chose to lead.”
He sighed and patted me on the chest.
“Me neither! I chose the end of a bottle, which I gather is not what you've chosen.”
“No sir,” I answer half-attentively. Basie or the Duke. “I'd never touch the stuff.”
“And yet... we are both sitting in this alleyway, leaning against this wall, on a cold night... alone.”
I breathe in deep, embracing the wet smoke of the night. Then I push myself up the wall to stand, the weight of guns in my coat reminding me of who I am.
“I've killed everyone I've met tonight. What's your excuse?”

Thanks, Yeats... Thanks...

2010-08-09T19:27:00.000-07:00

"Had they but courage equal to desire?"
-No Second Troy by W.B. Yeats

The Fishward City Dialogues: Thirteen(The Anti-Dialogue)

2010-08-03T18:46:00.000-07:00

He could feel the warm blood leaking into his lungs as he inhaled slowly. His excessive fat acted as a sort of airbag, keeping the SUV from crushing him completely. This ain't nothing like the movies, he thought to himself as he tried to move his legs to no avail. As he exhaled painfully, he choked on the blood that was now mixing with oxygen and the vehicle lurched with his cough. He felt another disc pop in his spine under the pressure, closer to his neck this time, and his arms went limp. At this rate, he thought, I'll be down for the count in minutes. They called him Wally Dumbfounder, but that was more due to his silence than his intellect (or lack thereof). He had even graduated high school, which was more than could be said of most of the Boss' other muscle. But what did education get him in this predicament that the other guys missed? Well, he could tell time and he remembered a thing or two from dissecting those little frogs.
Just then, a herd of blue lights came screeching around the corner, accompanied by sirens. Megaphones squawked and told Wally to not do what he already couldn't with his paralysis. He could hardly speak, let alone pull the gun from his belt and fire away, but he knew better anyway. The rest of his posse were dead. Two of the cars had blown up on impact and no one was moving in the others. He was the only one left, and he only had a minute or two himself. Might as well make the best of it.
I want a priest, he thought as the men in blue spread out to check the perimeter. One approached him slowly, six-shooter drawn. He repeated himself, though he couldn't discern whether it was aloud or to himself again.
I want a priest.
The cop either didn't hear or just didn't care, but mumbled something into a radio and turned to walk away. Then he stopped and turned back to Wally, who had begun coughing violently again. He drew close and knelt beside the dying man. They stared at one another for a moment, then the cop saw what he was looking for. Wally had a pack of cigarettes in the breast pocket of his shirt and the officer helped himself with a straight face. Propping one between his lips, he pocketed the rest of the pack and walked over to a nearby colleague.
“You got a light?” he asked, and accepted his friend's matchbook without regard. Before handing it back, he paused and looked again toward the SUV and the trapped man.
Dumbfounder's sight was going gray and blurry, and what little of his body he could still feel was quickly growing cold. He wished he didn't understand the fuzz mentality, but it made perfect sense. He was the brute force of their arch-enemy and he didn't deserve their respect, let alone sympathy. In fact, he would've spit in their faces by now if he had found them stuck in his current condition; maybe had some popcorn and watched 'em die like it was a movie or something. So they swiped his cigarettes, who cares! He wasn't gonna be smokin' 'em anytime soon anyway.
His eyes were growing heavy, but he could make out a dark figure returning to him and kneeling by his side. It was the cop who took his cigarettes, of course. Wally wanted to curse the man, but couldn't muster the energy to even moan at him. He noticed the man was puffing away at a cigarette – one of his cigarettes. But he was curious when the man retrieved another from the pack and then set the pack on the concrete ground and sat down Indian-style himself.
The officer held up the second cigarette and gazed at it for a moment, clearly trying to make some decision. Then, with one swift gesture, he slipped it into his mouth beside the first and lit it with a match he struck on the floor in the same instant. After a moment, it was burning steadily, so he took it from his own lips and placed it gently into the pitiful slit that was his enemy's cold mouth.

Batman

2010-08-02T12:53:00.001-07:00

Watching my friend play Batman: Arkham Asylum, and just got in the mood to doodle ol' Batsy in action.

black & white eyes

2010-07-28T19:24:00.000-07:00

I was looking at a photo tonight of J.R.R. Tolkien. You know, the famous one of him in the garden, wearing his smoking jacket and holding his pipe loosely in hand while he laughs gently. As I studied the photo, it got me thinking about when I am old. What will I look like? I'm not so concerned about whether or not I'll still have my beard, or if I'll be bald or my eyebrows turn to whispey little feathers. More so, I wonder what children will see when they look into my eyes. Peace? Wisdom? Anger? Weariness? Adventure? Certainty? When I see the faces of Tolkien and C.S. Lewis, in particular, I don't see untouchable authors or unbelievable scholars. They were worthy giants of their time, and still, but I see in their black & white eyes men who enjoyed a good cheese and walks through the countryside. Their countenances tell me that life has it's hills and valleys, but God is constant and good. I take comfort and find strength, not only in the scribbles of these great men, but also in their gaze. And I don't know what lies ahead of me on this voyage of life, but I pray that I fare in a way that ends me up with those same eyes.

The Fishward City Dialogues: Twelve

2010-07-27T19:21:00.000-07:00

“So where are we headed to now, sir?”
Well, at least he's dropped the 'detective' crap, thought Jenkis to himself. “Another crime scene,” he said passively. “A murder this time, you'll be happy to know.”
“And it's our guy?”
The detective sighed at the familiarity of the question.
“Yes, it is our guy. He's busy tonight.”
“Damn right, he's busy!” cracked his sidekick with a shriek. “So this isn't normal for him?”
“No, no, no... He's known to make a mess and maybe go a little overboard with his body count – ordered to kill 2, so he takes out 6 in the process – but never multiple hits like this.”
Silence passed as the two reviewed their notes, one reading more carefully than the other. They sat side-by-side in the back of an old and rusting police car, the city outside providing them with enough light through the back window for reading. After a moment, the rookie broke the meditation with his thick Brooklyn accent.
“So, what's the rumpus? Something ain't straight, is it?”
“Something,” mumbled the elder, continuing to look through his notes. “I'm not sure what, though, just yet. The car wreck, the bar fight, now this...”
“Maybe he's gone rogue!” suggested the rookie with excitement.
Jenkis chuckled at the boy's ignorance and excused the comment with a wave of his hand. He began to condescend on how ridiculous the theory sounded, but was interrupted by the officer chauffeuring them around the city streets.
“Excuse me, sir, but we've got another hit five blocks east. The call just came in, looks like they'll need you over there after this one.”
“What's the rundown?”
“Well, it's a parking deck. Third level.”
“Oh God... how many this time?” asked Jenkis slowly, rubbing his eyes. The officer hesitated in his response, not believing his own words himself.
“They've found seven tires so far, but they're all to different cars.”
The rookie sat up from a slouch and kicked his hat to the back of his head. With his usual sharpness, he prodded for answers.
“You sound like you get it.”
“He's pulled this one before,” Jenkis answered him quickly, his mind obviously many steps ahead of the information he was spouting off to his pupil. “The High-Five Drive-By, though you might be more familiar with The Chicago Flop. The High-Five is the same basic concept, but with our friend's own personal twist on it.”
“In other words, he makes a frickin' mess.”
Jenkis smiled at the rookie's revelation.
“You're catching on, kid.”

jelly and success

2010-07-16T20:45:00.000-07:00

Tonight, I got into a conversation with a 4 y/o kid about my wheelchair. He asked me why I chose to sit in it rather than other chairs. I told him it was because, just between he and i, my seat is much more comfortable than most others. When he asked why, I explained that it was full of jelly... which was true... until I went on to say, "you know, like you put on your toast in the mornings." Of course, he didn't believe me, which only prodded me further! I'm pretty sure by the end of the night, I had him convinced I was sitting on a cushion of grape jelly. That's what I call a successful evening.

The Fishward City Dialogues: Eleven

2010-07-14T15:20:00.000-07:00

“Good Lord, Charlie,” the sweat-drenched country dumplin' gagged as he held the steaming cup at a distance. “What is this stuff?”
His friend was busy with another concoction in the passenger seat beside him.
Finally, Charlie sipped his own canister and said matter-of-factly, “It’s a simple blend of 2/3 straight Brazilian joe, 1/4 black tea, 2/5 whiskey, and one raw egg.”
He looked out the window and smiled. His company did not share his appreciation for the brew.
“Right, I’m sticking to Mt. Dew from here on out.”
And with that, the disgusted one tossed his paper cup out the window and onto the pavement (who didn’t really want it either). Charlie shook his head in disappointment.
“Steve, do you realize what's in Mt. Dew? Half of that stuff is illegal in most countries!”
“And whatever you just gave me isn’t?” Steve cried. He didn’t enjoy being challenged, so he changed the subject before his boat was rocked anymore. He pointed ahead to the lit window above them. “So what’s the story on this chick that makes her so special?”
Charlie shrugged and propped his feet on the dashboard, taking another sip from his cup.
“You know those crazy murders that have been goin' down lately?”
“Oh no, you’ve gotta be kidding me,” moaned Steve, rubbing his eyes. “We’re not getting mixed up in that stuff, are we?”
“She’s nervous that she might be next. Just another paranoid blue-hair, if you ask me,” Charlie let out between nicotine-purged coughs. Then he added, “Although she is widowed to some hot-shot business guy, a tradesman.”
“Trading what, Charlie?”
“Drugs, I guess. I didn't ask. Whatever it was, it got him killed a while back.”
He tossed a mocking glance of paranoia toward Steve, who was shaking his head in disbelief.
“So she called us... And you agreed to it?”
The radio squawked.
//Hey, who better to call than a couple of duck hunters?//
“There’s a lot of cash in it, Steve,” mentioned Charlie in conjunction with their third party’s remark.
Steve threw back his head and laughed aloud.
“You two had better be right, and I hope this turns out to be nothing! Because when shit hits fans, we won’t stand a chance... and no amount of cash is gonna catch our fancy then.”
Charlie agreed with a passive nod, but the radio was encouraging.
//Don’t sweat it, guys. You just keep an eye out down there and I’ve got you covered up here.//
“Yeah. I bet you can see the whole town from up there, eh?”
Steve laughed at his own comment, and Charlie played along.
“Hey, can you see the diner from up there, Sniper Man?”
Both of them were laughing aloud by then. So much so, in fact, that they failed to hear the muffled struggle of their radio friend.
Charlie was the first to stop laughing as he saw the silhouette of their client collapse three stories above them. He was also the first to feel the split-second sting of a silent bullet entering his temple just before he went cold.
Steve was not far behind.

Artham & Kalmar Wingfeather

2010-07-13T18:01:00.000-07:00

Thank you, Andrew Peterson!

blades don't need reloading

2010-07-13T06:42:00.000-07:00

There is a sticker on the back of my MacBook that says, My zombie ate your honors student. Most people who know me, know my interest in zombies and know that I take the matter very seriously. They also know that I don't appreciate being condescended or challenged on the subject. However, this happened yesterday at church (of all places). Someone dared to ask me, "What are you going to do when zombies aren't cool anymore?" My response to this was simply, "When they're not cool anymore, they'll still be dangerous."

You see, those who like zombies for the sake of popularity fill our culture with crap like Marvel Zombies and the Dawn Of The Dead remake. Speaking of Marvel Zombies, guess where the "Pride and Prejudice and Zombies" quasi-author, Grahame-Smith, got his start!

Then there's the guys that got/get it. Lovecraft and H.G. Wells mastered the art of bringing the dead to life, moaning and reaching out to bite us from the pages as we read. The terror to which they introduced readers leaves us sober-minded at the end of the day, and better appreciating life. Their contemporaries, Georgia A. Romero and Max Brooks especially, understand the potential this subject has for social enlightenment, and have taken those earlier concepts a step further in depth. They have given us a healthy stream of film and literature that, using the apocalyptic scenario of undead, present us with a survey of humanity more revealing than any government census or Spike Lee movie. They show us our own true human nature against the odds of death and the stress of being prey to a mindless hunter. Some of us step up to the challenge, some crack under pressure, some turn to God, others become cynics. It's the extreme circumstances that leave us with the bare truth about ourselves.

With that said, I believe we must take these things with a grain of salt and a touch of humor. Yes, the idea of a zombie outbreak is terrifying, but for the sake of our own sanity we must keep our proverbial chins up. G.K. Chesterton once said, "Always be comic in a tragedy." Not to mention, this is one avenue of violence/gore that we can morally afford to chuckle at to a degree - after all, they're already dead! And so we find ourselves with movies like Shaun Of The Dead and stickers like My zombie ate your honors student. And these things act as a sort of satire, making the point and keeping us aware, while doing so on a somewhat lighter note than presumed in order to soften the blow (or the bite, if you will).

And by the way, don't be so ignorant as to assume zombies are fictional. I made that mistake once... that's how I lost my legs...

The Fishward City Dialogues: Ten

2010-07-09T19:20:00.000-07:00

“Hello?” she answered the phone as though she didn't know who was calling.
“Annie,” the man responded in a low voice that sent chills through her long spine and across her graceful shoulders.
“No one calls me that anymore,” she said defiantly. She was sharp, but she knew he was sharper.
“That doesn't mean it's not your name.”
Annie clutched the phone cord as a tear of anger rolled down her cheek. Her voice quivered.
“My name changed the night Frank died. You know that, honey. After all, you killed him.”
The voice on the other end remained calm and steady.
“Then you know why I'm calling.”
“Yes,” Annie admitted, settling her nerves with a deep breath. “And I'm pretty damn sure I know where you're calling from too, if that's the case.”
“I'm not on the roof,” the voice informed her between sudden heaves. “Not yet, anyway. Who's your little sniper friend up there? A look-out or just another peeping-Tom?”
“Clever. But I only had that problem once.”
“And who took care of it for you?”
There was a moment of silence between them.
“I'm sorry, Annie.”
“Sorry for what? That it's your job? That you didn't do it sooner?”
While she carried on, Annie could hear grunts from the other end as the man climbed what she assumed was the fire-escape next door. Soon he would be on the roof and their conversation would end with her life in the balance. Finally her rant slowed to a quiet sob, and he stopped climbing to answer.
“I'm sorry that I have to do it again.”
The woman laughed through her tears and whispered devilishly into the phone. As she spoke, she walked to the window across the room. The city was dark and covered in smog, but the water beyond it was peaceful and shimmering in the moonlight. She could see her reflection in the glass, and smoothed her long blonde hair with vanity.
“Well, doesn't that just make you a saint!”
“There was never anything sanctified about me, dear, except you.”
“Yeah, I'm a hell-of-a catch.”
Neither said anything for a moment while the man strangled the sniper. Choking and muffled screams could be heard over the line, but Annie had heard it all before and seen far worse. She had learned to block it out. One thing she had never grown numb to, however, was the cocking of a gun, and this brought her back to the moment.
CLICK
“So this is how they feel,” she whimpered as bravely as she could.
“No. They're afraid.”
She moved closer to the window and made eye-contact with her lover on the opposite roof.
“And what am I, then?”
He set his sights…
“You're beautiful.”
… and pulled the trigger.

A day in Brazil

2010-06-21T11:46:00.000-07:00

I spent Sunday in Brazil... the movie, not the country. Although the country may be like the movie, but I certainly hope not.

It all started with a dream Saturday night, in which I had a picnic with my friend Devin. We ate very strange junk foods, and I woke up the next morning with a pain in my side. Must be from the picnic, I assumed and went on with my day. For very specific reasons involving fiction, I have recently become accepting of - and paranoid about - the wall betwixt dream and reality collapsing. At any rate, as the day progressed, I found this slight tummy-ache to be culminating into what felt like a reenactment of Braveheart within my intestines. Dad and I ran out of church like a Baptist in a Synagogue, and got me over to hospital (more commonly known in America as "the hospital"). And as I'm sure we've all had the surreal experience of sitting in a crowded emergency room, I will skip ahead for the sake of sooner reaching Brazil. (If you haven't had the pleasure yourself of sitting through such a Hell as an emergency room, check out Scorsese's film "Bring Out the Dead". You'll get a pretty good idea of what it's like.)

I awoke later in a stale gray room and was in somewhat of a daze. The pain in my "lower abdomen" was less than when I had come into the emergency room a few hours hours prior, but it was still nagging and I squirmed as best I could to escape it. My arm was stuck with I.V. and wrapped in tape. Noting my floppy wrist, the nurse had kindly strapped a straight board to my arm/hand, which served its purpose and also doubled as a cumbersome handcuff of weight.

As I steadily came to, I realized I was alone and a morphine drip droned on beside me. Oh goody. At this rate, I would soon feel not so alone as the Killer Whale stickers on the ceiling would come to life and swim about the florescent lights. Nurses could be heard bustling along the halls outside. Then suddenly, a thud and crash came from the next room over. Maybe someone fell, I wondered. But the ruckus continued and it became clear someone had gone mad and was making these sounds of violence on purpose. After a few bouts of this, I suppose the man grew faint or was restrained. A nurse spoke slowly and clearly to the agitated patient.

"Do you know what year it is, sir?" she asked firmly. These were the words she said aloud, but what I heard in my head was something like, "Here we go, Kevan. Another trippy day in the hospital!" I heeded the warning and sighed carefully.

All day, I had an urge to listen to Drew Holcomb & The Neighbors, but my iPhone would not cooperate (way to go, Steve Jobs). Instead, my dad sat with me while I dozed in and out of consciousness, and listened to me ramble nonsensically about theories and fiction and history and whatnot. At some point, my pastor Alan came by to visit for a spell and it was agreeable for the nurses to have two counselors (myself and Alan) and two pastors (Alan and my dad) in fellowship together. Then came time for tests.

I was made to drink a large cup of orange liquid. It was the first bit of sustenance to grace my lips all day, and its flavor resembled that of flat SunKist with a touch of copper and... something otherworldly (not in the good way, like Cheerwine). I feared it would take me all day to drink, but somehow managed it down in mere minutes.

After this, they took me, lying flat on the rolling bed, from my room and down several hallways to a room that looked like the inside of a spaceship. The room was cold and dimly lit until they mercilessly flipped on the alien brights overhead. I blinked until my eyes would adjust, but by then the lights were off again. Although this was only a few seconds, it was a frightening time in which I was poked and twisted and shifted onto another bed. The nurse asked me mechanically a series of question that could have been summed up by a brief glimpse at my medical history file. No, I'm not a smoker/drinker. No, I haven't had cancer. No, I'm not Diabetic. No, I don't have Sickle Cell Anemia... do I look African American to you? Thanks. Once the questions and transfer were complete, I regained my morphine-drenched wits and studied my surroundings as well as I could. The new cot I found myself lying on was connected to a white tube that I could only guess they planned to scan me through soon. The cot also had straps, which they proceeded to tie over me without remorse. It was about this time that I began humming "All the Way, My Savior Leads Me" and praying for the good Lord's swift return. Once I was strapped tightly, the nurses left the room. I was again alone and bound for immobility. The silence was haunting and my head was locked in place so that I couldn't see if anyone was approaching or even near by. In fact, I may not have even been alone in the room! But the silence and lack of vision suggested otherwise.

The cot then began to move itself toward the cylinder, which also came to life. As I was drawn into the tube, it became a spinning vortex of machinery and lights. The sounds it generated were deafening and I was overwhelmed by the illuminated pictures before me. Just above my head were two faces printed on the wall of the machine. One was a man smiling with his mouth half-opened. The other was a man with his mouth closed and cheeks puffed out. Then a robotic voice came through some hidden speakers and said, "Breath in." At this, the smiling face began blinking with a sort of green glow. The voice came again, "Hold your breath." This time, the smiling face went dim and the puff-cheeked face released a sort of orange glow. I held my breath as the bed moved slowly through the vortex and then stopped midway to scan my area of issue. This process repeated several time, and I think it was by the 3rd round that I had resolved to match the glowing faces as closely as possible. So I smiled candidly when I breathed in and I puffed my cheeks dramatically when I held my breath. And this proved to make the whole experience not only more bearable, but in fact somewhat enjoyable.

By the time my soulless nurses returned, loosed my bonds, transferred me back to my own bed, and set me back in my room, I was actually quite happy with my situation. Sure, nothing had really changed - I was high on morphine, my dad and I were stuck in hospital for the duration of Father's Day, and something was playing hockey in my intestines. But I had a peace and a joy that comes exclusively with your choice of salvation or insanity. And it is a fine, though rare, occasion when one has the pleasure of passing GO and collecting both.

As it turned out, I had a kidney stone (and depending on when you read this, I may still have it). There was another man in the waiting room when we first arrived who had the same problem. He was crying and vomiting and walking around the busy room arduously. Apparently it was too agonizing for him to sit down... and he was in a great deal more pain than I was at the moment. I couldn't help but wonder - if I was standing, would I have even felt this thing in the first place? But I guess that's just one of those questions I'll have to ask Jesus when I get to Heaven... That one and, "What the heck did Devin and I eat at that picnic to cause this kerfuffle, anyway?!"

The Fishward City Dialogues: Nine

2010-06-13T14:08:00.000-07:00

“Well, this is a mess,” muttered Jenkis as he stepped carefully over broken tables and limp bodies.
A jittered rookie slunk around him, jotting down notes and checking faces with IDs.
“You think this is our guy, Detective?” he asked through a thick Brooklyn accent, complete with shrugs and hand gestures. It was only the second week on beat with this kid and already Jenkis was developing heartburn when he saw him coming. If it wasn't the mannerisms, it was the attitude.
“Nobody calls me Detective, asshole.”
“What's that?”
“No, I don't think this is our guy. Not directly, anyway.”
Jenkis turned a chair upright and sat down in the center of the room, surrounded by blood and beer. His rookie shadow kept moving, moseying around the room, poking at bodies and smelling puddles of alcohol. Every once in a while, he would whistle with curiosity or shake his head. It was almost amusing to Jenkis to watch the new guy attempt brilliance and wing the ancient art form of forensics.
Finally, he had to give the kid a break. Especially when the paramedics arrived.
“You do realize that most of these folks aren't dead, right? This was a bar fight, not a mass genocide.”
The young buck's eyes squinted with confusion, and a hint of disgust. After all, they were homicide detectives! Why were they mingling with the menial lowlifes in ER?
“Then why the frick are we here?”
“Because,” Jenkis sighed, leaning back in his chair and staring at the giant hole above them. “It all started up there, and that... as you say... is our guy.”
As the two climbed the splintering stairs to the attic room, Jenkis went on to explain the situation. His sidekick scribbled in shorthand all the information as it came, occasionally tripping on a step. The room was in shambles and they edged their way around the hole in the floor. Jenkis flopped down on the couch and quietly took in the scene. The rookie was not so quiet, but propped his foot on the couch's armrest and began reviewing his notes allowed.
“So this joker, Loaded Tony, gives these guys all their 'stuff', you said. Like what – guns, drugs, girls?”
“All of the above.”
“Anything else?”
Jenkis lifted the cushions and pulled out a 10" buoy knife. He laughed slightly and studied the blade, noting his own reflection.
“Plenty more. But that's all you need to know. Otherwise, you'd go downstairs and beat the tar out of whatever's left of this joker.”
The rookie lowered his foot and folded his arms.
“What's that supposed to mean, Detective?”
“Well, rookie,” Jenkis retorted cooly. “It means that you are new to the gig and you're still a loose canon of emotions. Don't worry about it; everyone is at first, until you've seen everything on the job and it wears you down. Then it becomes common to you, and you have the reserve necessary to accept the bitter truth as data and use it constructively to do your job. Barbiturates, weapons, prostitution... these are nothing compared to where this cat makes his real money. But if I disclose that information to you now, you'd snap and he'd be leaving here in a body bag. You don't want that the second week on the job, do you?”
He twirled the knife in his hand, testing its balance, while his associate posed the age-old question.
“So, if our guy is taking out garbage like this, why are we trying to stop him?”
“Sometimes I wonder if we really are,” responded Jenkis solemnly. “Or are we just recording his steps and praying to God that we learn something about virtue from this ronin of Fishward City?”
He handed the knife to the speechless rookie and walked down to the bar for a drink. Of course, they didn't have his preferred tonic, so he took a cheap scotch instead.

The Fishward City Dialogues: Eight

2010-06-11T12:54:00.000-07:00

“I knew this girl once who could break her own wrist without crying.”
The conversation wasn’t meant to distract his friend – and it didn’t, although onlookers would assume otherwise.
“Really, Pete?” his friend grinned in acknowledgment, taking aim.
CRACK!
The balls scattered, #2 slid into the side pocket.
“You sure she wasn’t just double-jointed?”
Pete leaned against the table behind him, ignoring the players there. He and his opponent were regulars, so nobody would say anything.
“No.”
His friend circled the table, in search of his next shot.
“‘No’ as in – she wasn’t double-jointed, or ‘no’ as in – you’re not sure?”
Shot found. Aim and tap. No soap.
“Oh so close, Danny Boy,” Pete sighed. “So close.”
With a slight nudge, he finished off Danny’s attempted pocket and moved on to the next shot.
“And no, she wasn’t double-jointed. I can tell you that much for sure.”
POP!
The cue ball spun across the table, ricocheting off the #4 ball and meeting #5 on the return.
THUMP! THUMP!
Danny snatched his beer from the bar and took a swig as Pete put another ball away with ease.
“How’s that?”
“Huh?”
“How do you know she wasn’t double-jointed in her wrists?”
THNICK! CLUBUMP!
The #7 ball disappeared.
FUMP!
So did the cue ball.
Danny set his beer back on the bar and examined the table as he replaced the cue ball.
Pete hooked his cue stick behind his neck and stepped back.
“Let’s just say a one-eyed midget told me. Besides, I said ‘wrist’... She only had one.”
Bewildered, Danny retreated from his aim and used his stick as a crutch while he looked at his friend.
“Let me guess...”
“Exactly,” smirked Pete.
Danny shook his head and took aim again.
“That could not have gone well.”
“Yeah. Well, that’s what chainsaws are for, right?”
“Good point.”
CRASH!
Just as Danny pulled back to take his shot, a limp body fell through the ceiling and landed on the table like a rag doll. Pete jumped with surprise, as did everyone in the room, but Danny just stood there frozen, staring at the corpse before him. After a moment of silent shock throughout the room, Danny dropped his stick in frustration.
“Man, that was gonna be a nice shot too!”
Pete saw his opportunity and turned to the stranger on his left, smashing a beer bottle against the man’s face. A nearby marine struck next and pretty soon a good old fashion bar fight was in full swing.

the real problem

2010-06-09T18:59:00.001-07:00

"The humans are the ones I dislike the most, and they're where the trouble really lies. The zombies are just mosquitoes." - George A. Romero

Manalive

2010-06-07T13:28:00.000-07:00

"I don’t deny... that there should be priests to remind men that they will one day die. I only say that at certain strange epochs it is necessary to have another kind of priests, called poets, actually to remind men that they are not dead yet." - G.K. Chesterton

religion

2010-06-01T11:47:00.000-07:00

"Social religion is perfected when private religion is purified." - A.W. Tozer

The Fishward City Dialogues: Seven

2010-05-28T08:25:00.000-07:00

The car wreck was all in a night's work. The jokers involved, however, were not. When the Boss sends the Messenger, it's over – he's calling you in from the field and you're getting benched... on an ocean floor somewhere. That's what it means for anyone else, at least. All it means for me is that this is going to be a long night. This was confirmed the moment I limped through the door of this rat-hole and asked for a drink. They didn't have my preferred tonic, so I now find myself climbing up these splintered stairs with a cheap scotch in hand.
“Knock twice,” they warned. “Or you'll be dead before you finish turning the nob.”
I do as they say and am permitted entrance by a scratchy, high-pitch voice from the other side. What I expect when I open the door, I'm not sure, but it isn't this. A scrawny, balding man in a jumpsuit lays sprawled on a couch with an AK-47 lying beside him like a sleeping lapdog. He's on what is probably his third pack of cigarettes today. He waves me in and I close the door. I still don't believe my eyes. Is he Loaded Tony?
“Are you Loaded Tony?”
“Yep,” he coughs with a smile as he puts out a soggy cigarette and lights a fresh one. “That's what they call me. And you've got a limp. Have a seat.”
He gestures to a wooden armchair opposite his plush couch, and I sit.
“Thanks. I got hit by a taxi on my way here. Anyway, I hear you got that name for... several reasons.”
“Haha, yeah,” he concurs. “What can I do for you?”
The crack of billiards, clinking of beer bottles, and the laughter of drunk friends can be heard under our feet through the thin floorboards. A game of Solitaire lays across the coffee table between us, accompanied by sporadic lines of cocaine and a half-empty bottle of liquor. He slides one of the Solitaire cards toward me as a coaster for my drink and I accept.
“I need guns.”
“Okay,” he says casually as he leans back into the sofa cushions. “You've come to the right place. You got credentials?”
This is where things will get tricky. I finish off my Scotch before I answer. It'll spill otherwise in a minute, and we can't have that. I paid good money for it.
“My name is Tommy.”
Yeah, this is going to get ugly. Tony's jaw drops and his cigarette falls to his lap. He frantically brushes it off and then lays his bony hand on the sleeping metal beside him.
“Tommy the Slob? You're supposed to be with the Boss tonight. He sent the Messenger and his Shadow Twins to pick you up.”
I can't help but smirk.
“They had an accident. I'm sure he'll understand. Now, how about those guns?”
He tightens his grip on the 47, and I remain calm as if I don't even notice. He's not the smoothest operator, and I'm going to assume he's not the fastest either. But what's taking him so long? A man of his size and social stature, he's probably trying to think of a good quip to deliver before blasting me away. I study his twitching eyes to anticipate his timing and action. And... there it is. He's got it.
“Yeah... guns... Like this one?!”
That was just pathetic. He jumps to his feet, atop the couch, and opens fire in my direction. Maybe he's had more to drink than I thought, because he's completely missing me. Of course, it doesn't help his case that I'm already over the table and smashing the liquor bottle across the side of his head. If it hasn't knocked him out, it sure as hell burned his eyes. He ceases to shoot, but tries to swing the rifle in a blind fury. Good luck. I snatch it from his hands and jab him in the stomach with its stock. He spits up blood and collapses from his high place on the sofa, landing face-first on the coffee table and breaking through the weak floorboards.
As it turns out, he keeps his artillery under the couch cushions. So I've helped myself, and I'm already down the stairs and out the door when a good old fashion bar fight breaks out between some pool sharks. I don't have to look back to gather that Loaded Tony crashed their party. No pun intended.

The Fishward City Dialogues: Six

2010-05-16T10:09:00.000-07:00

“Where to, kid?”
The kid sunk into the checkered back seat, his eyes covered by curly hair and his mouth hidden behind a thick scarf. The driver punched the clock and the numbers started running.
“I dunno,” the boy mumbled through layers of black wool. “The train station, I guess.”
As the taxi lurched forward, the driver adjusted his baseball cap and yawned. His radio was dialed to a ragtime station and the bouncy piano line clanked along low in the background. He tapped the steering wheel in clumsy rhythm to the tune as he proceeded down the dimly lit streets. The rain had picked up, so he chose to take the drive slowly.
The water on the street slushed across the worn tires and the sound of it proved lulling to the boy in the back seat. His eyes began to droop, but he was brought back by the inquiring driver.
“There's something out there that scares ya.”
“Excuse me?”
“The way you jumped in here, it just seemed like you were running from something. It was probably just my imagination, though.”
The boy shrugged and looked out the window at the passing buildings, turning from residencies to office buildings as they approached the city.
“Yeah, probably,” he suggested with a sigh.
“It's a school night. You've gotta be in... what... 10th grade? 11th?”
The boy chuckled, “Something like that.”
“Well, I'm sure your parents will wonder about you.”
“I doubt it...”
His driver was clearly growing concerned at the boy's brevity. The taxi rolled to a stop and the scruffy old man turned to face his passenger.
“Listen, kid. I'll take you to the station. Heck, I'll even help you pick a place and pitch in a few bucks for your ticket... but I need to know what you're running from. I need you to trust me.”
The kid laughed out loud, an obvious defense-mechanism.
“Why? You gonna stalk me as my 'protector,' like that Scorsese flick? Sorry, man. My problems are a little above your pay-grade.”
The two sat, staring at one another for several moments. Each of them had a great deal to say to the other, but neither was willing to take the next step. Then a car came from behind, demanding they move on and not hold up traffic. The driver turned his attention back to the road and the taxi went on in silence for a while. Suddenly, the boy spoke up.
“You know those killings that have been going on around here lately? Well, my dad's in tight with the guys that are getting bumped off. He's not a big player, just deals guns and stuff uptown, but all those guys buy from him.”
Another moment of silence passed before the driver carefully replied.
“So, you want to skip town before it catches up to your family.”
“Right.”
“What about your mom?”
The kid scratched an itch on the back of his shoulder and watched pedestrians along the sidewalk beside him. He was ready to “skip town,” as his new friend coined it; ready to get away from the muck and mess that had ruined his life thus far; ready to get away at whatever cost.
“She's gone. I'm an only child, before you ask. And my dad deserves what he's got coming. I just...”
SKREETCH – THUD
The driver hit the breaks and his passenger slammed into the back of his seat. He turned to check on the kid and then the cars around him, already honking for him to move.
“What was that all about?” moaned the kid half-consciously.
“Sorry, kid. Some crazy drunk stepped out in front of me. We hit him pretty hard. God help him, I don't see him anywhere now.”

zombie sketch

2010-05-11T13:27:00.000-07:00

i just got bored this afternoon and decided to sketch out a little undead something or other. yes, he is carrying a human arm in his right hand. what can i say - that's all that was left of the other guy.

The Fishward City Dialogues: Five

2010-05-09T11:47:00.000-07:00

As toxic rain drizzles down the warm windows on this miserable evening, I find myself sitting between two thin men whose eyes are lost in shadows. Crew-cuts and black ties befit their stoic facades. What do they want with me, anyway?
“What do you want with me, anyway?” I offer to the darkness of the cab.
A voice returns from the front right seat.
“Oh you know, Tommy... you know.”
I can only see the man’s right ear as he favors the window. Occasionally, the silhouetted knuckles of his hand make an appearance as he takes a puff of his cigarette.
He exhales loudly. Smoke drifts over the seat and into my face.
I hunch over and cough into my knees. Tweedle-Dee sends a sharp blow to my jaw and Tweedle-Dum pulls me upright again by my shirt collar. One of my molars feels a bit loose now. My head throbs. I can feel every rut in the road beneath us.
The voice from the front seat continues. He sounds kind of like Ed Harris.
“The Boss wants to talk to you. He’s... displeased.”
A subtle taste of blood festers on the back of my tongue. I gather up the ooz and spit it into the carpet between my feet. Tweedle-Dum turns to hit me, but our eyes meet – or at least, I assume they meet as I glare deep into the shadowed face. Either way, my message gets across to him – don’t touch me. He sits back, and I decide to throw in a little sarcasm. Let’s see how much I can get away with.
“Well, I tried to tell her that he prefers boys, but she just wouldn’t have it.”
That much.
No amount of glaring can stop Tweedle-Dum from clocking me in the forehead and right into Tweedle-Dee’s knee. Okay – emphysema, cracked jaw, splitting headache, and a black eye. I think that’s just about enough.
The right ear continues talking, unaffected.
“He says you’re too sloppy. Says you tend to leave a mess behind.”
Yeah, it’s time.
“Oh really,” I chuckle. “A mess like this?”
With that, I elbow both of my backseat buddies in their stomachs, jamming my heel into Tweedle-Dee’s shin for good measure. My free foot jabs into the back of the driver’s head and then swings around to send Mr. Right-Ear through his favorite window.
The car is out of control now. I have only seconds to my name.
Tweedle-Dee and -Dum are recovering and reaching for their guns. I manage to uppercut Tweedle-Dee and climb over onto the driver’s chest, my back to the steering wheel. The click alerts me and I look up in time to see Tweedle-Dum pointing a gun six inches from my face. My hand fumbles underneath the seat.
Damn it, where is the recline switch?
BLAM!
The windshield cracks behind me. That was close, but I’ve had closer.
My fingers find the switch and the seat falls back, knocking the gun from Dum’s hand. Leaving the brute in shock, I open the driver-side door and roll out of the car just before it plows through a suburban porch.
That white picket fence will never be the same.

The Fishward City Dialogues: Four

2010-05-04T06:07:00.001-07:00

“Man, I hate waiting,” he mumbled, scuffing his shoe on the porch-step.
“Yeah,” agreed his bemused friend, who swung in the hammock behind him and puffed on a homemade cigar.
“You’re one to talk, Dave,” he scowled. “Mr. white-picket-fence, happily married with four kids.”
Dave stretched and breathed out a sloppy smoke-ring.
“Five, actually. We just found out.”
“What? Good grief, man!”
Dave laughed at his perplexed friend’s response.
“But, Kevan, I do understand your dilemma. It’s like hoping for a date with a lovely girl and she's not calling you back,” Dave produced his philosophy more sloppily than his smoke-rings. “But you still think she might, so you spend your whole day on pins and needles.”
“Screw dating,” Kevan interjected. “The chase is getting old. I just want a wife.”
“And then she never calls,” Dave proceeded with his monologue, dismissing his friend's. He was too deep in thought by now to turn back. “But you think - maybe she forgot... or maybe something happened to her!”
“I know she's out there,” Kevan carried on quietly to himself. The second-hand cigar smoke was making him a little light-headed.
“But deep inside,” Dave continued in rhythm, gazing dimly at the bug-zapper above his head. “You think – I freak her out... she's gun shy.”
“And she is on her way,” Kevan added with a glimmer of hope, paying no mind to Dave’s growing story. Dave took a long silent drag of his cigar, allowing his celibate friend to share the next step in his own thought-process. “But maybe she has a limp.”
Dave sat up slowly and his face grew solemn.
“And then you hunt her down and kill her,” he whispered in a trance, as if his own narration was coming to life before his smokey eyes. “Carefully cutting her into tiny pieces and disposing of them.”
Unaware of the sudden twist in his friend’s plot, Kevan stood to declare, “Maybe she just stopped for ice cream! You know, that impulse that comes when you pass a Haagen Dazs stand... because she’s taking a long time in getting here.”
He sighed and kicked the porch-step pathetically, returning from his wild fantasy. He looked up to where Dave sat with the cigar ashing between shaky fingers.
“And then you wait by the phone,” Dave concluded with a raspy voice. “Nervous that someone found some of those pieces...”
He then turned to Kevan and shrugged, “And it's the same old thing all over again.”
Kevan stared with confusion at his comatose friend.
“Wow... And you’re the married one. I don’t understand.”
“The world is a twisted place, my friend,” Dave exclaimed with a smile. “Let's go inside. I gotta read some Jules Verne to the kids before they go to sleep. They have cooler dreams when I do that.”

The Fishward City Dialogues: Three

2010-04-29T14:55:00.000-07:00

“Let's see here, Rocky VII or the Kill Bill remake?”
“Zach, we discussed this before. I can't handle the blood.”
Zach threw his head back and rolled his eyes in frustration. He wasn't really that frustrated, but he wanted to take the jab at his friend anyway. He sighed audibly and continued scanning the movie times, glowing red and yellow behind the counter.
“I mean, there's always Hannah Montana, Sean... Is that more your cup o' tea?”
“Shut up,” Sean retorted with a swing of his burly arm at his taunter. The man behind the counter was not amused.
“Have you ladies decided what you're going to see yet?” he interjected with melancholy. “Last showings start in 10 minutes, and at this rate...”
The two boys stood dumbfounded by the clerk's comment. His eyes were dark and dull, just like his voice, as he stared back at them with chin in hands. He had greasy hair that stuck across his forehead and a scraggly mustache covering his top lip. The tag on his shirt read “Flickers Cinema” in what was once probably shiny brass. Zach spoke first, as he was the quicker of the two.
“Okay, Flickers. What do you think we should see?”
Flickers shrugged and turned to glance at the glowing board over his left shoulder, than his right. He hummed lightly to himself as he skimmed the movie titles until his attention was brought back by another crowd purchasing tickets. After a few moments of attending to them, he looked back at the board and then to the two boys.
“Well, let me get this straight,” he said, shifting in his swivel-chair. “You like the action and violence, while you... don't...”
“Yeah,” the two agreed.
“But the chick-flicks are out, I assume.”
“Yes,” they both said adamantly.
Flicker sighed.
“Praise God. Now, I take it you both are indie film geeks. Shaky camera, lots of misplaced F-bombs, suits without ties, acoustic soundtracks... But I'm not going to direct you that way! Because you're nice guys and you deserve better.”
“Um... Thank you,” offered Sean before the clerk continued his diagnosis.
“You're welcome. They're all sold out anyway. But... Sean, right?” He pointed at the hefty kid. “You seem as if you'd like the dialogue-based stuff. Soderbergh, Coen Brothers, etc.”
“Yeah,” Sean concurred, impressed by Flicker's insight. Zach just rolled his eyes, this time actually a bit frustrated. Sean didn't care. He never cared. That's why they had been best friends for 8 years. Besides, this was intriguing and it was looking like the clerk may actually have a good suggestion for them to take.
“That settles it then?” persisted Zach.
“That settles it!” smiled Flicker as he punched in the movie title and tore the tickets. “Theatre 5 is showing a terrific little western with excellent acting, a decent plot, and some solid action sequences. And it's on the house, boys. Enjoy.”
He winked at Sean.
“Minimal blood.”
The two boys thanked the greasy clerk and entered the theatre without even checking the title on their tickets. As they took their seats, the lights dimmed and the previews kicked in. Zach spoke first, as he usually did.
“You've got to be kidding.”

one of my favorite songs fromwithin the last 50 years

2010-04-27T07:26:00.000-07:00

Timothy Seth Avett as Darling — About Love from Ramseur Records on Vimeo.

The Fishward City Dialogues: Two

2010-04-24T10:07:00.000-07:00

“You know dear,” he began with a smirk as he approached her under the streetlamp. “If this was a musical, I think there'd be a choir of angels behind you right now.”
She blushed shamelessly and raised her shoulders.
“Oh yeah? And what song would they be singing?”
“Romeo, Romeo! We see your heart aglow,” he sang, spreading his arms wide. “Our wings start flapping too when she comes around, the dear sweet... ugh...”
He gestured to her to fill in the blank where her name belonged. She obliged with a smile.
“Julie...”
Romeo took a step back in unbelief, his eyes sparkling with joy. Then he stepped forward again and leaned with his elbows on the table between them. It was rickety and could barely hold his weight, but he didn't notice or care as he stared deep into the girl's gypsy eyes.
“Julie, huh? That's a lovely name. A little coincidental. You're not mocking me, by chance, are you?”
“Depends,” she responded, her innocent countenance unwavering. “Romeo.”
Just then, she shifted the table so that his arms slipped and he fell to his knees.
“Y'gonna buy something or what?”
Overcome with humiliation, Romeo staggered to his feet and fumbled through his pockets.
“Um... yes please. I'd like two jelly rolls and a cinnamon bagel, please.”
Julie chuckled to her self as she boxed the goodies and handed them to the confused man. She accepted his $10 and returned to him $4 and some change. He counted the change in his shaking hand and looked up with surprise.
“A discount,” he asked, holding out the handful of change.
She looked at her watch and nodded.
“According to my watch, it's 5 minutes past. So it's the Tuesday sale!”
“Thanks, Julie,” murmured Romeo as he pocketed the money and took up his box of treats. “You got any plans later? I was thinking of catching a flick downtown.”
“Maybe tomorrow night, buddy,” Julie said, pushing a stray hair behind her ear.
He knew that meant no. It always did, but the smile she gave him eased the pain. He smiled back at her and bowed cordially.
“Goodnight then, dear. We'll see you again soon.”
She curtsied with a giggle as he backed away slowly into the darkness of the street.
“Goodnight, sir. Enjoy the movie.”

The Fishward City Dialogues: One

2010-04-19T17:03:00.000-07:00

“I mean, come on,” he said, scanning the diner. “How would you react if you realized you were talking to a cup of coffee?”
“That is a little strange, Jenkis.”
Jenkis sighed and pushed back his scraggly hair with a shaky hand. His friend sat calmly across from him, staring patiently in his direction. The two were a stark contrast, sitting quietly in the corner booth of the busy room.
His friend’s voice was warm and soothing.
“What’s wrong? It’s okay, you can talk to me. I'm your friend.”
Jenkis shifted in his seat and loosened his tie. His friend understood.
“The investigation... Not going so well, eh?”
“No,” Jenkis laughed wearily. “It’s not.”
Just then, the waitress appeared like a sunbeam on a cloudy day. Her black hair was in a bun, with a few strands draping across her cheeks - a frame for her sweet smile and big blue eyes. The eggs and hash browns were okay, but she was the real reason Jenkis found himself there every night.
“Can I get you anything else?” she asked with a slight northern accent.
Jenkis smiled as his friend answered her with a friendly “no.”
“Thank you,” added Jenkis, sheepishly.
She winked at him and laid the check face-down on the table, turning back toward the kitchen. Jenkis followed her with his tired eyes as he quietly continued answering his friend’s inquiry.
“We can’t seem to catch up with this guy... or guys, whoever they are. Just when we think we know who it is, that person either winds up dead or we find clues pointing in a completely new direction.”
“She’s kind of cute,” his friend remarked, changing the subject.
Jenkis ignored him, carrying on with his train of thought.
“Six months running, and it’s getting a little old.”
“You’ve been trying for that long to get her number?” his friend interjected.
Jenkis chuckled as he climbed out of the booth.
“You’re such a jerk.”
“Hey, you’re the one talking to coffee cups!” his friend retorted playfully.
Jenkis paid the cashier and returned to leave a tip under his plate, as he did every night.
“See you tomorrow night,” Jenkis pitched absent-mindedly as he turned to leave.
“Generous as usual, eh Jenkis?” his friend offered as a final jest.
“Good night, Joe,” Jenkis called back over his shoulder as he walked out the door.
The cold city streets met him like a knife to the chest. The stench of fish and blood was a crass reminder of the life he left out on the sidewalk, like a dog, every night when he entered the diner. And every night, he would step back out to meet it and find it uglier, mangier, and more rabid than before.

from the USS Gloria

2010-04-19T12:26:00.000-07:00

"When the concrete of the world becomes too cumbersome to lift, and the cataracts of fear and doubt cloak truth beyond what we can sift and darkness bleeds its way, when crippling anguish clouds our sight... hold on, hold tight. Light of the world, Your love has never failed." - Brave Saint Saturn

Words of a Great Man

2010-04-13T17:14:00.000-07:00

"It would not be true to say that I am no longer lonely. I have made myself articulate and understood to people in many parts of the world, and this is something we all wish to do whether we're crippled or not. Yet, like everyone else, I am acutely conscious sometimes of my own isolation, even in the midst of people, and I often give up hope of ever being able to really communicate with them that every writer or artist must experience in the creative mood if he is to create anything at all. It's like a black cloud sweeping down on me unexpectedly, cutting me off from others, a sort of deaf-muteness. I lay back in my chair while my old left foot beats time to a new rhythm. Now I could relax and enjoy myself completely. I was at peace. Happy." - Christy Brown

Help my unbelief

2010-04-11T13:55:00.000-07:00

"Unbelief puts circumstances between the soul and God; faith puts God between the soul and circumstances." - C. H. MacIntosh

The Fishward City Dialogues: Preface

2010-04-11T05:45:00.000-07:00

“Okay, I think we need some code names here, because... you know, in the movies... they always have code names.”
He paced the floor of the broom closet, grateful to know the local pizza shop’s owner. It just made it all feel more legitimate - more surreal.
“Okay,” agreed his right-hand man. “Any ideas? Like Cobra or Bromski, what?”
He shook his head.
“No no no. We need a theme. Something classy.”
“Like names... from a book or something?” suggested his left-hand man.
“Exactly!” he cried, pacing the dirty 3-ft square hull. “Okay, I’ve got it. I’ll be Mr. Darcy.”
He pointed to his right-hand man.
“Dough-boy, you’re Mr. Bennett. And you, Lefty - you’ll be...”
“Wait a sec, Big Tim,” Mr. Bennett interrupted. “Why do you get to be Mr. Darcy?”
Mr. Darcy squinted with confusion, as if the answer was obvious.
“Because... I’m the man...”
“He is the man, Mr. Bennett,” interjected Lefty.
Mr. Bennett was getting flustered.
“Who died and made you leader of this outfit, anyway?”
The very small Mr. Darcy stretched on his toes to be face-to-face with Mr. Bennett. He whispered, but there was strength behind the hiss that reminded the gang he was in charge.
“Because I invited you to join this outfit, I scouted out the bank, I got the blueprints of the entire block, I got the guns and drills and masks, I came up with the plans, and most importantly... I know the owner here!”
“Actually,” chimed Lefty. “The owner is my dad. That’s why I work here.”
That reminded Mr. Bennett.
“Hey, I work here too.”
“We all work here, guys,” Mr. Darcy concluded, a little frustrated himself. “But I’m in tight with the owner... your dad.”
“Oh,” the others said together as the door cracked open.
A pair of black beady eyes poked in, along with an abstractly round nose.
“Smoke-break is over, fellas,” murmured the owner. “Back to work.”
As the balding old man turned back into the kitchen, the three boys followed they signaled to one another as they exited the closet. Mr. Darcy combed down his greasy hair. Mr. Bennett wiped his hands on his apron. Lefty scratched his chin. Then they all coughed simultaneously and strolled out into the dining area to carry on with their inconspicuous day jobs.

Innocent Smith

2010-03-29T10:18:00.000-07:00

Shah Mat: the Killing Stroke (ch. 2)

2010-03-17T06:45:00.000-07:00

He wrapped his brittle thumb and index finger around the crown of his Queen piece, gripping it firmly. Our eyes met, but he did not move her to strike. He held her there and stared into my face, several yards off. His voice came out faintly and I could hardly make out his words anymore. Still, he continued to speak, and I straddled the edge of my seat, straining to understand his words. As I stretched out my neck to listen, I found myself rising to my feet and creeping slowly toward the man. Our eyes remained locked as I drew closer. He spoke without pause, assuming I could hear him, no doubt.
It was only when I reached my place opposite him at the board and knelt before his hunched frame, that I could hear his discourse clearly. I realized then he was not addressing me, per say, but running through a sort of narrative aloud.
“I had a wife,” he muttered. “She sold goods with her father in the market. The first time I saw her, my heart leapt in my chest and I knew she was the one. Three years we were married, and a child on the way. I had been a fisherman by trade, but took over her father's place in the market when we wed and he retired.”
A tear came from his eye and lingered on his flakey cheek. I averted my eyes, trying to avoid the image. When I looked down, I saw that his fingers were bleeding from gripping the sharp crown, and his other hand was bruised by his own weight. Glancing back at his face, though, I could see that it was not the physical pain which brought him grief. His heart ached, and he was laying out before me the reason, like a scroll.
“Three years married, and a child on the way. That's when she came to my shop, the little girl with green eyes. She couldn't have known, she was so young and scared. She and her mother had come to the market once or twice before. It had been months since I had seen them, but she recalled my kindness. That's why she came to me, she said. Her mother was sick and she asked me to come see her. Damn that kindness! I did go, and caught her pestilence before even crossing the threshold.”
Our eyes were set on one another again and I found myself unable to move, mere inches from the bandaged face of this walking deadman. My heart ached in rhythm with his, and my lips began moving in unison with his covered mouth as the narrative progressed.
“They say six feet from a leper is safe, a hundred feet is best. So they sent me here when the mother was found dead a few days later. My shop was replaced. My wife was tested for the disease and, praise God, came out clean. But the child was stillborn because of the tests and this drove my wife insane, without me there to comfort her. So now I am here in exile, with my home just out of reach, and all that was my life – my kingdom – now taken from me. And my body fails me as well, so that I have nothing. I have nothing but this eye and nose, and a few simple fingers... and these fail me slowly even now as we speak.”
His left hand, which had been leaning hard on the edge of the board, then reached up and clenched my shoulder. I pulled back on impulse, but could not escape his grip. Like the Queen in his other hand, I was now at the mercy of these frail fingers. His right eye widened and the bandages stretched as he raised his forehead with excitement.
“My friend, our kingdoms are burned to the ground before they are even built. This world, and these shells wandering in it, will fail us. Our fingers will break and mountains will fall into the sea, hearts will stop beating and stars will burn out. And there's not a thing we can do but watch.”
A breeze picked up and I could feel my lungs deteriorating with each inhale of sand and stench. My hands moved quickly to cover his right and I tightened my grip, feeling the Queen's crown cut into my skin as well. I was infected now, and I had been since he first moved that Knight at the start of our game. The whole play had been the image of what had happened to my opponent's life, and now what was happening to mine. I drew closer, still clutching his hand and the Queen, until our noses nearly touched.
“Then why play the game?” I whispered, tears now rising in my eyes.
“Because,” he said with a kind of peace in his voice. “While everything else is dying, one thing remains alive. It's called Hope. It's really the only thing we have dominion over. We alone choose its fate. We can kill it... or we can allow it to live and stir up something within us called Life, completely independent of the ephemeral and detritus. Hope – Life – drives us to carry on... to play the game, my friend. That's why... And anyway, why not?”
The last glimpse of sun light fell behind the western hills as we together shifted the bloody Queen to her respectful place and declared with flaccid breath, “Check-Mate.”

Shah Mat: the Killing Stroke (ch. 1)

2010-03-16T10:31:00.000-07:00

The board was set. Traditional rules say white goes first, so I made my move – the Queen's Open. Always a wise start. I looked up from the board, made eye contact with my opponent, and began the walk to my seat a few yards off. When I sat down, my opponent stood from his seat and carried himself slowly toward the board. He took his place quietly and responded with a Knight, placing it forward and to the left, in front of the Bishop. After studying the layout for a moment, he looked my way and rose to his feet. As he returned to his seat a few yards in the opposite direction of mine, I stood and made my way to the black and white arrangement. I studied it along the way and had my next three moves determined by the time I reached for another Pawn.
Our game went on as such for some time, undisturbed by passersby or conversation. We were in a sad oasis, a tree or two with a small pool of muddy water in their shade, and a humble tent where my opponent slept. A city could be just barely seen on the horizon to the east, but mountains and desert surrounded us otherwise. Our battle of strategy unfurled slowly, as we each made our way back and forth to the board accordingly. I tried my best, out of courtesy, to set my pace to match that of my opponent's, this being a shuffling sort of limp. I wondered if he weren't uncomfortably warm in his garb; under such a hot sun, his rags and bandages had to be cumbersome and irritating to the skin. The gauze and linens were wrapped around his hands and the calves of his legs, and they covered his mouth and both ears. His left eye was covered, but the right was piercing enough on its own, glancing up to meet my own eyes at each turn taken.
As the round progressed, it became clear that I had the upper hand and would arise the victor. I quickly took that Knight with which he had stepped out so boldly, then I made off like a bandit with a few of his Pawns and a Rook. Then went the other Rook, a Bishop, and a couple more of his Pawns. In due time, I had seized all but his Queen, King, a Bishop, and three Pawns. And all the while, he merely scrapped a handful of my Pawns and Rook. I smiled to myself menacingly as I drew ever-nearer to my win. This was one of the easiest games I had ever taken, and it will be over in just a few more moves.
I gazed up at the sun as my opponent stumbled toward the board. It was past midday, nearly three hours had gone by. For such an easy game, it was certainly proving to be the longest I had ever engaged as well. Not only was my opponent slow in gait, but he took his time in choosing strategy as well, holding pieces in place for several minutes at a time. Finally, he would shift the pieces painfully and I would then proceed to take them with anything but mercy. This time was no different.
Upon checking the time, I directed my focus back to my opponent, who was still inching his way toward the board. As he reached it, he placed his shriveled hand atop his King and held it there for several moments. Then he switched to the Bishop and leaned down upon it. Suddenly, he spoke with heaving and a tattered voice.
“Your kingdom is wide, and your life abundant. See, I have nothing but this eye and nose, and a few simple fingers. Yet I understand life in this light and need nothing more to feel complete.”
His expression never changed, but a gleam crossed his right eye like a shooting star through the blackest of nights. Gripping the Bishop tightly, he slid it convulsively to meet one of my Knights and claimed it without emotion. As he returned to his seat, he called back over his shoulder to me.
“Watch now as I burn your kingdom to the ground.”
I was stunned at his sudden change in character, and remained seated in shock for a moment. Who was this man, so feeble yet full of such surprises? I gathered my wits and made my way to the game, one piece less than before, but still on top. As I studied the board, the bit of confidence I had been robbed was returned to me. With a swift and graceful strike, I took another of his Pawns, and returned to my seat. To think, for a moment I was nervous!
Despite the change in his attitude, my opponent's speed remained the same. This time, he took hold of his Queen and leapt her across the plane to attack one of my Pawns.
I called out to him as he released the piece.
“Finger for a finger, eh?”
He acknowledged my comment with a slight wink and found his seat again. Our turns went on quietly as before, but the tables were turned with each play and I was soon stripped of all but my two pieces of Royalty. I was confounded with each move. As I would advance and maneuver my way to strike well, he would blindside me and overtake my pieces before I had time to retreat. Lastly, he took my Queen.
I grew frustrated and forgot about the sun lowering in the west. As darkness fell around us, my opponent stood once more and limped forward to make his final move. He held his right arm to his chest and breathed heavily with each step. He was tired, but this was it. The ground soaked up the blood from his knees as he knelt roughly before the board. He could stand no long, but he didn't have to. He was the victor. With one simple shift of his Queen, I would find myself defeated.

Sunday's Wager

2010-02-23T09:46:00.000-08:00

Sam was an everyman. Some would say his life was boring, but actually his life was quite bored with him as well and had to remind itself often that the man knew no better. He came from a long line of boring men and he carried on the legacy well. Writing columns for the local fish-grubber paid the bills, and piecing together staplers in a factory by the cove insured immunity of any sort of social life in the near future. Sam wore dull sweaters and shorts, and held strong convictions on exactly how socks should be folded and stored. His spectacles were thick and set crookedly on his scrawny face, always slipping down his nose and being pushed up again. His spectacles were quite bored with him as well.

His days would put up bets on how long each of them could last before resorting to nighttime out of sheer boredom. Wednesday typically won and Saturday always lost. Sunday hardly ever laid down a wager, but surprised everyone now and again, and brought with one particular morning a fairly hefty bet that no one (not even Monday) expected. Some of the other days assumed it was a bluff, but there was something in the sunrise that suggested otherwise. The morning went by in it's normal Sunday morning kind of way. Sam made a small breakfast for himself and then attended service at the Assembly down the block. Then he returned home, had a simple lunch and took his regular place in the easy-chair by the window, where the days could see him clearly. They grew confident at the continuity of this morning, and began mocking Sunday.

“That was it,” they laughed. “That was your chance, Sunday! He'll stay indoors for the remainder of your time, couped up in that plain little house. No excitement, no adventure to entertain you. He'll simply sit there and bore you and his spectacles to death until you finally retire. What could you have possibly been thinking?”

But Sunday just smiled and shrugged at their jest, because while they laughed at Sunday, they didn't notice Sam getting thirsty. The boring little man pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth and licked his lips rhythmically for a while. His bare feet tapped lightly and scuffed the brown carpet as he looked up at the wall clock across the room. He checked it with his wristwatch and shoved his glass up against his face mechanically. He glanced out the window, nearly making direct eye contact with Sunday. Then he impetuously gripped the armrests of the easy-chair and pushed himself up to stand.

The days all ceased laughing and stared in wonder as Sam crossed the room slowly to the dank little kitchen. They loosened their neckties and glanced nervously at Sunday as the man took a glass from the cupboard. And Sunday just smiled casually back at them as Sam turned the faucet knob and filled the glass with cool, clear water.

Still standing by the sink, Sam took a sip of the water and was pleased to find it did the trick. His feet were cold on the linoleum floor, so he took a seat at the kitchen table and propped his feet on the brace of the old wooden chair. Sipping a bit more water, he set the glass before himself on the table and rubbed his thumb passively over a notch in the table. Then a sudden splash of liquid came and filled the notch, much to Sam's natural surprise. Looking about, he wondered where it had come from – hopefully not a leak in the roofing. There was no where else it could have come from, since his glass was the only other source of water in the room and was setting upright and neatly on the table. Then again, it was a lovely, sunny day outside and had not rained in fact for several days. Perhaps a pipe was busted, but the water pipes ran through his walls.

Pondering this enigma, he lifted the glass to his lips for another sip, but was met with a spritz of water in his face. It dripped down his spectacles and cheeks, and he dried himself with the sleeve of his chartreuse sweater. The frustrated man slammed the glass firmly on the table and sighed audibly.

The Loch Ness Monster sighed audibly as well, confused and flustered by her current predicament. She had taken a nap earlier in the day, and now found herself waking up in the confines of this strange moving pool. Similar phenomenas had occurred before in her long life, she was once nearly boiled alive by Vikings and then unavoidably bathed with a Chinese dictator some time later. This time, she swore to herself, would be the last. No more mid-day naps, they never end well. But for the time-being, she decided she would just have to take in her situation and find a way home.

Sam had a similar thought, though his came from the countertop across the room where he was perched in fear. With one trembling hand he covered his mouth, and with the other he held a spatula above his head like a katana. He stared unbelievably at the glass of water and the scaly creature swimming circles within it. When it stopped and stared back at him, he lowered his hands and spoke what had been racing through his mind.

“I almost drank you,” he whispered in unbelief.

The creature began swimming circles again slowly in her tiny aquatic prison, ignoring the frightened onlooker. Placing the spatula back in its drawer, Sam took his seat again at the kitchen table, never taking his eyes from the creature in the glass. He laid his head down sideways on the table, bringing himself level with the captive. Without incentive, he repeated himself again.

“I almost drank you. But who are you? Do you have a name? I almost drank you, and I don't even know what to call you.”

The Loch Ness Monster stopped circling again and stared at Sam, her intense black eyes meeting his nervous blues. Neither of them moved for several moments, until she suddenly flicked her tail and sent a splash of water into his face. This startled the man and he fell back in his chair, kicking the table in his folly. The table jerked to the left and the glass of water tipped over, sending the cool water rushing across the table and cascading to the floor. The creature stroked her fins frantically through the current as she was swept out of the glass prison and over the edge of the table.

Sam's chair was not as sturdy as he assumed, and its legs gave way under all the excitement, sending him backward to the floor. His head cracked against the linoleum floor and the world around him went black as the water soaked into his sweater. When he finally awoke, it was nighttime and the moon reflected silver beams off the still-wet floor. His sweater felt tight with dampness as he sat up and rubbed the back of his bruised head. He looked about at the mess and wondered where the little devil had gone, who tainted his water and caused all this ruckus in the first place. The glass was shattered on the floor and water had reached the living room carpet, but the creature was nowhere to be found.

Taking in the circumstances, Sam decided to leave the mess for cleaning up in the morning. And with that, he changed into his pajamas and crawled into bed, reluctantly avoiding his toothbrush. After all, one mythical sea monster a day was his limit, and one never knows what will come from his bathroom tap.

H.G. Wells' Sleeper Awakes (pt 3)... with commentary

2010-02-15T10:26:00.001-08:00

“He was a poor nobody, and set on a playful woman, poor soul!”

In reading H.G. Wells (one of my favorite authors), I've learned to never fall in love. Otherwise, I might get my heart broken and become an insomniac, then fall into a coma for 200 years, waking up only to find that I in fact own half the world and everyone is out to kill me for it. I don't know; I hear love is a many splendored thing, but is it worth all that?!

Spur Turkey

2010-02-15T06:55:00.000-08:00

A new sketch to go along with the old tale of Spur Turkey. See "Fishing for Stars, Hunting for Moons" from a few months ago. This might just show up again soon.

H.G. Wells' Sleeper Awakes (pt 2)

2010-02-07T17:58:00.000-08:00

He wandered for miles along these twilighted ways, speaking to no one, accosted by no one - a dark figure among dark figures - the coveted man out of the past, the inestimable unintentional owner of half the world.

Whip, the Snapper

2010-01-31T11:47:00.001-08:00

There once was a little boy, no more than 5 or 6 years of age, but who was by far the fastest gun in the imaginary West. They say the flick of his wrist was like a cobra striking as he drew his piece and gave the killing shot every time, for he was just as precise as he was quick. This is why they called him the Snapper, and also why they called him Whip. His eyes were barely ever seen, the brim of his hat shading them like a good hat should, and he wore a smirk cocked to the right side of his face that said it all. It said, “I know I'm quick, but I'm not cocky; that weakens a man, slows him down, and then I wouldn't be quick anymore.” He carried a red handkerchief in his right hand, mindlessly fiddling with it at all times. Some say it was a nervous twitch, others say he subconsciously preoccupied his self with it because his mind was bored with the world around him, and still others assumed he just had a sweaty palm and used the cloth to keep it from getting too clammy. Whatever was the case with his right hand, it was his left that caught the eye of passersby as it rested calmly beside the shiny six-shooter on his hip. The pistol seemed to be a natural part of the boy, as if it had been fashioned to fit his hand and match his smirk. He had no horse to ride here and there, and when asked about this, he would simply chuckle to himself and casually exclaim that they're just too slow and cumbersome.