CREATIVE WRITING's topics - tribe.net

Capture The Flag

2008-05-07T01:10:31Z

I don't know why I wanted it so bad. I knew that it was wrong. It had become an obsession, something that had at first seemed so casual, a fanciful thought best left unrealized, now racing around in my head and gaining momentum. It called to me, sweetly in the wind, waving seductively everytime I cast my glance it's way. I had to have it, I didn't know how and I didn't know why. I only knew that we were meant to be together. Still, I knew that it was wrong.
While not quite as high on the list of sins as "Thou Shalt Not Kill", "Thou Shalt Not Covet Thy Employers' Hugely-Over-Sized American Flag" was hardly a misdemeanor in the eyes of the Lord. My lunatic fantasies also involved theft, another no-no, clearly covered and well defined by Moses' tablets under the "Thou Shalt Not Steal" section.
I loved American flags for what they symbolized, and this was the grandaddy of them all. I saw the flag every day as I came to work, and then again as I left. It was also a minor landmark, the first thing you saw when you came over the bridge into town, so I often saw it on my days off as well. The more I saw it, the more I wanted it. I wrestled with the moral dilemma for months.
I'm proud to say that I've come a long way in the years since, but at the age of nineteen my moral compass sometimes pointed South. As an early teen I had been one of the area's most prolific shoplifters, and the instigator of more than a few "yahoo-beer-runs", which didn't involve stopping at the cash register. I didn't consider myself a bad person, criminally mischievous perhaps, but not outright "bad". Besides, I reasoned, I would bring the flag back when the novelty wore off. I wasn't going to steal it, I was only going to borrow it.
The logistics of the heist presented their own set of problems. The flag was at least thirty feet up a pole and in plain view, spotlighted at night, no less, of a well-trafficked four-lane highway. Getting up there would be hard enough, not getting caught doing it would be even more difficult.
The flag was huge, monstrous, one of the largest available on the market, twenty-five feet of star-spangled magnificence, the kind you see flying at some of the larger gas station chains. I really didn't even know what the hell I'd do with it if I got it, I couldn't exactly hang it in the back yard. In retrospect, the thrill of actually doing it was what enthralled me, not the possession of it.
Although I was only working at my job to save money to hit the road yet again, I didn't want to get fired for a dumb prank. Chef Brad, the pride of Providence, Rhode Island, and the accent to prove it, had been good to me, teaching me some of the fundamentals of cooking and often shielding me from Jim, the General Manager who hated my guts. Although I had long hair, wore tie-dyes to work, and was generally a wiseacre, Brad appreciated that I was a hard worker, a quick study, and my hunger for knowledge. His raunchy, and often downright sick, sense of humor, juggling skills with dinner rolls and enthusiasm for his craft kept my job interesting and entertaining. He was someone I liked and respected very much.
Jim didn't like me based on general principles, and the feeling was mutual. Smarmy, polished and slick-talking, he was a power and money-hungry junior-yuppie with expensive tastes in clothes and cars, not to mention a bitchy wife with a jewelry fetish. As a couple they embodied everything I had come to loathe. I found out later he had been embezzling money the whole time, so I'm actually glad he didn't like me, as there may be something seriously wrong with me if he had. I avoided Jim the best I could and did my best to be nice when I was around him, but forced smiles and artificial warm tidings were never my strong suit.
Brad often joked that Jim had wanted to fire me at least a dozen times in my six month tenure, but I remained employed, as Brad made it very clear that only he decided who was hired and fired in the kitchen. In truth, I think he enjoyed telling Jim "no way" and probably felt the same way about him as I did, but he was forced to be diplomatic about it, as they shared in the ownership of the place with unnamed silent partners.
I tried to forget about the flag, and was able to for quite some time, until one Thursday evening when we had an unexpectedly busy dinner rush. Thursdays were Matthew's day off. He was Brad's Sous Chef and the man who normally worked the grill with proficiency, able to keep up with whatever the dining room could throw at him. I was the lowly fry cook, a still wet-behind-the-ears pup, learning my way around the place. I didn't have the experience or skills of Matthew, and I was skeptical of my abilities as the hostess kept coming back with updates to the reservation list. We were well over a hundred people. We were going to get our asses handed to us.
"Are you ready for a busy night?" Brad asked, seeing the nervousness in my mannerisms and a touch of fear in my eyes.
"This place doesn't hold enough people to scare me," I replied, an expression I'd heard Matthew use before. In truth, I wasn't as sure of myself as my false bravado implied.
That night I had to be the lowly fry cook and the grill man, with Chef Brad handling the saute' and expediting duties. It wasn't an optimal situation by any means, but I was determined to do my best. I ordered a double espresso from the bar and prepared for the worst.
The dinner orders began arriving just after five 'o clock, with hustling, bustling servers pausing in the food window just long enough to hang their tickets and bark out special instructions for their orders before scurrying back to the dining room and another table of guests. Soon there were food tickets lining the entire window, with a substantial pile waiting to be hung up.
I was lost in a whirlwind of steak-flipping and seafood-frying for what seemed an eternity. As soon as we got the food for one dinner order out, two more tickets popped up in it's place. I was beginning to get flustered. It felt like it was never going to end, and I wanted a cigarette in the worst kind of way. Brad laughed when I asked him if I could quickly duck outside to have one, adding sternly, "Are you fucking joking?" I assured him that I was, even though I was not, and went back to my cooking duties, the nicotine monkey on my back pulling on my ears and slapping me on the back of the head as I tossed more steaks on the grill.
It was hectic and chaotic for the better part of three hours, with a minor calamity thrown in for good measure, when the hollandaise sauce began to separate. Chef Brad deftly handled the situation by folding the broken sauce into a couple of more frothy egg yolks. The long line of food orders slowly dwindled. When there were only two tickets left hanging in the window, Brad allowed my much needed smoke break.
As I stepped out the back door I lit up my cigarette and inhaled deeply. I felt the drug's rush course through my veins and settle my overstimulated nerves. I loved it and I hated it all at the same time. The night was warm and muggy, typical for an August night along the Carolina coast. Off in the distance, beside the highway, I saw the flag, spotlighted against the backdrop of a starry, moonless sky. It hung limply on the pole for want of a breeze to make it fly. I shook my head at my own foolishness for ever thinking of stealing it. Finishing my cigarette, I turned and walked back into the kitchen, knowing that a mess awaited me.
I was almost shocked to see that Brad had already done a lot of the cleaning in the short time that I had stepped outside. This was not something that most chefs were known for, tending to leave a lot of the grunt work for their underlings, yet another thing about him that earned my respect and admiration.
I was excited. I had done well, I was able to keep up on both cooking stations and I had only burned one steak. We got good reports from the dining room and everyone seemed happy. Brad high-fived me, the servers thanked me, even Jim stopped by to give me a slightly begrudged congratulations. I was exhausted, but exhilarated. I had passed a major test when the chips were down.
"Do you want a beer?" Brad asked, setting the green scrubbie pad he'd been using in the soapy water pail.
"You know I'm not twenty-one yet," I said, denying the inner voice that was screaming out, "YES!!!!"
"That's not what I asked you," he retorted with an arched eyebrow.
"Well, then most definitely yes," I replied, a beaming smile coming over my face. I knew Brad liked me, but he'd never offered this favor before.
"Have this place cleaned up by the time I get back," he called over his shoulder as he walked out of the kitchen.
I put the fininshing touches on the clean-up job Brad had started. My fry station was still a mess, tempura batter, flour and eggwash in streaks and splatters across the stainless steel. I usually tried to work cleaner, but caution had been thrown to the wind as I hurriedly tried to keep up with the steady flow of dinner tickets. The tempura had dried into a concrete paste that covered roughly half of my station. I used a butter knife to loosen the big patches and scrubbed the rest of it off as Brad came back through the dining room doors, a pitcher of beer in one hand, two glasses in the other.
He filled the glasses and handed one to me. He raised his in a toast, "Good job, buddy, I knew you had it in you." He clinked my glass and drained half of his in a long pull. He may have been as nervous about the evening as I'd been, although he'd never shown it. I could sense the relief he felt now that it was over. I took a sip of the beer, the cold effervescence flowing down my throat like liquid gold. I took another, feeling a giddiness come over me, a mixture of the residual effect of the espresso I had drunk earlier, the adrenaline rush of the night's business, the sense of accomplishment, having overcome a large obstacle, and the first bracing sips of the cold beer. We drained the pitcher quickly over jokes and light conversation, most of which involved Brad laughing at my "deer in the headlights" impersonation upon hearing how many reservations we were up to.
"Let's go get a refill," he said, waving the empty pitcher and beckoning me to follow him. They usually didn't like me to be seen in the dining room, with my pony tail, ever-present tie-dyed t-shirt, ratty guatemalan shorts and Chuck Taylor basketball shoes, but the diners had cleared out, only a few bussers remaining, busily resetting tables. I followed him into the bar, where he handed the pitcher to the bartender. She looked quizzically at me, knowing me to be underage, but filled it anyway and handed it back to Brad.
We sat at a table in the corner, where we wouldn't be as conspicuous to the remaing bar patrons. One of the servers, a friend of mine from high school named Kevin, who I also knew hadn't turned the magical age of twenty-one yet, came over and joined us. Apparently he tipped the bartender well enough to overlook his lack of legal drinking credentials, as he had a beer in his hand as well. "You guys did great tonight, I can't believe how busy it got," he said, raising his glass to us, "Did you miss not having Matthew back there?"
I for one had definitely missed not having Matthew back there, but Brad answered, "No, we had it handled all the way. I think this kid's going to be a good one someday," he added, gesturing to me. I was at a loss, Brad wasn't always so giving with the compliments.
The other customers in the bar were gone and the second pitcher went almost as quickly as the first one. Brad got the bartender to fill it, but only half-way. He brought it back to the table. "I'm going to take off, I've got to be in early tomorrow," he said, handing the pitcher to me. "Great job tonight and thank you," he said, shaking my hand. I was filled with a sense of pride, being recognized by my mentor for a job well done.
"Thanks, Brad, I'll catch you tomorrow." He walked out of the bar, leaving Kevin and I alone with the bartender, who was gathering her things and leaving as well.
"I don't want either of you back here, you've had enough already," she scolded, digging around in her purse and finding her keys.
"We won't, we're going to leave as soon as we finish these," Kevin promised, holding up his nearly finished glass.
"Alright, I'll see ya'll tomorrow," she said, lighting a cigarette and heading out the door to her car.
As we refilled our glasses with the remaining beer in the pitcher, Kevin told me how much money he'd made in tips and I wondered if I was working in the wrong part of the restaurant. On busy nights the servers raked in the dough, but on the slow nights they were often sent home, usually with nothing to show for it. I decided the slower but steadier hourly wage I made, while rather paltry, was better in the long run.
I had ridden my bike to work since I had no car. I asked Kevin for a ride home, he said it would be no problem. I was living with my parents, trying to save money for my next jaunt to California, and his house was only a couple of miles away. We finished the beer and rose to leave, calling out goodnights to Sandra, the sixtyish but sassy hostess and bookkeeper who was still tallying the night's receipts. She was the last person in the building and she rose from her work to lock the front door behind us.
Kevin was a nice kid, but rather sheltered. We hadn't been friends in school, primarily because of my reputation as a drug-crazed lunatic. We had become friends while working together at the restaurant. He saw that I wasn't nearly as bad as he'd heard, and I saw that he wasn't quite as big of a dork as I'd always thought.
His car was a tan Pontiac station wagon, a "grocery getter" as we called them, and was a gift from his grandmother, whom he still lived with.
As I loaded my bike into the back of the wagon I saw the flag again, high upon it's pole. A light breeze had picked up, unfurling it. It beckoned to me in come-hither whispers, enticing me with red and white-striped fingers. I looked out to the highway, noticing the lack of traffic on the normally busy road.
This was it, my best chance to capture the flag. A plan born of unnatural obsession, unbridled rebellion and too many Budweisers was quickly hatched and the wheels were in motion.
"Kevin, can you keep a secret?" I asked conspiratorially.
"Of course I can keep a secret," he laughed, "What is it?"
"Do you see that flag up there?" I asked, pausing as he turned to look up the pole, "I want it." The deadly serious tone of my voice made him stop laughing.
"Why?", he asked, completely puzzled, a look of worry creeping into his face.
"I don't know, but I want it," I repeated, a grim determination beginning to set in.
"Well, how are you going to get it? It's way up on the pole." he queried, disbelieving. Maybe those kids in school had me pegged right all along. He began to glance around nervously, unsure of what he was getting himself into.
"I'm going to climb the pole and untie it," I said, matter-of-factly.
"You're fucking nuts, what if you fall and break your damned neck?" he quizzed, not knowing me that well, or just how fucking nuts I could be.
I was already walking towards the pole. All manner of bugs and moths swarmed around me as I passed the spotlight, trained on the enormous version of Old Glory above it. I swatted them away, striding headlong into my flirtation with disaster. I knew this was a bad idea, but I was nearly powerless to stop it now. The adrenaline rush you get from doing something both dangerous and illegal coursed through my veins, every bit as addictive as China White is to a junkie. I was drunk on it. I vaguely heard Kevin's hushed protests over my shoulder as I approached the pole, but I was beyond being talked out of it. I was doing it.
I wrapped my hands around the cool metal, leaning back I looked up to where the flag fluttered in the light breeze, trying to estimate how far up I would have to climb to free it. I could barely see the cleat that it was tied to, just over halfway to the top. It looked to be twenty-five to thirty feet.
I had no particular fear of heights and I had been one hell of a tree climber as a child, still my hands became wet with sweat as I gazed up. Was I crazy? Why did I want to this? These thoughts crossed my mind, but were quickly chased away by whatever wild-haired demon that now possessed me. Yes, I was a little bit crazy, and while I really had no good reason to want to climb this pole, steal my employer's flag, and run off into the night with it, it was the best idea I'd ever come up with as far as I was concerned at that moment.
I wiped my hands on my shorts, leaving near-perfect handprints on the fabric of my thighs. I turned to look at Kevin, nervously pacing and shaking his head, probably wondering why he agreed to give me a ride in the first place. I gave him a thumbs up and a smile. It didn't seem to ease his mind very much as he muttered something under his breath, turned and walked back to his car.
I grabbed the pole a foot above my head, clasping my bare knees and shoes around it. I slowly began to inch-worm my way up, using my shoes as my anchor, pushing up and grabbing higher with my hands and pulling the rest of my body as I went. I slowly made my way up, pausing to wipe my hands on my shorts when they became too damp to get a proper hold. The pressure on my knees started to hurt, so I paused, holding on tighter with my arms and feet. It had been many years since I'd climbed any trees, and I'd never tried to climb a flagpole. My skills were a little rusty.
I glanced down at Kevin's car, making sure he hadn't left me. I noticed how far away the ground was getting. I looked far out into the darkness of Winyah Bay, past the restaurant and the boats in the marina, as I gained a bird's eye perspective. My heart was racing as I climbed higher and higher.
There were no cars on the highway, which was a good thing for me, since I couldn't exactly hide. The spotlight below me illuminated my every felonious move. I made the mistake of glancing down at it, and was rewarded with a large white spot across my entire field of vision, I had to pause for a moment, unable to see. I dug in with my feet and thighs, wiping my sweaty hands on my shorts, as my sight slowly came back into focus.
Soon I was nearly to the cleat, I could see it clearer with each inch-worm ascension. I hadn't thought that climbing up here and stealing the flag would be this easy, and as I reached for the cleat to untie the rope I realized that it wasn't going to be. "Shit!" I exclaimed, as I felt the miniature pad lock that the rope was fed through, securing it to the cleat. I hadn't counted on this.
My mind began to race, I was too close to having it to turn back now. My larcenous daydreams, spanning months of watching it wave in the wind as I obsessed about how cool it would look in my room, were coming to fruition, and I was damned if I was going to allow them to be nipped in the bud.
I inspected the lock a little bit closer. It was small, yet sturdy, but had a major design flaw. I saw that if I cut the rope above where it connected to the lock, it's security features were useless. I cursed myself for not having had the foresight to bring a pocketknife with me. I should've known it wouldn't be that easy.
I was exasperated, but I remained undeterred. I began to slide down the pole, fireman style, the speed of my descent regulated by my forearms and inner thighs, both of which quickly became chafed and red, like a rugburn. The way down went a lot quicker than the way up and I was soon back on the ground. I took off in a trot towards Kevin's car.
"What, have you finally come to your senses?" he called out as he saw me approaching, empty-handed.
"No, I have not, as a matter of fact, but there's a fucking lock on it. Have you got a pocketknife?" I asked, already knowing the answer. Kevin was not exactly what I'd call "outdoorsy".
"Why would I have a pocketknife, I don't go around stealing flags all the time," he replied sarcastically, "You should have gotten one from the kitchen when you were in there."
"Damn, that's brilliant, Kevin," I said as I started walking towards the front door of the restaurant.
"That door's locked!" he informed me, his voice a loud whisper.
I barely heard him, I was already trying to think of a reason to tell Sandra that I needed to go into the kitchen. Like most other older ladies, she was not only very nosy, she was extremely gossipy. If I aroused her suspicions in the slightest, it would be known to all tomorrow. She was also an old friend of my grandmother's, so I knew that if I sweet-talked her, played my cards right, and was quick about acquiring a blade, I would have no problems.
I rapped loudly on the glass and waited. The office where she was working was around the corner from the restaurant's foyer, but I thought that Sandra would still be able to hear me knocking, she had often bragged that despite her age, there would be no hearing aids appearing in her ears anytime soon. I knocked louder, ending with a "shave and a haircut" rhythm. I peered through the glass door, hoping that she' d heard me. Soon I saw a tuft of dark hair and one leery eye peak around the corner. She was an old woman, alone in a large building, and she probably thought that I was a robber or an axe-murderer. Seeing that it was me, her look turned from suspicion to puzzlement. I put on my most innocent smile as she crossed the foyer, turned the lock and opened the door half-way.
"I thought you left awhile ago. You scared the daylights out of me when you knocked!" she exclaimed, a sigh of relief escaping her lips.
"I came back because I wanted to make sure I turned the deep-fryer off, Miss Sandra," I lied, laying on the southern charm in double-thick coats. A smile quickly spread across her face at the flattery of being called "Miss". My mother had always told me that good manners were important, and apparently she was right, as Sandra opened the door and stepped aside. The cool air from the dining room dried my perspiration almost instantly as I stepped inside.
"Well, hurry up and go check it then, and would you mind walking me to my car, I hate going out there alone this late."
I felt instantly bad for lying to such a sweet old lady, but I was on a mission, and that was what the mission required.
I sped through the foyer, rounded the corner, and swung open one of the double doors to the kitchen, trying to find the switch. The pilot lights from the stove cast a dim and eerie glow over the kitchen making it seem like a completely different place than the one that I had cooked in only an hour ago. After some drunken fumbling I finally found the light switch. Turning it on, I squinted my eyes nearly shut , momentarily blinded by their flourescence. My eyes adjusted quickly and I saw what I needed, a six-inch boning knife, sitting on the fry table, right where I'd left it after hand-washing it in the triple sink. I carefully slid the knife in my pocket, handle side down, with the blade facing away from my flesh. I walked with a bit of a peg leg and held my hand on my thigh to keep the knife from sliding around. I hoped she wouldn't notice the hitch in my step.
I turned the kitchen lights off and walked back towards the office, where Sandra was closing a filing cabinet and gathering up her keys and purse. She glanced up as I approached, a concerned look coming over her face, "What's the matter, sugah, you're limping?" she asked.
"I hit my leg on one of those tables back there in the dark and it gave me a charley horse," I answered, lying once again. I was surely going to hell for this one.
"Well, are you alright, sugah?" she asked in a grandmotherly voice.
"Yes, ma'am, it doesn't hurt as bad as it did when I bumped it," I said, the lying becoming easier now.
"Well, was the fryer still on?" she inquired.
I had almost completely forgotten that the fryer was my cover story. "Yes, ma'am, it was off, I just figured it'd be better to be safe than sorry," I said, after the slightest hesitation.
"Would you mind walking me out to my car now?" she asked, apparently not noticing my minor flub.
"Yes, ma'am, I'd be happy to," I said politely, reminding myself of Eddie Haskell in the process.
"You are such a nice, well-mannered young man, you sure do make your grandmother proud," she extolled. She obviously didn't know me very well.
"Well, I do try," I said, almost blushing. Her compliments only made me feel worse about my fabrications.
She turned the lights out in the office and as we walked to the front door she veered left, over to a control panel on the wall. "I have to set the alarm, would you mind waiting outside?" she requested.
"Yes, ma'am, I'll be right outside," I said stepping through the door, back into the humidity of the night. I saw her touch some buttons on the keypad as she entered the alarm code. I turned away, looking out into the parking lot, and noticed Kevin, still sitting in his car, nervously smoking a cigarette. I gave a little wave.
"What are you doing?" he shouted. I held up one finger, wordlessly telling him to wait for a minute.
Soon Sandra was at the door, having completed her task of setting the alarm. She turned her key in the lock, then pulled on the handle to make sure it wouldn't open. "I wish they wouldn't leave me alone here at night, I get so worried. There are a lot of robberies and muggings around here," she confided. I hadn't heard of any robberies or muggings within the past couple of years, it was actually a pretty quiet town back then, but I nodded in complete agreement.
I walked her to her car, and as she got in she said, "I need to tell your grandmother how lucky she is to have such a fine young man for a grandson, sugah, thank you so much." I felt two inches tall, my guilt magnified by each of her well-intended compliments.
"Well, thank you, Miss Sandra, you have a nice night now." I wondered how I lived with myself as she drove away. I waved as she pulled out of the parking lot, taking a left turn onto the highway.
The guilt and shame I felt only lasted until I looked up and saw the flag again. Taking the knife out of my pocket, I trotted over to Kevin's car. "So you walk little old ladies to their car before you commit grand larceny? That's good, that's very good," he teased, adding, "Go get the damned flag, I want to get out of here." This was something he would never have had the balls to do himself, and I think he was starting to warm up to being a part of the conspiracy.
I sprinted over to the pole, quickly checking the highway for traffic. It was clear. I clamped the knife between my teeth, again making sure the blade was facing outwards, and began the climb back up the flagstaff. I imagined myself as an eighteenth-century pirate, climbing up to the crow's nest to send a fellow scalliwag down to Davy Jones' Locker. I began to hum, "Yo Ho, Yo Ho, A Pirate's Life For Me". It seemed to make the climb easier.
I was making steady progress, the cleat was nearly within reach, when I saw a pair of headlights in the north-bound lane of the highway. I froze. There was nowhere for me to go. My heart raced and my mind went in a hundred different directions. This was it, I was going to get busted. Then I remembered that I hadn't actually done anything yet, the most they could get me for was trespassing at this point. I forced myself to remain calm. I remained perfectly still as the car continued past, not seeming to notice the oddly clad youth with the knife in his teeth hanging on the flagpole. When I saw the car disappear over the second bridge, I knew that I was safe.
I made it to the cleat with four more inch-worm moves. I removed the knife from my mouth and reached up to free the flag. The blade could have been sharper, but it cut the nylon rope with ease, and the flag instantly began to fall. As I looked up I was suddenly engulfed in darkness. The flag had gotten stuck on my head. I couldn't help but laugh at myself as I pulled it off of me, lifting it over my head I was surprised by how heavy it was. If I hadn't been holding on so tight it would have taken me down with it. It fell to the ground below me and I slid down the pole after it, irritating the rug burn on my forearms and thighs as I went. I barely felt it I was so elated.
I quickly began to grab and ball up as much of the flag in my arms as I could, sprinting for Kevin's car. Red and white stripes trailed behind me like a bride's wedding gown as I ran. Kevin was out of the car, a disbelieving look on his face. "You crazy son-of-a-bitch! I can't believe you actually did it!" he exclaimed exuberantly. He seemed almost as excited as I was.
I hurriedly tossed the flag in the back seat, then climbed in the passenger seat. "Let's get out of here!" I said breathlessly. I was absolutely giddy, but I was also worn out from all the climbing.
The station wagon made for an unlikely getaway car, but Kevin stomped on the gas, spraying gravel from his tires. As we pulled onto the deserted highway I knew that I had gotten away clean with my treasure. I still didn't know what I was going to do with it, but I had it, nonetheless. Kevin was grinning from ear to ear as he motored through town. "Man, you are absolutely nuts, I thought you were going to fall when you cut it down and it fell over your head," he yelled, breaking into laughter.
We pulled into the driveway of my house. I got my bike out of the back of his car, parking it haphazardly by the side door. I retrieved the flag from the backseat and walked over to the driver's side window. "Now don't forget, this is our little secret," I whispered, "Tell no one."
"Don't worry, I want say anything," he replied, still smiling crazily. Technically, he was an accomplice, although I wouldn't have let him get in trouble for something that I'd done. I hoped he would be true to his word and keep his silence on the matter.
He backed out of the driveway and drove away. I struggled to get my key in the lock, my hands shaking badly from the rush of adrenaline that still flowed through me. Finally I was able to get the door open and was thankful to see no lights on in the house. This meant my parents had already gone to bed, which was good, because I didn't want to have to explain how I came into possession of a twenty-five foot American flag at this hour. I tip-toed to my room, stuffed the flag in the closet and went to bed.
The next morning I awoke and barely remembered my larcenous act, but as I saw the white on blue stars poking out of the closet, it all came back to me.
I decided that I would hang it on my ceiling. I found a box of thumbtacks to secure it with and soon the job was done. It covered the entire ceiling of my room and hung half-way down the walls as well. Entering my room was now like walking into a patriotic parachute, the light from the windows filtered through in red and blue tones. It was marvelous, and even cooler than I had imagined.
I wish I could tell you, dear reader, that the flag and I lived happily ever after, but alas, it was not meant to be after all.
All was well until my Mom came home for lunch. As soon as she walked by my room she stopped, unsure what to make of it. "Wow, I like what you've done in here. Where'd you get the flag?" she asked. I could tell by the look on her face she wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer.
"I found it," I replied tentatively. I had never been very effective at concealing the truth from my mother, she had a sixth sense for these things.
"You found it," she repeated, not believing a damned word of it. "Where did you really get it?"
I scrounged every nook and cranny of my brain, trying to come up with a more believable story, but finally settled on the truth, "From work, but if they find out, I'm going to be in some deep doo-doo."
Her hand flew over her mouth in shock, "That's the flag from the marina?" she asked, her voice rising four octaves. I saw a look in her eyes that was part disappointment, part disbelief, and somewhere along the edges I also saw that she was about to bust up laughing. "How did you get it?"
"I climbed the pole and cut it down." I knew that my Mom wasn't like most other Moms in that she had gotten more than her fair share of wild and crazy kicks back in her day, she was a child of the sixties, after all. Unlike most other Moms, she hadn't forgotten what it was like to be a kid; to do stupid things just for the sake of doing them, to put your boogie shoes on and have some fun. She had learned from the mistakes that she made, and she tried to help me learn from them too, but she understood that life's lessons must be learned on your own, and usually the hard way.
"Well, you're going to have to take it back, I don't want stolen goods in my house." She was mad, but just underneath the surface I could tell that she enjoyed, if not necessarily approved, my prank. Still, I could understand her point of view, she was a God-fearing woman who didn't want to get on His bad side, not to mention the legal ramifications.
"Can I take it back at night, so no one will know I did it?" I asked sheepishly. I knew I would be fired, and possibly prosecuted, if they found out I did it. In all honesty, I didn't really care, other than the going to jail part. I had already saved a little money, and I despised Jim and all he stood for. Still, I didn't want to screw Brad over and get fired, I wanted to leave on good terms. It was probably a little late for that now, though.
"I guess that would be alright, I don't want to see you get arrested," she appeased. "What in the world possessed you to do that?"
"Um, the devil?" I replied, trying my best not to laugh.
"That's not funny."
"Not even a little?"
"Well, maybe a little," she said, the barest hint of a smile on her lips. I could tell she was trying to do the good parent thing, but I think she did find the situation a teensy bit humorous.
It was agreed that I would take the flag back under cover of night, and since I had no car, she would even drive me. Not many Moms would volunteer to be wheelman of the getaway car. My Mom is very special, indeed.
I went to work that day as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, expecting to see policemen dusting the flagpole for prints. I was surprised to see that no one even knew that the flag was missing. I was relieved and slightly ticked off at the same time. It was the heist of the decade for Georgetown, in my mind, anyway, and no one even noticed. When Kevin came in for his shift we shared a conspiritorial smile. Alone in the walk-in cooler, he inquired as to whether I had been questioned about the flag's disappearance. "No, I don't even thing they know that it's gone," I answered.
He shook his head in disbelief, "Well, I guess we got away with it."
I received a call from one of my friends at about four o'clock telling me about a party in Myrtle Beach. I wanted to go, but had no way to get there. They offered to pick me up after I got off of work, and I now had something to look forward to later in the evening. Getting back to Georgetown for my shift at work the next day wouldn't be easy, but I considered it a minor triviality when there was a good party to go to. Work was uneventful and went by quickly. I only had to work my fry-station, as we had Matthew back to man the grill.
The party was a good one, wild, drunken, raucous, and I met some people who were going out to California for the Grateful Dead shows later in the week. This was what I'd been waiting for. It was agreed that if I helped with gas money that I could ride with them. I didn't even consider what this would mean to my job situation, which was rather inconsiderate of me, but I didn't know if I'd be able to find another ride to California, the place where I was certain that all of my problems would be solved and my life would be wine and roses. Or bourbon, whichever the case may be.
I awoke the next day with a bad hangover and no way to get to work. I didn't really want to go anyway. I called Brad and explained my situation, that I had found a ride to Cali at the end of the week.
"So what does that mean to me?" he asked, somewhere between disappointment and outright anger.
"I guess it means I'm quitting," I replied. He wasn't the first person that I'd let down, nor would he be the last.
"Well, I appreciate the notice," he said sarcastically, then he hung up on me, which wasn't completely unexpected. I felt terrible for screwing Brad over, and I'd love to say that I didn't know any better, but of course I did.
I was quickly turning into an escape artist, deftly side-stepping responsibility, ducking reality, skillfully picking the locks of every chain that adulthood tried to throw around me. The normal, the familiar, the day-to-day routine, were constrictions that tightened into a stranglehold on my senses of freedom and adventure, slowly killing me as assuredly as if they were hands around my throat. I did what I knew how to do, I was going to run away.
I came home a couple of days later to break the news to my Mom, this was much more difficult than telling Brad, as her silent disappointment stung me to my core. I was aghast when I walked by my room and saw that the flag was gone. I knew instantly that she had done the right thing and taken it back, as a mother would with a small child who had stolen a pack of gum from the grocery store. She explained that when I didn't come home she had grown paranoid, and decided that she had to return it to it's rightful owners. I knew that there would be music to face when I went in to pick up my last check, and that I probably wasn't going to care for the tune.
Later that day, I rode my bike to the marina to pick up my check, a sense of dread growing with each passing mile. Entering the restaurant, I saw a smug and smiling Jim, who looked just plum tickled to see me. I knew why, he was finally rid of me, and as a double bonus, he got to see me leave in disgrace. He went into the office, opened the safe, and returned, still smiling, my paycheck in his hand. "I'll go ahead and cash this for you, there's a small deduction I need to make," he said, his smile still beaming.
"For what?" I asked, "You got your flag back." I fought the irresistable urge to knock the grin from his countenance. I truly hated this man, an emotion that I was unaccustomed to. Neither of us knew it at the time, but I would have the last laugh, as he was sent to a medium-security penitentiary for embezzlement a mere eight months later. Ha,ha, Jim, screw you.
"Well, yes, that is true, and that's the only reason that I'm not pressing criminal charges against you. However, we have to hire a crane to put the flag back up."
My offer to climb the pole and rehang the flag myself fell on deaf ears, and I left the restaurant eighty-five dollars lighter as a result. It was a rather harsh penalty for my stupid prank, but I guess it could have been a lot worse. Life's lessons never come easy or cheap, and I had more than my share of the learning of them still to do.
I made a quick stop by the back door of the kitchen to say my goodbyes to Brad. He had cooled down from our last phone conversation and actually seemed happy to see me. "So when are you heading out?" he asked, his Rhode Island accent heavy. I was happy that he didn't bring up the subject of the pilfered flag.
"In a couple of days, and I'm hopefully never coming back," I answered. I have a theory that no matter how beautiful and idyllic your hometown is, there's always a place that you're sure is a lot better. In my case, I still haven't found it.
"Well, if you ever do come back, please look me up, I'm not done training you yet." I was dumbfounded. His statement meant a lot to me, there weren't many employers who would even consider rehiring someone who quit with absolutely no notice. Brad had truly been an inspiration to me and is a large part of the reason I wanted to be a chef "when I grew up". I began to feel a bit choked up, and after a quick handshake, I left before the waterworks were turned on.
I rode off on my bike, not bothering to look back, on my way, a laughing fool on an endless quest for the golden road and the eternal buzz, neither of which I ever found.

(c) 2008 Shawn Andrews

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 0 replies

Jon's Poetry

2008-05-05T17:56:14Z

Vaulting Height Moon View
White Grey, A Soft White Light Peace
Blue Canopy Sky

Sky Vast Vast High Height
Tiny Black Dotted Sky Flight
Wisps, Vaulted Power

Super Blue Cool Dawn
Movement Flashes The New Sky
Dawn Calligraphy

The Red Sharp Shock Orange
Fall Maple Leaves By Hundreds!
All Stop Stark Against Sky

Suburban Landscape Dreams,
The Sky That Would Wish To Be,
Full Floated Fluff Stuff.

+++

these two are from a writing prompt
“to one who has gone”

Now And Now And Gone,
Hands Held To Head And Screaming
All Tear Born Scarred

Quake; Shaking, Rattling
Rock Cavern Hollow Heart Tear
Wishing Wet Eyes Would Speak

+++++++++
another darker one

Paper Shreds, Flailed
The Scattering To Empty
When I What Was Once

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an “insomnia” haiku

Lagging Nagging Now
Oh No The Again Again
Laughing Dancing Bones

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from an image of Bryce National Park

Stark Erosion Forms
The Eons Of Slow Sculpture
Sand, Beige And Sweet Reds

+++

From an image of Ikebana

On The Table Lines Speak
There Content Colors Reply
My Eyes Stopped, Joy!

+++

from an image of Zion National Park

Soft Red Meanders
The Quiet Life In Corners
Sandstone Beauty Pause

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From the image of a whale and sunset

Gentle Setting Orb
A Whale Celebrates The Sun
Big Happy Boy Splash!

++++

From the image of a peony:

A Gentle Offering
Open Hands Up To The Sky
This Proud Standing Pink

+++

Grand Canyon

http://www.aqua.co.za/assa_jhb/new/Canopus/Can2004/094%20The%20Grand%20Canyon%20Arizona.JPG

Open Vast-Scape Sight
Glorious Red Purple Hue
Thrown Here For Our Eye

+++

http://www.webpages.uidaho.edu/~rfrey/images/lotus.jpg

Pond Is Cool Water
There Supported Standing Up
White Flower Smile

+++

Eyes And Millions And
Tall Trees In The Everywheres
Black Bird Eyes Darting

+++

Big Big Belly Paws
White Bouncy Ready Peppy
Happy Tiger Day

http://www.babyanimalz.com/images/baby.tigers.jpg

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this one is from a photo posted in the Photography Tribe

Greens Seek Blues Seek Peace
There! In The Waning Corner!
Blue Rainbow Mushroom

http://gophoto.tribe.net/photos/f877ec4f-76ce-4eff-b208-bb925c0d23a9

++++

Bossman comedy ones

Sugar plum sweet joy
The tasks he gives me to do
I love my boss so

Soft flower petals
The words he speaks to me
Gentle Dear Bossman

Gentle Dear Bossman
I Brought My Gun Today
Who Is The Boss Now?

+++

Black And White Stripes
This Mime Is Driving Me Nuts
Mime Murder Smile-Joy

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White Star Center Dance
Sharp Cool Blue Spiral Primed
Otherworld Pinwheel

http://www.hermann-uwe.de/files/images/blue_flower.preview_0.jpg

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Bird Bird Bird Hop Hop
Peppy Pop Popping Hop Hop
Wind Gust, Glance, Then Gone

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Die Huge Silverfish
Object Of My Frustration
Thwack! I Feel Better

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Water Wishes, Wants
Mixings, Blues, Lines, Whites And Breath
Stop - Satisfaction

http://www.heilmandesigns.com/waterfall-crystal-creek-2.j.jpg

+++
Canvass And Palette
Soft Orange Purple Caress
Sweet Pastel Sky Sigh

http://www.cadtutor.net/ibank/raster/sky/source/sky-13.jpg

+++

Rose And Dew And Gray
Soft Simple Quiet Morning
A Taste of the Sky

http://www.georgeledger.co.uk/images/monochrome/rose%20and%20dew%202%20B&W.jpg

++++

Sky Deep Sky Blue, Rich
Sand Grass Are Hair Stalks, Rich Lines
Sharp Funk Touches Sky

http://www.qedata.se/bilder/gallerier/litauiskt-galleri/sventoji/strand-dag2.jpg

+++

Beauty's Lonely Tear
She Waits For One Who Is Gone
Flower Petal wind

http://www.duckdaotsu.org/11/LadyXiangsm.jpg

+++

Two Haiku-sketches from a picture inspiration

She Shyly Wishes
While Wondering What Elves Do
Hides Her Face And Smiles

Glowing Living Free
Sunlight Playing In The Field
These Tinies Are Gold

http://www.fotosearch.com/comp/BNS/BNS198/YPL024.jpg

++++++

That Someday I Might
The Richer Reds Dissolve, Burn Deep
Flame-Licks Tick, Tick, Tick

http://www.gladlylearn.com/Flames1024.bmp

+++

Secluded Aqua
Haven From Daily Task's Toil
Water-Peace-Mind-Rest

http://www.indodaman.com/images/The_most_famous_waterfall_in_Khao_Yai_Haeo_Suwat_Waterfall.gif

+++

comedy haiku

She Surely Knows You
She Tells You All This Daily
You Do Not Listen

http://www.americansforprosperity.org/includes/imagemanager/images/old_lady.jpg

+++

Strong Colors Dancing
Power In Every Breath
Sky As Yellow Fire

http://static.flickr.com/29/67810981_637ae582d2_b.jpg

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Odd Horizontal
Silly Staring Goat
Curiously Bent Eyes

http://www.shoreshheritageranch.com/photos/DSC00732_eye.JPG

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Little Bear Mister
Ready To Hug The Whole World
Happy Forest Day

http://imagecache2.allposters.com/images/pic/NGSPOD04/108627~A-Grizzly-Bear-Cub-Stands-with-Arms-Outstretched-Posters.jpg

++++

Take Me Back And Home
To Sleep Among Rose Petals
Dream-Rest In Eden

http://www.instruction.greenriver.edu/lmmueller/Portland%20rose%20garden.JPG

+++

Three Thoughtful Tears Today
Slowly, Deliberate, Calm
Broken Bones, Mourning

+++

Bloated Ugly Puff
Drained Wasted Bold Useless
Another Today

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Quiet Pale Breeze Wafts
Peony's Stinging Sweetness
All-Awed-Stark-Silence

+++

Scrawny Little Brat
Spawn Of Some Restless Gremlin
Spitball In My Ear

+++

NY Commuting
Crazy Anger Race To Nowhere
Tick Tick Tick Tick Tick

+++

Wobbly Baby Walk
Tender Chubby Cherub Cheeks
Blossom Sunrise Smile

+++

Pale Neck Lifted Back
Awe-Glory Waking Expanse
The Sky Standing Up

http://www.oursaviorchurch.org/school/faculty/gthorp/wp-content/uploads/2007/04/cornfields.jpg

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 25 replies

Missing Person - Update

2008-05-01T11:53:02Z

Hi Folks..

Awhile ago, I passed this along...about a Tribe sister who's son Chris has been missing since September.

(Here is the website:http://www.findchris.org/)

There is some news! It is the first lead in the case!

"Today a girl working at a gas station in Cortez, CO says' she can positively identify Chris as a boy that has come in several time, most recently with 2-3 day, trying to buy cigarettes..."

Here's hoping that the good folks in law enforcement can take this lead and finally bring Chris home!

Please send out some good vibes and, if you could, pass this info along to anyone you know in Colorado
and especially in the Cortez area.

Here is a link to a map for Cortez, CO:

http://maps.google.com/maps?q=Cortez,+CO,+USA&sa=X&oi=map&ct=title

thanks,

Jon

PS - Wendy from the Tribe Net staff has given me permission to cross post

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 2 replies

"Evolution" A short story

2008-04-25T20:22:01Z

Evolution. (A Short (Dancing)Story)

Evolution

By: Mark Stegman

A dark neon light illuminated the warehouse emanating from the movement of the dancer. Red and blue photons shoot outward like a self contained disco-ball from the kicking dancing form of the short black hooded creature; who is literally spinning and jumping off of the air. His feet only tapping the dance floor for minute seconds before propelling him back into elevation; he jumps off from an invisible carbolic structure that seemingly surrounds him, and lands a back flip. Shouts of “Oh Yeah!” & “Damn” were heard coming from the dancing crowd. Even the grinning D.J. is watching in awe unbelievingly witnessing the scene he’s scratching at. As The Kid lands the back flip the last bell of the last verse chimes, the bell resonates in a dissolving echoe; he jumps straight up from the floor, timed with the first opening note of a quickening rhythm of low bass fast paced bullets that increase in number as they decrease in wavelength. The crowd watches him appear to grasp an invisible bar above his head, lifting his body off the ground, spinning as fast as an ice skater in full rotation; faster, and faster his rotation quickens, while floating three feet in the air.

The crowd has come from all over the planet to reach this tribe of mental matter philosophy student practitioners; The Kid is the underground prodigy of the dance movement. The colorful tribe dance and pulse in universally shared rhythms and unshared individual interpretations.

The tribe of dancing ninjas, or whom educated intellectuals call “ la Fuga College” which two Italian words closely translate “escape, connect”, numbers are few but each member is accomplished and world renown. The ninja themselves use a name with no known pronunciation, they use a form of telepathic pathway communication that they demonstrate twice a year for the scientific community; they train in the arts of quickness and stillness. Their name that they called themselves is a secret only privy to those initiated in the practice of the art of movement and time. The mass of people just refer to them as dancing ninja’s rather than explain their own attempt of interpretation of such an eclectic group.

The crowd pumped to the rhythms surrounded by miracles and overcoming their own barriers to their speeds, they rejoiced. The crowd was witnessing The Kid in first person account, those of whom for the first time now believers of the impossible stories told of his incredible physical feats. It was a weekday morning and this crowd had dedicated their lives to the mindfull art of movement, music, and dancing.

The oldest man in the crowd stood hidden and silent; still and attentive watching the young man spinning and tricking in front of the stage. Maverick’s black hood shields his eyes from the colorful lights jettisoning from the dancing prodigy; his black muscle shirt and Asian black wide pants make him invisible to almost everyone. He watches quietly as an exhaled breath from the shadows. His dark eyes, tuned into various electrical impulses, have a fractal pattern on his iris that make up the space between the pure dark soul hole in the center and the pure white; his eyes alone are enough to make people curious to what he sees and thinks. He is the teacher.

For his entire existence Maverick has been at the helm of every social group he has been a part of. He was a child prodigy quickly breaking the limits of what the teachers of the day thought was possible; but he came smack into a wall of self and ego that he has spent most of his life in quite prayer and meditation keeping in check. He has amazing powers of strength and speed, although it is rare to witness him using his full skill set, other than at the demonstrations. Most only see him appear and reappear standing motionless and calm, a serene smile aglow on his black face. He is the kind of caring that only is created in the fertile muck of scar tissue, from a past that remains a mystery to everyone save the teacher himself.

The dance hall is dark; the lights illuminated from the dancing creature in front of the stage. Light shot out of his heart, his throat, and his forehead like lightning bolts of northern lights; the walls and ceiling lit in flashes of blues and reds. The ground under him was aglow in a ghostly yellow white illumination that grew brighter as he built speed and energy in his whirling elevated rotation. Colorfully painted and costumed humans of all fashions and forms surrounded the incredibly fast paced dancer; they danced at a human speed watching the demonstration of un-human speed and creativity with wide eyes and ear to ear grins. Their faces reflected the blue and red flashes emanating from the child dancer.

Maverick could see clearly in the dark dancehall. He watched sharply from the shadows, his lips parted in a slight smile. The room was jumping yet his trained eye could see six stalwart statues blended into darkness and almost hidden in their stillness. He could see their eyes, he watched their faces attuned like giant cats waiting to pounce, enthralled by motion, watching the slightest discrepancies of movements in The Kids fluent spins and jumps. Through nods and certain looks and unity in reality the seven ninjas telepathically talked between themselves.

They all agreed, never had any one move so fast. The Kid is so aware of the moment that he adds many slight rhythmical movements to the sound of 64 and 128 beats inside of themselves. Maverick imagined what The Kid must be feeling in his trancelike dance. Everything the kid did was intentional. Not one of the ninjas saw his face, not one of the dancing throng saw the black clad ninja disappear from their presence except for The Kid, who felt the seven ninjas appear above and behind the stage in the hidden temple. The D.J., stationed along with several skinny girls break dancing on the stage, continued to pour rhythms and momentum from the sharp crystal speakers leading the pulsating beat of the dancing crowd.

The kid disappeared in mid air right before their awed eyes. The throng of dancers cheered as if they just witnessed a miracle and the most immense astrological sky event in the history of the earth. The crowd roared with laughter and “oh yeahs!” The D.J. and band being on the scene long enough to have witness the speed of a ninja more than most kicked back into rhythm, the packed warehouse let go into magic movements attuning their bodies to horns and full on keyboard blasts inspired by the movements and speeds the young kid had just demonstrated.

Now everything is possible.

The break dancers on the stage were spinning on their backs and up onto their hands at ultra intense speeds, several people pulled off front and back flips in the crowd, a group of whirling dervishes spun in the corner of the room with peaceful smiles plastered on their faces; their white robes flowing a continuation of the moment.

The kid appeared before the ninjas in the upstairs room of sage and darkness; smiling a child’s grin he knew he wowed the elders. His sandy blonde hair exposed from underneath the front of his black hood, he was not breathing hard or even sweating. There isn’t a word to describe the level of quickness The Kid prodigy had reached, as if any of them talked anyway. The ninjas sat in silence and allowed the event to process in their minds. After a moment The Kid sat and slowed his thoughts to find and allow the true constant speed of reality; the blessed gravity level that all atoms spin at and stick to on this plane of time and space. They sat in a silent circle, each of them buzzing and humming with electricity, and beamed their intense happiness and light outward into the metaphysical universe of their minds. If one was close and telepathically imbibed they would here a sound of a high pitch ohm constant and continual, like angel’s harmonies through outer space, emanating from the motion less ninjas.

“Your brother is amazing!” The slim dancing girl yelled to the broad chested, twenty something, everyone calls Chester; the unnamed keeper of physical peace and known as one of the kindest kids to know.

“I am one of the oldest dancers in this room, or space ship, or submarine, or whatever the shape this places is taking; because we are definitely time traveling through space!” His eyes continually scanning the surface of the dancers, like a man standing on a beach before the expanse of a green ocean, watching and witnessing life before his very eyes, he smiled.

“That’s the same thing.” The girl tried to say as scientifically pleasing and “un-cute” as possible. “Any time you’re moving your time traveling, as such, any time your time traveling your moving. Even when you’re standing still you’re moving.” The girl said standing at Chester’s chest trying to get to know his knowledge of speed and the ninjas; he keeps it very chill.

“Life is good no matter where, or when, you’re at.” He said, smiling at her as she floated around him like a fluttering butterfly. He thought she was cute and knew her to be amazingly grounded for as many complex dual realities she has shown to express. “You are coming along in your understanding.” He said to the girl standing a foot taller than her. She smiled brightly radiating an angelic light.

Chester’s smile was the green light for the entire scene; if Chester is standing guard over the dance, then all is safe and O.K.

“Well it’s a blessing to be coming up with your brother. You know he has impressed the elders, and quite possibly drawn the attention of the king and queen of neighboring dimensions?” She said suddenly seriously.

“No, I was unaware of this development of those dimensional neighbors of ours. If you see them, tell them Chester said sorry for the loud music.” He eyed the crowd acting as if he did not care if the young girl wanted to be a ninja or whatever.

“It’s very real Chester!” The young girl scolded. “We don’t joke about these kinds of velocities.” She was definitely seriously now but quickly realized that she was talking to someone who has light years upon her. “Guess you get enough of it at home, huh.” She said softly.

Chester smiled at her understanding, and looked her in the eye one last time. ”Yup, taking care of The Kid is a full time job.” Showing her a taste of his aptitude he suddenly vanished, leaving her alone, smiling and impressed.

Upstairs in the temple, clad in plaid spinning in front of the seven sitting elders, The Kid had reached such a fast speed spinning that time around him had become aware of itself and slowed down, gelled, liquefied, slowed; the dancing practitioners sitting in a large circle around the spinning prodigy could feel the sloping pull of gravity lean and slope inwards on the rotating dancer.

The Kid spoke to all in the room, his face invisible in the whirl that has become him. He spoke to each of the fellow students in a voice made for each of their own personal understanding, “During the phenomenon of sustained high speeds, eventually the mind gets used too and accepts the up-tempo reality as the normal rate of consciousness; thus, allowing the mind to recognize the fast rate of speed as a starting point in the continually occurring moment. Once this is achieved the ninja can then jump from the spinning speed with a new and fresh body that feels like its standing still even though it’s moving very fast already.”

By now the plaid lit ninja only hit the floor for a split second in ten, his spinning body unable to be seen inside of his shape. This demonstration was for ninjas only in the temple of the warehouse, but has become the host spot for high-energy gatherings that bring the elite mind movers from all around the planet.

“Time is space and space is time.” The tattoo read in Sumerian on all of the feet of the dancing ninja. Quoting the first realization many ninja claim begins the long, and short, never-ending journey to enlightenment. The seven elders were very impressed with The Kid’s progress and the feats that he was able to pull off physically. But at his age, they were all in agreement and nodded; that to understand too much to fast could be detrimental to the development of the true sage The Kid was destined to become. They told him, as the night grew late, to take some time in meditation before he danced again; continue forward to stillness as well as forward to continued speed. The elders tried to instruct him of the importance of understanding the continuation of the speed of this dimension, the sacred forces of the gravity pull that keep all atoms in sync with each other here; able to understand each other and differentiate from each other.

The kid agreed to take three days of meditation at home before he would return to the temple.

All ninja spent the rest of the night in practice of absolute speed and sudden stillness, learning from the shape and features their bodies took when they stopped suddenly amid high-speed dance, instantaneously becoming motionless.

The ninja called upon The Kids closest friend, Pablo, immediately after The Kid had left the temple. Pablo is the entire temples little brother, they all like him and are certain he will make a good dancer one day. Having had become The Kids friend and dedicated sidekick The Kid opened up to him, and that is what they both needed most, a friend. Slightly overweight, the round Pablo is always smiling, laughing, or telling a joke. Always in it though, he was always in the know, he had probably the deepest sense of what warehouses like this are about; he just doesn’t communicate it yet. Pablo had become the sidekick little brother of everyone in the entire scene and was the youngest allowed around.

They conveyed in words to Pablo, watching his facial features for reflections of flickering and twitches that might signify that his mind truly does here the telepathic song; for the symbol of a brother (a sympathizer) is expressed best by the color gold. Is he using his correct eyes?

He is told to help The Kid in any way, to visit him so that he doesn’t feel separated from the family in his time away; most importantly to get The Kid outdoors as much as possible. Pablo nodded, waiting momentarily to be sure the teachers are finished speaking, and then he quickly was out the door.

It was three days later the ninja family saw Pablo. The elder ninja’s were crossed legged in a circle in the temple above the stage. The air filled with ohm chants and sage, bells chimed from nowhere. Pablo entered the room. No one moved but everyone noticed his disturbance; when an un-situated youth enters the space of the bells its like a fat kid doing a cannonball into a still pool or, in this case, a sacred hot spring. The sudden glass smoothness of the water reflecting the universe and all that IS shattered into patterns familiar and associable to each of the elder’s childhood pasts. They sat in contemplation, as every moment is an opportunity to learn, see, understand, contemplate, test, create, shine, and now, they watched the new bending surfaces. The ninjas gently watched the energies reshuffle and sort out in miniature entropy until they could adequately see the young boy’s constant pulsating emmitances. They triangulated his position and quickly became aware of a higher than natural sounding pitch resonating from him. He was in a state of alarm and sweating.

Pablo’s entrance interrupted the elder’s meditations as they had convened to locate the change in resonance each of them had been sensing in the universe but could not put their finger on. Something was happening in the cosmic wind. Something was new and they were in the midst of calculating and feeling it out. Possibly a comet turning into the trajectory aligning itself with the path of the Earth, possibly dimensions away a young ninja has been hit with the wind of ideas and one of them he interpreted how to propel his evolved race through space safely at speeds of light; whatever it is, it is greater than the constant fluctuation of energies from solar winds and microwaves that occur naturally.

The ninja facing Pablo opened a communication link with his eyes testing to see the boy’s telepathic prowess. It was a good sign that the young boy allowed the link to open. The young Pablo was unsure if he had the capabilities to communicate with the ninja. Knowing the ninjas rarely talk, and hearing rumors of the powers of telepathy, he tried to quiet his mind. His young untrained brain filled with all its loudness, movements and noise; multiple voices and echoes asked him the same question in unison. “What could it be that the ninja is concerned with you right now?” He heard repeating in his own head, unsure if the sound was also outside his ears. The same voices finished his own thought, “He’s inquiring to your presence and your troubled heart.” The calm voices echoed and repeated in his mind blending into themselves. Suddenly all sound in his head went quiet. The sudden silence sounded as if he was suddenly dunked under water in the middle of a giant dance hall. He was floating through quiet space with stars and universes surrounding him in all directions. The teacher Maverick enveloped the young boy in a dimension of his creation; in awe Pablo heard a soft stern voice surround him so gently it warmed his body and almost made him fall asleep. His eyes fluttered but he knew what the voice had said

“Very good young Pablo.” The sound of his name and the compliment made him smile and reality awoke him from the dream trance bringing his eyes back into focus. He was in a direct vision tunnel with Maverick; whose soft eyes and smiling black face glowed bright from the tunnels end and calmed his heart. “What then brings such turmoil to your troubled heart young Pablo?”

Pablo was hearing telepathic communication for the first time. All of his prior daydreams of what it would be like were quiet and disappeared in the very weight of ecstasy overwhelming anything but the connection with the Master Maverick; the most admired and still ninja on earth. Pablo tried to put into words the words he had heard that morning. “It is something The Kid said to me today.” He spoke through his lips and could hear telepathically first his message, then, after traveling through space and air, he heard his voice. “He, you know, is resting, trying to slow down, like you said for him to do, slow down. But he was in a very quiet sort this morning when I visited him. His eyes were so calm and placid; they were even green instead of his bright blue. He was super still and super calmed out. He wouldn’t talk. He just looked at me funny, but I couldn’t get him to talk until finally he spoke. He said something weird.

“What did he say” Mavericks words were deep baritone and calming to the anxious youth. Pablo took a breath then continued.

“He said, It’s all still, nothing moves, it’s all connected and nothing is moving. That’s what he said and then he sort of froze up like he became … “

The ninja’s eyes flew open like vampires who had just had a wooden stake driven through their heart. They were on their feet seemingly without moving and outside before Pablo even knew how he or any of them were even moving. He finally realized he was on the back of the ninja known as Tadpole. He was telepathically being asked how long it’s been since he saw the Kid. He could not answer; the speed of how quickly the seven were moving was stunning him into silence. They were not running or even flying yet the world was changing around them, adjusting scenes to the will of the powerful ninjas. He heard all of them in his brain gathering his memories, reliving and reviewing his relationship with the young prodigy for the past several days as he was told to keep an eye on him.

“Could it be?” They asked each other. He heard random words of their high-speed telepathic discussions. “Infinity, early enlightenment, connection, and death” were the only words he could make out. One of the ninjas shot him a message to calm his nerves answering his questions about their movements that he hadn’t even had the time to verbalize.

“Imagine a floating magnet in a field of energy,” the calm voice instructed of him, “tweak the electric inputs, thus changing the magnetic field,” he heard this transmission clearly and when the speaker spoke all of the other chatter went silent like a walkie talkie button being pressed. “What happens to the magnet?”

Young Pablo wasn’t sure who was speaking to him but he visualized the scenario. “It moves.” He nodded in enlightenment. He visualized the image of a small meteorite magnet zipping around a magnetic field as masters tuned the controls, the meteorite seeming to appear, then reappear in a different location. He felt the presence of a teacher, pictured in his mind’s eye, who thus was standing next to the table with the magnetic field contraption on it. It was Tadpole, the elder ninja whose back he was attached to.

Tadpole spoke from inside Pablo’s mental image, standing beside the table wearing a white lab coat, he spoke without moving his mouth. “An object suspended by properties such as a magnet in a magnetic field must be in the location the settings of the field around it determine. The magnet will be affected by forces until it reaches its point of equilibrium, the stable location balanced amongst the various forces pushing and pulling upon it.”

Young Pablo tried to grasp the entire scene while holding on tight to the elder ninja. The elder ninja said a quick prayer of concentration to be able to convey a pure message and image into the young ones mind. Their feet were well off the ground.

They were suddenly moving up the familiar stairs of Pablo’s best friend’s house, where he just was earlier that morning. The ninja quickly moved past the still life of Chester, The Kids older brother, standing frozen at the doorway with a grin plastered on his face like a man battling with a thing that they understand, yet can not defeat. He stood frozen and motionless, like time had stopped, Pablo only heard him telepathically say two frightening words, “He’s gone”.

The room suddenly went still. All seven of the black clad ninjas were now frozen afloat in space, time was slowed to stillness. The young prodigy sat erect as a bronze statue in the center of the room. His eyes are open and staring forward at nothing, his legs crossed, a slight peaceful smile graced his lips, his back straight in meditative pose; he reminding the young Pablo of a Buddha statue. Pablo’s thoughts were the only thing moving in him, even moving his eyes slightly took a long time and a lot of concentration. He saw from the doorway, were he was frozen beside the still life of Chester, the seven ninjas break the frozen stillness and fall out of the air landing softly on their feet. They circled the kid cautiously and in awe inspected him from all angles. A loud pulsating rhythm, that Pablo thought could only be the synched heart rate of everyone in the vicinity beating in unison, thumped loud as if the seven ninjas also beat a giant drum together with pond fronds.

The ninjas were back in Pablo’s head reviewing the memories of The Kid telling him that all was still. Maverick began to cry. They were happy tears as the hair on everyone’s skin stood over goose bumps. The Kids older brother Chester stood still in the doorway unable to move but telepathically told the seven what he knew and what time the air began to still.

“What is going on?” Chester asked in thoughts.

Maverick responded coolly, ‘This is what we are to achieve, this is what we live for; he has attained such high speeds, that he has now connected all of the separate individual aspects of matter in the space around him. It is as if he is moving so fast he has become connected to all things and thus, a part of all things. He is now the pulse of infinity, the song of the universe, the ohm of our dimension.”

In the soft universal voice the ninjas recited in unison an ancient prophecy they all new by heart. “The child will go beyond the boundaries of gravity and see the truth of time and matter, the atom link to atom outward and inward infinitely. All things are connected. All matter in time holds a place for the fastest vessel were all time, and all matter, is still.” The ninjas recited the prophecy in shock. They never suspected they would repeat the eternal prophetic phrase in their lifetimes; none of the temple saw this coming. In the learning of mental flight, from wings, to light, to instant connections there are many incarnations and obstacles that one must understand and overcome before they can achieve the proper observation of infinity. “How fast is The Kid?” The ninja thought.

Pablo and Chester were in awe of the sacred ninjas being in awe. Still unable to move Pablo asked in thought, “Is he alive?”

Without hesitation Maverick’s voice could be heard teaching all other ninjas and those fortunate to be witnessing the cosmic event,

“He is very much alive. If we could truly understand reality this would happen to us, stillness. When the body and mind can move fast enough it reaches a speed beyond that of gravity and atomic separation bringing “The One” of all matter into view; now, The Kid is in the dimension of The One. Instead of moving through time/space, he is so fast, that he has connected to it all at once. He is moving but much to fast for us to see. He has gone, and might not come back. We can never know what he is witness too in his present state. The view of the shape of many dimensions, the view of dimensional history and future are privy only to him. We can only hope to learn one day. Stories as ancient as movement itself speak of ninjas who reach this state disappearing after three days. No one who has reached the eternal stillness, has ever decided to come back to tell of what they have seen. This, my friends, is the objective all ninja aspire to achieve.”

The seven ninja took each other hand in hand and, sitting in a circle surrounding the bronze statue of the kid, began to chant “Ohmmmm”. Their sounds vibrated the still hanging older brother and young Pablo who were still caught frozen in time and space, hanging, watching, and bearing witness to an event that has only been recorded three previous times since the beginning. No one wanted to blink as to not miss a moment, no one blinked. The energy of the room was charged with a vibrancy that made everyone glow with a soft white light; there was a certain sadness tucked behind the profoundly fascinating moment as it dawned on Chester that he might lose his little brother.

The chanting continued.

Outside the water molecules of a nearby stream ran over stilled salmon, a frog hung in mid leap; its swooping eagle predator held still in midair. For three days, the ninja prayed and meditated around the still bronze statue of The Kid. During the sunrise of the third day The Kid vanished, disappearing before the witness of the elder ninja’s unblinking open eyes. Pablo fell to the ground. A striking eagle swooped up a frog. The salmon ran.

Mark Stegman May 9, 2007

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 0 replies

Just a funny excercise for writters...

2008-04-25T15:32:10Z

Just a funny excercise for writters...

You know you were raised by hippies when...

* Your name is Sensamailia, Spitfire, Rainbow, or the like.
* As a child, a nutritious snack consisted of your parents "stems and seeds" that were found lying on a tray on the living room table.
* the jungle of house plants, next to the television, served not only as a good hiding place for hide and seek when you were a kid, but they smelled nice too, especially when they were cut and hung to dry.
* when your parents tried to rid you of lice the "natural way," and none of the herbal remedies worked, they decided that the next best choice was to shave your head... which within it's self is fine, but the photos of you running bare ass naked and completely balled, resembling one of the aliens from Close Encounters, is a keepsake that has been shared with company one too many times!

Okay folks.... add to the list... when I thinnk of more I will post them. This should be fun!

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 2 replies

Writing Contest...

2008-04-24T21:49:44Z

The Contest – Hosted by Art Created and I Touch Roses

Are you ready to get creative? I am holding a contest to find a great poem or short story. Here’s what you do… go through my cosmetics store and make note of product names such as “Caring”, “Haunted”, “Day Dream” and “Soul Mate”. Pick any 7 and write either a poem or short story using these words, then send it to me. On May 19th, 08 – I will pick 1 lucky winner. You have a chance of winning a prize package that will include the following items that I create: 3 eye shadows of your choice, 1 foundation powder, 1 bottle of blended perfume, 1 hand carved candle, 1 big bar of natural soap, 1 jar of Skin Euphoria body butter, incense plus other goodies and 1 pair of handmade earrings with matching pendant in sterling silver. This prize package is worth over $200!! So, get creative and start writing.

One entry per person.
All entries must be received by May 18th, 08.
E-mail your entry with the subject “The Contest” to: Ahna@ArtCreated.com
Be sure to list the 7 words you are using. Choose the 7 words from my product titles from my cosmetics store found at: http://ITouchRoses.Etsy.com
No purchase is needed!!
The winner will be featured on the following web sites:
http://ArtCreated.com
http://ITouchRoses.com
http://EclecticJewelryArtisans.com

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 3 replies

Some Writing Prompts

2008-04-19T04:27:56Z

http://www.creativewritingprompts.com/

http://www.writersdigest.com/WritingPrompts/

happy writing!

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 1 reply

The Rhythm Keeps me Warm

2008-04-18T22:50:28Z

I float with no miseries,
granted be my heart's desires

My world's full of mystery
I listen to the choir

even more than my life line,
Those drums gonna keep me safe

They get stronger all the time
and my heart never needs to wait

The rhythm warms me deeply
the sweet vibrations shaking

Rocking my soul incredibly
Hear it finally waking!

Then tragedy of my life!
my world shatters in pain!

Mortally cut with a knife
cant even cry like the rain

Every piece is torn asunder
My suffering never ends

Even now... it's my thunder
It's my rhythm, It's my friend

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 0 replies

Dear Jimi...

2008-04-14T10:58:48Z

Oh Soul Mate, where did you go?
The mind plays tricks so how could I know?

Oh Soul Mate, where do I turn?
In my heart forever you burn.

Oh Soul Mate, I know you are the one…
But for reasons unknown, my love he did run.

With grief and despair, I cry in the cold night air…
Gazing up at the Moon, realizing you’re just not there.

Memory upon memory and I still talk to you in my mind.
But our love was not enough, you did find.

Oh Soul Mate, why push me so far away…
Without me, do you have a brighter day?

I feel so incomplete, haunted by this empty space and the loneliness I now face…
Everything inside me, feels so out of place.

And you claimed to be lost yet are running at any cost…
From a girl that loves you so…
Oh Soul Mate, why must you go?

(c) Ahna W. White
ArtCreated.com

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 0 replies

Conclave Journal Call for Submissions

2008-04-14T09:06:53Z

Conclave: A Journal of Character is accepting submissions for its inaugural issue, Fall 2008.
We will accept submissions from April 1-July 1, 2008.
www.conclavejournal.com

Conclave is an annual print journal that focuses on character-driven writing in short stories, flash fiction, creative nonfiction, poetry, and prose poems; we also print black and white photographs, and excerpts from plays: monologues, scenes, single acts, or one-act plays.

Conclave seeks writing that centers around well-crafted characters—complex and authentic: like Leopold Bloom, Huckleberry Finn, Anna Karenina, Hamlet, Miss Havisham, Hannibal Lecter, Hester Prynne, and others. Whether you love them or hate them, these characters are unforgettable and infuse their stories with life beyond the page. Those are the kinds of enduring characters we'd like to have populate the artfully crafted stories in Conclave.

For more information, see submission guidelines on our Web site.

Thank you.

Valya Dudycz Lupescu, Editor

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 0 replies

posted new short short story at my site, check-check it out

2008-04-02T23:48:01Z

Howdyall, I hope yall would come by my site for a visit if ya like, sit a quick spell and read a while, I'll put coffe on. Yall take care now yhere. madmark

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 6 replies

Reviving all that I lost....

2008-04-02T09:26:34Z

My apologies to everyone for my silence, my computer crashed almost a year ago and all my poetry, erotica, short stories, and perhaps most important to me, 5 completed chapters of my autobiography got lost. The timing was infamous, during disk clean up and creation of back up files...Since it crashed and the entire operating system got corrupted, thank the gods it was able to boot up again. A dear friend of mine who is a computer engineer and programmer has been trying to restore all that I lost. Though the stories that I write both fiction and non fiction never entirely disappear for memory, creativity and experience never perish in the writers mind and spirit. This last year has been quite difficult, I've been truly fortunate to have found some of my journals which I keep safe like treasure which has many of my poems, some of my erotica, aspirations of short stories that I have not yet brought to life beyond the couple of paragraph dreams and my most important project, I recovered my second revision of my autobiography which is significantly shorter, scattered and cluttered then what I had achieved. Going from 57 pages and 5 chapters to almost 2 chapters of what remains of almost 3 years of rigorous work is neither easy to accept or easy to rebuild. I will post some of my poetry, erotica, and short stories when I'm able but I'm still looking for all that my computer swallowed up in the void of it's own demise in my cluttered hotel room and whirlwind of partially filled spiral notebooks.

Hugs,

Sincerely,
Ariel Archaicflame

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 0 replies

Flightpath

2008-03-18T04:04:09Z

Flightpath By Jake Sanders

“The very truth, and the nature of things, though repudiated and ordered into exile, sneaked in again through the back door, to be received by me under an unwonted guise.” - Johannes Kepler December 27, 1571 – November 15, 1630

When a plane courses overhead
I think of loss
a time gone by
a rush of wind’s seduction
of propeller’s lust,
all vectors abandoned

This mention gets me wondering
Of who is in that plane
up there
Moving about all over the place
Stirring up the atmosphere
Her broken, cross-hatched
contrails
Of interruption

Not a day goes by that I don’t look up
And see a plane and think of you

They come in off the ocean, banking
Turning north-by-northwest
Towards that strip of concrete
The locals call an airport

Remembering now,
how that made you laugh
Imaging the possibility
Such an invention

Why just 93 years ago . . .

If I don’t see a plane right away
I hear it coming
A sound arriving in soaring pitch

The averaging math says
310 miles per hour
2 minutes 30 secs, 12 miles
wheels touching down in 10-15 seconds from here
over there
out of sight

In the passing, a
Displacement, a dis-
Course of
turbines aftermath
a backwash of calm
calculated

more math,
the speed of sound through air
1083 feet per second
a quarter mile every second

In warmer air, the speed of sound increases

seconds leave behind

a delay
, Doppler. *

A phantoming rush of wake

the sky tells me, to hussssh

My neighbor complains
Its a nuisance, lowers property values . . .

To me, reassuring

Another plane lands
And people come and go
You and I both
Our own way on first class stand-by

Different planes fly over
Some small, some big
Some low, some real low
So low I can see the writing on their bellies

If I were a terroristic sniper
I could pluck one or two from the sky
Before a government agency could
Trajectorize the bullet’s point of origin

“I did a guy in Laos from a thousand yards out with a rifle shot in high wind.
Maybe 8 or even ten guys in the world could’ve made that shot.”

But that’s not where I am right now
I am in that happy zone you used to kid me about

- wait, here come another plane

It’s not so much the actual plane and all those physics
Or even the people inside intrepid and traveling
And maybe its not you in the plane
But me in the plane

Conquering that fear of heights
Extreme heights
The fear of exposure
To knowledge
That we are just glowing blips
On a radar
And how we can just like that
Meet up for a cocktail
Is beyond me
I am over that now
But when I see a plane
I write like this

I could write a plane poem
Like the next plain guy
And it would never do any good
It is all so confusing

Instead I want to dwell
On our histories before the planes
All took off and landed
The couples hurrying off
To the hotel
To christen a safe flight

I’ve lived up there before
With all the metaphors for vice
pillow, extra blanket
A free drink
A pill
In flight film
With dreams attached

I still prefer the window view
Even at night
I’d look down
And see the lights, all the lights

The math and
Buzzing quartz

And think of you down there
All of you
Keeping the ground

Grounded.
____________________________________________________________________

* In 1725 James Bradley discovered the aberration of stars, that is the stellar aberration. He found that the displacement, measured as an angle between the real and seeming direction of light rays from a star, is small and in the direction of the observer's motion. In addition he discovered that the aberration is the consequence of the finite speed of light and the transverse motion of the observer.

Johann Christian Andreas Doppler (November 29, 1803 – March 17, 1853) was an Austrian mathematician and physicist, most famous for the hypothesis of what is now known as the Doppler effect which is the apparent change in frequency and wavelength of a wave that is perceived by an observer moving relative to the source of the waves.

"Über das farbige Licht der Doppelsterne und einige andere Gestirne des Himmels - Versuch einer das Bradleysche Theorem als integrirenden Theil in sich schliessenden allgemeineren Theorie"

(English translation: On the coloured light of the binary refracted stars and other celestial bodies - Attempt of a more general theory including Bradley's theorem as an integral part)

The Doppler Effect: A change in the observed frequency of a wave, as of sound or light, occurring when the source and observer are in motion relative to each other, with the frequency increasing when the source and observer approach each other and decreasing when they move apart. The motion of the source causes a real shift in frequency of the wave, while the motion of the observer produces only an apparent shift in frequency.

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 3 replies

'narrative' a set of rules or shared assumptions

2008-03-16T08:14:33Z

The idea is to build an essay over time. There will be overlap between parts, but the idea is to develop the crux of a more formal essay for submission to a conference or journal. I know, I know: lame!! But this is what I like.

I think we can call 'narrative' a set of rules or shared assumptions for structuring desire - that is, for focusing interest on certain things that aren't intrinsically interesting, e.g. whether Anna and Vronsky end up together, who or what exactly Eusa is, whether the buggers win or lose the war, how Grendel feels about his inevitable death, or what Dave and Toph do at the beach. The reader signs an implicit contract: I will accept your assertion, Author, that this stuff matters. You will work within this frame to make this stuff compelling. I will get something out of my investment. (But like any investor's contract, there's the risk of low return. So what does each novel affirm? What does it assert?)

Television works no differently. We get 'swept up' in a story at least in part because we want to - we are drawn to spectacle, to be sure, and we have built-in sympathies (or tendencies toward sympathy) for certain figures/situations (I can't bear to see fathers crying for their children, for instance). When you walk by an episode of Friends and are 'compelled' to sit down - it's 'Must See TV', right? - you're being pulled in half by a biological response to attractive people, and half (I imagine) by your wish to see people who blend beauty, wit, success, and unbelievable luck. Passing by Seinfeld as you flip channels, you are drawn to the experience of people doing and saying the most astonishing things and getting away with them.

But that's not why you stay with these programs. You stay because of the Contract - you trust that the narrative will satisfy the expectations set up within it. You arrived in the first place because of expectations that you brought with you. The process by which you become a Reader (which from now on I'll use as the generic term for 'interactor with a media text') is one of acculturation.

Lemme assert something that I'll come back to in a little while: at the heart of a contemporary TV narrative (we might say: 'genre TV' or 'cult TV') is a basic (linear) story into and out of which the plot moves. One of the key elements of serial TV narrative, one of its most uniquely satisfying qualities, is the tension that comes from a blurry line between the ongoing evolution of the characters (the 'organic' story of their lives) and the forward-motoring of the plot itself (what happens to them). With a novel, you can generally assume that you're always in the plot. Same with a movie. (Even in Gravity's Rainbow and Ulysses, the 'stories' such as they are are never really left behind. The saga of Byron the Bulb mirrors Slothrop's own state, enmeshed in the conspiracy, suspended between force and Counterforce...) Television moves on entirely different timescales, at the same time.

Fan culture can provide those alternate timescales. Because fan culture puts texts and culture into an explicit dialogue, essentially serializing a field of discourse. We might say the same thing for academics - who insist on placing themselves in one or another 'school', in order to give continuity to the start/stop progress of human ideation. (It's frightening to think that human history was totally unpredictable, that human thought is the same way. Maybe we built the universities for precisely that reason?)

This is the last bit for now: contemporary culture is becoming more 'fannish'. More and more, kids are able to involve themselves in 'fannish' ways with all manner of media texts.

A narrative like the Matrix series exemplifies this shift: when you talk about the movies, you find yourself talking about possibilities for their world, the meaning of their characters. The basic modes of watching the Matrix movies are seeking-spectacle fodder-for-exegesis. The former is the way we traditionally think of American moviegoers. The latter is how fans work. The balance is shifting.

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 1 reply

The poem that isn´t for you

2008-03-16T06:23:30Z

I have convinced the whole world
And myself
That when I cry
It isn´t for you.
I have told god and the full moon
That I have left,
Long departed.
Finished it is.
A new river now flows
So rapid, so full,
Why would I hold on the the shore?

And if you cared to ask,
I´d bring water from ten different wells
to convince you too-
Waiting I´m not.
Longin it isn´t. Not yearning.
It isn´t for you.

Because

How could it be
That moons come and go,
Rise and demise,
Oceans change tides,
Trees bloom, then leaf
And the weeping willow
Keeps crying over a spring in the past?

How could it be?

Not for you,
Not for you, love.
When I cry it isn´t for you.

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 1 reply

PSA: For US-based SASEs

2008-03-16T00:43:55Z

Given that snail-mail submissions/SASEs tend to have a several-month turnaround, here's the USPS list of new postage prices effective May 12, 2008:

http://www.usps.com/prices/welcome.htm?from=bannercommunications&page=prices

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 0 replies

Writing Resources

2008-02-29T13:21:20Z

http://www.poemhunter.com/

lists thousands of poems

++++++++++++++++

Poetry International

http://international.poetryinternationalweb.org/piw_cms/cms/cms_module/index.php?obj_name=international

great site for foreign poems, (everything translated), some videos of performances

+++++++++

Poetseers

site for spiritual poetry

http://www.poetseers.org/

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 3 replies

Somewhere in the Upper Cortex

2008-02-28T18:47:45Z

Somewhere in the Upper Cortex
by jake sanders

“Hume could write Latin with his right hand
While writing Greek with his left”

Somewhere in the Upper Cortex

the intention
to write begins

this is fairly abstract

writing begins with the intention
to want to write

intention converts into action
below the level of consciousness

this is still, fairly abstract

They call it semantic retrieval
A binary code pulled from a hard drive

A bullet from a gun
Letters form a ballistic line along a curved trajectory

Your hand, arm, eyes
A complex process of more than fifty muscles
A push-
pull action

an indiosyncratic security system

the monster in the den –

is out.

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 0 replies

Cherry Bleeds Literary Awards

2008-02-11T09:44:34Z

We've published online for eight years and have released an anthology entitled Chemical Lust as well as the chap, She Takes My Virginity.

But the past is a warm fart growing colder and we're stepping out our game.

$100 to a poem and $100 to a short story for the winners of the grand prize.

All winners will be published in the Cherry Bleeds anthology coming out in late 2008.

All winners will have the option to read on the radio show Drinks with Tony, which broadcast every Thursday on Pirate Cat Radio...previous guests include Irvine Welsh, Chuck Palahniuk, Richard Hell, Nick Cave, William T. Vollman, Amy Sedaris, Miranda July, James Ellroy, Mark Z. Danielewski, oh don't make me keep name dropping, just check out the website for full details and archives.

Full contest rules: http://cherrybleeds.com/contest.html

Make us proud. :)

posted in CREATIVE WRITING - 0 replies

WRITERS WANTED...

2008-02-08T09:47:39Z

Poets, novelists, essayists, short story writers, playwrights, journalists...If you write and have a site that you would like to like to mine, then I would like to hear from you. A reciprocal link will seal the deal...PLUS you will also have access to my new blog, where you will be expected to post your excerpts and related material on a regular basis. Oh, wow! He’s got to be kidding! All of that FREE publicity and exposure!

Ayup...I have my reasons. But I’m also very interested in helping to promote my peers whenever and however possible. And my current project just worked out that way. So, if you interested, please get back to me ASAP. There will be limited space!

The 2 sites in question are as follows:

The Portfolio: http://rdklove.googlepages.com

The Portfolio Blog: http://rdkpf.blogspot.com/

Serious inquiries only, please.

RD Kennedy

For those of you who are NOT writers but enjoy quality literature, this also applies to you, because ALL visitors/readers WILL be allowed to post comments on the work they read. You may also know happen to know some writers, who are always looking for another place to promote their work and gain additional exposure. (We’re almost as bad as musicians!) Be SURE to spread the word and ask them to check this opportunity out, as well. You know how it works...

rdk1421@hotmail.com

(Please mention WRITERS WANTED in subject line!)

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My Short, Short Story

2008-02-06T07:50:49Z

Rachel? Who's Rachel? (or The Only Fight I Ever Tried To Pick)
by J Timothy Dotson - 2008
(a true tale)

I was at the bar. This was not my first beer. No. The empty mugs were gathering. Rachel broke up with me today. The problem was...I never knew we were together. How could this happen? I chugged the rest of my beer, motioned to the keep. He set a fresh one in front of me. I made him leave the empties...I was counting.
I had started out confused...but the more I thought, the more I drank. The more I drank, the less sense it made. How could Rachel break up with me if I did not know she was my girlfriend? It was very confusing. In my alcoholic haze, there was only one thing that made sense to me. Time to pick a fight. That was all there was to it.
I turned around on my barstool. I stood up, all 5'5" of me. I looked out across a sea of dancers....and way out in the middle floated a gray Stetson hat. It looked like a Tom Mix hat, but at least a foot or more above the rest of the crowd. There was my target!
So, I turned around and set my mug on the bar, then I pushed and elbowed and wormed my way through the crowd. I found myself looking up skyscraper-style at the ceiling fans towards the proximity of the large hat. I stood firm. And then I kicked this fellow in his left kneecap.
There was a curse and then a hopping on his right leg while holding his left knee...and then he stopped. I said "Let's take this outside , mister!"
There was a roar of laughter and a "Hahahohoha, I like you...yore really funny!" in a western cowboy drawl. He clapped me on the back so hard I almost swallowed my tongue.
"Let me buy you a drink, pardner!" He steered me to the bar with a huge hand, and bought me two...one for each hand. He had two as well. And then he said "Follow me, Shorty."
We went out the back door to a huge patio in the pine trees. He said "When I am feelin' persnickerty like you are, I do this!" He chugged his drink and then threw the glass hard through the trees. He said "Go on, do it." So I did. Then he said "Next one together!" We chugged and threw. "Feel better now?" I did. I had a new friend.

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Pen Noir Accepting Submissions

2008-02-05T19:02:09Z

Pen Noir is currently accepting submissions.
We publish poetry, short fiction, and creative nonfiction with a shadowy edge. This does not mean that your work should feature mass murder, S&M or suicide (though if that's what you write about, by all means, submit it). We're looking for work permeated by a dark aesthetic or sensibility. Traditional and experimental forms are welcome.

Length for prose: 8,000 words maximum.
For poetry: Submit between 1-4 poems.
No previously published work.

Submissions are read year-round. Our editorial staff is composed of volunteers, so please allow up to 6 months for a response. Once you are notified that your work has been accepted, it will appear on the webzine for one month. Simultaneous submissions are accepted, but notify us immediately if your work is accepted elsewhere. We wish we could offer payment, but cannot at this time.

Art Submissions are greatly encouraged. Please submit art via e-mail in .jpeg form.

All submissions must be submitted in the body of an e-mail to:

pen_noir@yahoo.com
www.pennoir.org

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On the Air

2008-02-01T23:35:29Z

I will be doing a phone interview tonight as part of the "Jordan Rich Show Book Club, Winter 2008 edition."

The interview will occur at around 12:30 a.m. Eastern Time on Saturday, February 2 (the show runs from midnight to 5 a.m.). It can be heard on

http://www.wbz.com/pages/6202.php

where you can click on the blue "Listen Live" button in the upper right.

I was at the WBZ studio in Boston for my first appearance on the Jordan Rich Show in October 2002. At that time Jordan invited me back when I had a book published -- so, here I am! The second volume in my series is due out later this year.

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Writer Selected as Amazon ABNA Semifinalist Needs Your Reviews/Votes!

2008-01-28T15:27:58Z

My novel manuscript, THE SILENCE OF TREES, has been selected as a Semifinalist in the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award. It's one of 836 excerpts chosen out of 5000 entries that were announced on January 15th.

My novel is set in Ukraine during World War II, as well as in Chicago in the present day. It draws upon the Slavic folklore and pre-Christian traditions of Eastern Europe.

This contest has been called the American Idol for Writers. Your review counts! So far, I'm in the lead but the other Semifinalists are quickly gaining. If you have a few moments, please visit the site and read and review my 14-page excerpt from THE SILENCE OF TREES.

The link is:
www.amazon.com/dp/B0011ZCAJC

The next stage of the competition asks Amazon customers to download, read, and review excerpts. Each review essentially counts as a vote, and the votes will be used in determining the top 100 Finalists, which will be announced on February 19.

Plus there are incentive prizes for reviewers!

For more information, you can also visit my website at www.thesilenceoftrees.com

I appreciate your review, as well as the reviews of anyone else you can forward this message on to.

Warm Regards,
Valya

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