tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-87246938142814129612024-02-20T16:46:02.583-08:00ShakesQuillMelissa McEwanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04784594504716679607noreply@blogger.comBlogger180125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8724693814281412961.post-65224023073080068362009-06-01T07:35:00.001-07:002009-06-01T07:37:13.403-07:00Monday Mind OpenerI am incredibly saddened and angered at the <a href="http://shakespearessister.blogspot.com/2009/05/dr-george-tiller-has-been-murdered-in.html">murder of Dr. George Tiller</a> in Kansas. I don't want to cheapen it but I would love to hear any poetry or creative thoughts if you have them.<br /><br />Rest in Peace Dr. Tiller.Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04682532324408829173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8724693814281412961.post-88504844418744706292009-05-04T08:50:00.000-07:002009-05-04T08:52:33.211-07:00Are you the next great children's author?<span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;">Cheerios® is searching for the next great children's book author!<br /><br />It could be you! Just enter your original children's book story by <span style="font-weight: bold;">July 15, 2009</span>. Limit 500 words.<br /><br />The Cheerios New Author Contest encourages aspiring authors to write and submit an original story for a book for children ages 3 to 8. The (1) Grand Prize of $5,000 cash will be awarded. In addition to the cash prize, the Grand Prize winning story submission will be offered to a reputable Children’s Book Publishing company for possible future publication. Two (2) First Prizes of $1,000 each will be awarded. The $1,000 First Prizes will be awarded as checks made payable to each of the two (2) First Prize winners. You are not eligible to enter and will be disqualified if you are a professional writer, such as a novelist, magazine, blogger or newspaper writer who writes books or articles <span style="font-style: italic;">for pay</span>, or you have authored a work of fiction that has been published or is about to be published in exchange for payment.<br /></span><br /><a href="http://www.writergazette.com/sendstudio/users/link.php?UserID=19536&Newsletter=181&List=1&LinkType=Send&LinkID=8497" target="_blank"><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;">http://www.<wbr>spoonfulsofstoriescontest.com/<wbr>registration_form/</span></a>Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04682532324408829173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8724693814281412961.post-59268842958172772792009-05-04T08:04:00.000-07:002009-05-04T08:10:16.814-07:00Monday Mind OpenerGood morning and May the 4th be with you!!!<br /><br />Speaking of which, Star Wars is a classic story of love, the fight for freedom, father/son relationships and cute fuzzy Ewoks. <br /><br />You are hereby asked to write a story of your fight for freedom. Who are your main characters and what freedom are they fighting for?<br /><br />Write long and prosper (yes, yes -- I know, that's Star Trek not Star Wars, I used to own a B'joran ear cuff for Maude's sake.)<br /><br /><br /><br />Also, don't forget, you are all more than welcome to start submitting poetry, short stories and other writings for Shakesquill. So many people had writing that seemed to be flowing out about BADD on Shakesville, I wanted to encourage submissions. So submit!!Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04682532324408829173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8724693814281412961.post-78894331411781259742009-04-20T10:17:00.000-07:002009-04-20T10:25:27.685-07:00Monday Mind OpenerMaude help me, it is 88 degrees at 9:30 a.m. and it's supposed to be over 100 today. Breaking records all over the place.<br /><br />Speaking of records: You are writing a character who is listed in the Guinness Book of World Records, what is she/he listed for and how did that person become the kind of person to break records.<br /><br />Write my lovelies! Write!Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04682532324408829173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8724693814281412961.post-71673492236360116252009-04-13T08:05:00.000-07:002009-04-13T08:09:11.545-07:00Monday Mind OpenerGood morning Shakers! Hope you all had a lovely weekend.<br /><br />Your assignment today, should you choose to accept it, is to let me know what, if any writing you are working on. If you are not working on any writing currently, what do you want to be working on? <br /><br />Let's put it this way -- in the land where money is no object, you have a house in Big Sur with a view from your desk of the Pacific Ocean crashing against the rocks -- what are you writing?Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04682532324408829173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8724693814281412961.post-66862978827394244372009-04-07T07:03:00.000-07:002009-04-07T07:07:30.971-07:00Monday Mind Opener - for TuesdayMust apologize - I was at a conference yesterday and despite best intentions, never got up the Monday Mind Opener.<br /><br />This morning, I'd like to ask, in light of the conference yesterday,<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">You have the opportunity to create an international conference. <br />You can have any speakers you like who are alive. <br /><br />What is your meeting entitled and who is speaking?<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Enjoy!<br /></div></div>Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04682532324408829173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8724693814281412961.post-60047688961935247772009-03-30T11:35:00.000-07:002009-03-30T11:38:37.254-07:00Monday Mind Opener<span class="bodytext2">It's almost always hard to say goodbye. Sometimes, holding onto something that isn't working just feels easier. However, saying goodbye to things and people that are holding you back allows room for new things.<br /><br />This week the Mind Opener is to say goodbye to all the things you need to let go of: bad habits, dead people, alive people, partners, self-destructive feelings and behaviors, jobs, projects, re-occurring thoughts, etc. (borrowed from <a href="http://www.learningtoloveyoumore.com/index.php">Learning to Love You More</a>)<br /></span>Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04682532324408829173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8724693814281412961.post-48329131610241978292009-03-26T09:17:00.000-07:002009-03-26T09:22:18.538-07:00Call to ArtistsShaker juliemania wanted to let writers know about an online art gallery and juried exhibit she is working on. She writes:<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">We are sending out Call to Artists, but I want to make sure that writers find out as well.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">We are including Written Word as one of the categories and author Kate Wilhelm is our juror. Any help you can provide would be great. AND if appropriate I would love to provide this info to ShakesQuill, as they are my favorite folks on the web.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Here is our Call to Artists:</span><br /><span id="fullpost"><br /><i><b>"Contemporary Perspectives for Change”</b></i><br /><br />Infinity Art Gallery is making an international call to contemporary artists who creatively express their vision for change in today’s world through visual or literary art.<br /><br />Entry Deadline: <b>July 1, 2009</b><br /><br />Exhibition Categories:<br />Two Dimensional Art<br />Three Dimensional Art<br />Digital art and Photography<br />Functional Art<br />Written Word<br /><br />Prospectus/Rules and Guidelines: go to <a href="http://www.infinityartgallery.com/" target="_blank">http://www.InfinityArtGallery.<wbr>com</a><br />Each applicant may submit artwork to one category only. Each artists may submit one or two entries.<br /><br />Awards: $3000 in cash prizes<br />Entry Fee: $25 USD, up to 2 pieces.<br />Entry Form: available at <a href="http://www.infinityartgallery.com/" target="_blank">http://www.InfinityArtGallery.<wbr>com</a><br />Grand Opening: <b>August 1, 2009</b><br /><br />Artwork is displayed in order of submission until the Grand Opening, when cash winners and selected finalists are announced and exhibited for six months – online, 24/7. Visitors to the gallery will participate in selecting the Viewers’ Choice winner in each category.<br /><br />JURORS for the ‘Contemporary Perspectives for Change’ exhibit are the acclaimed artists: <b>Kate Wilhelm</b>, written word; <b>Johnny Swing</b>, functional art; <b>James B. Wood</b>, photography/digital art; <b>Ellen Tykeson</b>, 3D art; and <b>Patric Baylis-Andre</b>, 2D art. The impressive biographies for the artists are on ‘Meet the Jurors’ page of the Current Exhibit at <a href="http://www.infinityartgallery.com/" target="_blank">http://www.InfinityArtGallery.<wbr>com</a>.<br /><br />Infinity Art Gallery is a new online gallery that offers amazing opportunity for artists and art collectors. Founders Julie Weismann and Charly Pritchard Swing showcase the work of international, world-class artists selected for artistic excellence. Infinity Art Gallery is especially unique because it encourages people who appreciate and support the arts to purchase DIRECTLY from artists who compete in their juried exhibits, and they display the artwork of ALL qualified submissions prior to each grand opening.<br /><br />Infinity Art Gallery will soon be the international cornerstone for the creative arts - where possibilities are boundless. Whether exhibiting or purchasing art, go online to <a href="http://www.infinityartgallery.com/" target="_blank">http://www.InfinityArtGallery.<wbr>com</a> and participate in the interactive, international gallery which connects artists with art collectors.</span>Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04682532324408829173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8724693814281412961.post-76737383954649018122009-03-25T13:18:00.000-07:002009-03-25T13:21:14.646-07:00Your ShakesQuillI want to know....<br /><br />What do you want to see at ShakesQuill?<br /><br /> **Mind Openers to get your writing groove on?<br /> **Words of the Day?<br /> **Story Starters?<br /> **Calls for Submission?<br /> **Lit Crit?<br /> **Book Reviews<br /> **Brags by Shakesquillians?<br /> **Something I haven't thought of?<br /> **Fewer prepositions at the ends of sentences?<br /><br />Let me know in your comments!Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04682532324408829173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8724693814281412961.post-78385211618553684282009-03-23T06:48:00.000-07:002009-03-23T06:59:53.711-07:00Monday Mind OpenerGood morning all! As I am a West Coaster (Los Angeles to be exact), generally you all will start your mornings long before I will. There is nothing I can do about this other than wake up at 3 a.m. and that's just not going to happen. This has been a public service announcement.<br /><br />Speaking of public service announcements, NBC (at least in the U.S.) has their "The More You Know" campaign. It's usually a 30 second public service announcement about a healthy breakfast, getting an annual physical and stranger danger. You are now an executive in the fictional NBC public awareness department and you have 30 words to inform the teevee watching audience about your issue. For instance:<br /><br /><blockquote>Looking directly into the sun at sunrise, despite being really beautiful, will cause you to see spots on your computer for at least an hour and can cause permanent damage. </blockquote>Go for it!Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04682532324408829173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8724693814281412961.post-92190904471831794372009-03-20T06:47:00.000-07:002009-03-20T07:00:27.268-07:00What to expectGood morning!<br /><br />Shakers seem to be looking forward to the resumption of ShakesQuill! I have a Monday Mind Opener prepared and I suspect I will soon be up to my eyeballs in submissions. <br /><br />Here's some notes on what we're looking for in addition to your artistic submissions:<br /><br /><ul><li><a href="http://shakesquill.blogspot.com/search/label/Weekly%20Stories">Weekly story</a> starters<br /></li><li><a href="http://shakesquill.blogspot.com/search/label/Monday%20Mind%20Opener">Monday Mind Openers</a></li><li><a href="http://shakesquill.blogspot.com/search/label/Word%20of%20the%20Day">Words of the Day</a></li></ul>I am also looking for a volunteer to take on Word of the Day duties. <br /><br />Please feel free to email me any questions, comments or suggestions at soqueer (at) gmail (dot) com.<br /><br />As GWB says - Bring it on!Faithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04682532324408829173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8724693814281412961.post-8985812865325397262009-03-06T11:24:00.001-08:002009-03-10T11:54:25.296-07:00State of the ShakesQuill IIHi all. I'm Faith, a regular commenter on Shakesville, author of <a href="http://soqueer.blogspot.com">That is So Queer...</a> and various published works around town and I am honored to be the new ShakesQuill editrix. Thanks so much to Bill Wolfrum for all of his work as the founding editor, Liss for basically everything she does and all of the courageous and talented writers that have made ShakesQuill into what it is today.<br /><br />This is what Bill wrote at the inception of ShakesQuill, it is brilliantly written and still stands true, so:<br /><br />"One thing to remember about ShakesQuill - it's a work in progress, and it will likely stay that way. We'll always be looking outside of the box (and inside) for different ideas.<br /><br />A couple words on submissions: Please give me the name you'd like to use for the piece as a guest contributor, plus any bio info you'd like added, as well. Please remember that we can't use everything. That said, I'll try and use everything I get."<br /><br />I'll be restarting the Monday Mind Opener and I am completely open to ideas about what you would like to see in that department and any others.<br /><br />I look forward to hearing from all of you. I can be reached at soqueer@gmail.com.<br /><br />FaithFaithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04682532324408829173noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8724693814281412961.post-84702373256885514812009-02-10T04:36:00.000-08:002009-02-10T04:37:16.084-08:00UnSome things are better left unspoken<br />Some things are better left undone<br /><br />Let them think it's all over.<br />Let them think you no longer care.<br />You've forgotten.<br /><br />Walk into the shadows, close your blinds<br />Skip into the sunshine, look for the rainbow.<br /><br />Leave the door shut, the box closed.<br />Let the dust and let it remain.<br />Untouched.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Submitted by <a href="http://dropletsodillies.blogspot.com/">strangedillies</a></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8724693814281412961.post-77570868455752044532009-02-10T04:34:00.000-08:002009-02-10T04:35:16.942-08:00CassandraI watch my fellow proles, ignorant of history, infatuated with trivia, preoccupied with trinkets, obsessed with ephemeral celebrity, seeking mindless entertainment. I shout a warning to help them see the truth, but my words evaporate in the anesthetic miasma of delusion.<br /><br />I watch my fellow citizens as carefully crafted lies persuade them, as mongers of cynical words and cruel intentions exploit them, as their fears and desires are used as weapons against them. I cry out to them, trying to share my experiences and knowledge to prevent their loss, but my voice is only a whisper.<br /><br />I watch my fellow Eloi, who live lives emptied of all meaning, who remain oblivious to their ultimate fate, who passively wait until the siren calls them to line up and feed the ravenous Morlocks. I scream at them to stop, to notice their approaching doom, and avoid an ignoble death, but my mouth is sealed.<br /><br />My screams unheard, my words unpersuasive, my warnings dismissed as the rantings of a delusional mind. My massive, barely contained, righteous rage goes unnoticed in an uncaring world. My Cassandra's curse continues. Waves of nauseating disgust leave me feeling empty and exhausted.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Submitted by MikeEss</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">About the Author:</span> "I am an observer of life, but not a participant.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8724693814281412961.post-8419025786126245752009-02-10T04:31:00.001-08:002009-02-10T04:31:41.854-08:00ChangelingWhere are you?<br />True, your form is still fair,<br />You still bear that soft resemblance...<br />But the shade within is corrupt,<br />It is not the man I loved.<br /><br />For he would never be so cruel,<br />So full of malice,<br />Like sweet Echo I am fading, O,<br />How I could smash that loathsome mirror!<br />That object, that symbol of your potent desire,<br />Where is it?<br /><br />So deep within your wicked soul...<br />Now, like that lovestruck nymph,<br />I mourn for the man<br />That I lost to his own self.<br /> <br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Submitted by Ravenix</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8724693814281412961.post-80970412258451601652009-01-28T17:15:00.000-08:002009-01-28T17:21:05.051-08:00I Am Me, Can’t You See?I am a woman with many qualities, Can’t you see?<br />You see only a housewife indeed<br />I am much more than you perceive<br />Take your blinders off so you can see<br />Take the time to see the real me<br />I desperately want to be me<br /><br />There is not much time left for you and me<br />My heart needs to be relieved<br />I will not live a lie, I shall be fre<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Submitted by <a href="http://www.heathermirassou.com/">Heather Mirassou</a></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8724693814281412961.post-48929920003831498152009-01-28T17:07:00.000-08:002009-01-28T17:09:05.046-08:00Robert Emmet"Let no man write my epitaph." <br />The defiant rebel said. <br />"Let no woman eulogize me <br />After I am dead." <br /> <br />"I give my life for Ireland- <br />An Ireland strong and free <br />An Ireland that‘s united, <br />One free of tyranny." <br /> <br />"When my country takes its rightful place <br />Among nations of the world. <br />That day I will not live to see <br />When our banner is unfurled." <br /> <br />"On that day, and only then <br />Let my suffering be recalled- <br />and that I died for Liberty- <br />The sweetest death of all." <br /><br /><em>Submitted by Hobbie</em>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8724693814281412961.post-28730981579870149612009-01-23T19:27:00.000-08:002009-01-23T19:28:38.993-08:00No Hope<i>I had the idea for this story before the inauguration, but for obvious reasons, I didn't want to publish it beforehand. On top of that, the real-world experience added some details to the story that wouldn't have been there otherwise.</i><br /><br /> "Honey do you know where my red tie is?"<br /> "No, I haven't seen it, why?"<br /> "I've got to pack it. The Congressman said we might be able to get tickets to the Inaugural Ball."<br /> "Wow, the big one?"<br /> "Yes, so I want to pack my best clothes."<br /> "Honey, if we're going to the Inaugural Ball, you're renting a tux."<br /> "Seriously?"<br /> "Of course, have you ever seen one of these things on TV? Everybody is dressed to the max. Your blue blazer and red tie aren't going to cut it."<br /> "Oh."<br /> "Seriously, it's almost like you haven't even been paying attention to anything all this time you've been working in politics."<br /> "What?"<br /> "Never mind."<br />* * *<br /> "Ricky. Ricky! Dammit, boy! Don't you ever take them damn headphones off?<br /> "It's like you don't even live in the world outside those things. You know there are real people you could talk to, you don't have to spend all your time listening to strangers say dirty things about ladies and shooting people.<br /> "Are you even listening to me? Can you even hear me?<br /> "You know when we get on the plane they're going to make you take them off. I don't understand why, if the damn plane will break down because you're listening to your damn headphones, that doesn't make me feel very comfortable about flying, does it? How crappy are these planes, anyway?<br /> "What would your gramma think about that crap you are listening to? Really? You would break her heart.<br /> "I think that after we see Obama, we'll go see the Lincoln statue. I also want to stand on the spot that Dr. King stood on when he dreamed that dream. I wouldn't mind getting over to the JFK memorial, too. Do they have a JFK memorial? If not, they should. He was a great man. He wasn't no Dr. King or anything like the boys from Illinois, but he was still great.<br /> "You ain't even listening, are you?<br /> "Well, you better believe you're not going to have them damn things on when the president is talking. I'll take them off my damn self if you even try. This is important, son, and what kind of momma would I be if I let you miss it. This is the first black president. The first. If only your gramma lived long enough to see this. It would've almost made up for all the crap she went through back in the days.<br /> "Did you hear a word I said? Well, take them off, it's time to get on the damn plane."<br />* * *<br /> "Will you be checking in, sir?"<br /> "Of course I will, boy, what the hell else would I be doing in this Godforsaken place? I'll have to be coming up here a lot now, but that won't make me liked the damned place!"<br /> "Sir, is there a problem with the hotel?"<br /> "What? No. No, boy, not the damned hotel. The damned city! I hate this swamp!"<br /> "Are you here for the inauguration?"<br /> "Of course I am. Wouldn't come to this hellhole if I didn't have to! Now I gotta be here for most of the next two years -- four if they actually vote me back in."<br /> "Vote you in? You work in Congress sir?"<br /> "Hell, yes! It wasn't my idea but the chairwoman said she needed me to do it after that damned pedophile got the boot last time. Can you believe what kind of sick people run for office in this country?"<br /> "No, sir, I can't. Where are you coming from?"<br /> "Boy I am now the junior House member from the great state of...."<br /> "Congressman! Congressman. Welcome to our fine establishment!"<br /> "And who the hell are you?"<br /> "I am the manager of the hotel, sir."<br /> "About time I got some VIP treatment around here! I mean this boy was fine, but I would think a member of the United States Congress could get a little bit more personalized service!"<br /> "Of course, sir. Bobby, call the bellhop -- I think Marcus is working tonight -- and send him to get the Congressman's bags. Sir, we have your reservation set and the house tailor will be in your room about 9 a.m. to measure you for your tuxedo."<br /> "Nine in the morning, Washington already start this early, son?"<br /> "Is that a little bit to early for you?"<br /> "Hell, yes! Especially after how much I plan on...embibing...at Dick Lugar's party tonight."<br /> "Yes, sir, I'll change the appointment to noon, you can eat your lunch while the tailor takes care of you."<br /> "That sounds a little better. Now, how's about we get a scotch. What's the house brand in your little bar over there."<br />* * *<br /> "Hey, Sarah, I'm about to head out to the big concert. I wanted to call you and say hi before I headed out.<br /> "Yeah, I don't know who all will be there, but I keep hearing different names thrown out -- the Boss, Jay-Z, Kanye, Puffy, Sheryl Crow. <br /> "I don't really like her, either. I liked that one song, the one where was sitting on the beach in the video.<br /> "Yeah, that's the one. Her other stuff doesn't do too much for me, though. I do like the Boss, though. There was that one time that he told Reagan that he couldn't use 'Born in the USA', but then he allowed 2 Live Crew to use it. That was hilarious.<br /> "What?<br /> "Oh, I'm in the purple section. It's pretty close to the front.<br /> "I didn't get it myself. I probably couldn't get a ticket at all. I got it from one of the bloggers I met in Denver.<br /> "Yeah, at the Big Tent. Did I tell you about all the free beer?<br /> "That was a crazy time. Fun, but there was just too much going on.<br /> "Yeah, I got both the regular digital camera and the flip video. I should be able to get some really good stuff for the blog. I'll also be livetweeting the whole thing. Although they've been saying that signals might not get through since so many people will be down there with mobile phones.<br /> "Hopefully. I'll blog about it after I get back to the hotel room, but I'd love to get some live posts up from the site.<br /> "Yeah, I hear it'll be under 30 degrees. I don't know how I'm going to type with gloves on.<br /> "I think it's Robert Gates. Kind of strange that the only person they'd leave out in case of a terrorist attack is a Republican. If something like that happens, we're fucked.<br /> "No, there's no reason to worry about anything like that. Didn't you see Cloverfield? I have a camera, of course I'll survive, the camera operator always makes it.<br /> "Okay, maybe that's true.<br /> "Yeah, well Blair Witch sucked, so I wouldn't even count that. Too much hype that didn't deliver. Now Snakes on a Plane, that delivered. And I hear Samuel L. Jackson will be here. I'd love to see him give Obama a terrorist fist bump. That would be the shit!<br /> "Okay, gotta go get ready.<br /> "I love you, too.<br /> "Bye."<br />* * *<br /> "Can you believe this shit?"<br /> "Nope. Fuckin' McCain."<br /> "Damned Rino. I can't believe he beat Huckabee. Huckabee wouldn't have lost to no brother."<br /> "True, true."<br /> "Hell, if we didn't live here, I wouldn't be nowhere near D.C. for that boy's inauguration."<br /> "Me neither. I'd love to have been there for McCain's, though."<br /> "What the hell for?"<br /> "Palin, dude, Palin! She would've been the first VPILF!"<br /> "True. Hand me another beer."<br /> "You want Bud or Busch."<br /> "Better give me a Busch, you know, for old times sake."<br /> "Hey we'll get another Bush in four years, if we're still speaking English then instead of Arabic."<br /> "No way, in four years it'll be Palin. Count on it."<br /> "Yeah, could be. Now we're stuck with that prick for four years and there's nothing we can do about it."<br /> "You and I both know there's something we could do about it."<br /> "Yeah, I wish."<br /> "Crap, we better pick up a lot of beers for tomorrow, during the inauguration."<br /> "Yeah, we can do a drinking game -- every time someone says 'hope' or 'change' we have to drink."<br /> "Ha! We'll both die from liver poisoning."<br /> "Yeah, I'm so tired of hearing those damned words. They don't even mean nothing."<br /> "Stupid fucking Democrats."<br /> "Yeah."<br />* * *<br /> "Baby, that was Jamie, the Congressman's personal assistant."<br /> "Yeah, did we get them?"<br /> "Yep, we'll be spending the evening tonight with President Obama and thousands of his closest friends."<br /> "Awesome! You really think that many people will be there?"<br /> "No idea. Probably. We waited in the line for several hours. I don't even think some of those people in line behind will make it in before the swearing in. That'll suck."<br /> "I can't wait to see Hillary. She kind of got gipped in the election."<br /> "Are you serious? She got gipped because more people voted for Obama in the election?"<br /> "He only won because she's a woman."<br /> "Again, are you kidding me? He's black. Who faces more discrimination than black people?"<br /> "Obviously, you've never been a woman before."<br /> "Well, there was that one time in college. But I was young and needed the money."<br /> "Oooh, you have any pictures?"<br /> "No, I was just kidding. That's gross!"<br /> "I know. A woman can dream, though, can't she."<br /> "Not if she's dreaming about that. Hey, who are those kids? They sound like crap. What the hell are they singing?"<br />* * *<br /> "Ricky, put those damn headphones away. All kinds of people are coming on the stage and you should pay attention.<br /> "I said put them away or I'm going to take them away.<br /> "That's better. Every couple of minutes somebody knew comes on and you should pay attention, these are important people. These are the people who run our country, for better or for worse.<br /> "Whoever that is, you better stop pushing! My eleven-year-old son is here and I don't want him to get hurt.<br /> "I'm not pushing, people are pushing me!"<br /> "I felt you pushing me, so don't give me no crap."<br /> "Save the fighting for the afternoon, people, this is Barack's day."<br /> "I ain't fighting nobody, I just don't want to be crushed out here. It's cold enough as it is, don't need to be crushed, too.<br /> "Who is that on stage?"<br /> "Howard Dean. He ran for president four years ago. Everybody thought he was going to win, but did that whole 'byeaah!' scream thing and he lost."<br /> "He was also chairman of the Democrats since then."<br /> "And who is that?"<br /> "Al Pacino!"<br /> "That's not Pacino, you moron, that's Dustin Hoffman."<br /> "Ricky, don't listen to these people, let's just keep watching the screen and hope somebody doesn't crush us."<br />* * *<br /> "Where'd you say you were from, boy?"<br /> "Nebraska."<br /> "I didn't know there were no damned Democrats from...what is it...the Cornhusker state?"<br /> "Yes, that's us. We have a few Dems in office."<br /> "What, exactly, the hell is a Cornhusker?"<br /> "It doesn't really matter."<br /> "You aren't one of those 'liberals' are you?"<br /> "Sir, I really don't think...."<br /> "Is that Newt? I've always wanted to meet Newt. I know he's a Republican, but he really has some good ideas."<br /> "Yes, I think...."<br /> "I'm going to go over and talk to him. I hope the 'show' doesn't start before I can talk to him. I really like what that boy has to say."<br /> "Okay, sir...."<br /> "Hey, Newt! It's me, Congressman...."<br /> "Prick."<br />* * *<br /> "Hey, Sarah. Just wanted to leave you a quick message. Apparently Aretha's about to sing the anthem or something.<br /> "This whole thing was kind of a clusterfuck! The lines were backed up for miles, even in the purple section, which was supposed to be a VIP section.<br /> "Anyway, the section was supposed to be reserved, but apparently the whole thing fell apart and the cops started letting anyone in. I think some of the people with tickets couldn't even get in. That's crazy. People came from hundreds, thousands, of miles and couldn't get in. I'd be pissed.<br /> "Some of them were even calling it the 'Purple Tunnel of Doom'. We had to go in this tunnel under the street to get in. It'd be the exact kind of place you wouldn't want to be in a zombie apocalypse, especially if it's the fast zombies. Either way this whole thing was poorly planned. A lot of people are going to be very angry. What's happening on stage is fine, but getting in sucked and it looks like people are littering all over the mall and getting out of here will be even worse. I imagine a lot of bloggers are going to write some bad things about the way this thing was run.<br /> "Oooh! I gotta go, Aretha's coming on. What the hell kind of hat is she wearing? Oh well, she's still a goddess! Love you, talk to you later."<br />* * *<br /> "I can't believe he's walking out with that Nancy Pelosi bitch."<br /> "Yeah, she really is a communist sympathizer and I'll bet she hates black people anyway. Most Democrats do, despite what they say. Byrd was in the Klan."<br /> "Hypocrite. Plus, they all love welfare and affirmative action, which just keep black people down."<br /> "Makes them lazy and turns them into...."<br /> "What the hell happened to the picture? Hit the remote, change the channel."<br /> "No, look, when I flip over to ESPN, everything's okay. It must've been that channel."<br /> "Turn it up, what're they saying? They cut away from the game."<br /> "Something about the inauguration. Wait, let me listen."<br /> "Did they just say what I thought they said?"<br /> "I think so."<br /> "Washington, D.C. is gone? The whole thing?"<br /> "Wow, is that a mushroom cloud?"<br /> "Hey, you know what that means?"<br /> "Yeah, we dodged a bullet. Gates is president."<br /> "Yeah, now maybe he can do something about those damned terrorists."<br /> "Good. Hey, get me another beer."<br /> "Sure, I need one, too."Professor Rexhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11374968423825724660noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8724693814281412961.post-39135292885420669312009-01-20T06:47:00.000-08:002009-01-20T06:51:42.409-08:00PureShe was a little flower<br /><br />But someone plucked her petals<br /><br />And now she can´t be beautiful again<br /><br /> <br /><br />She was a little hummingbird<br /><br />But someone broke her wings<br /><br />And now she’ll never fly again<br /><br /> <br /><br />She was a little butterfly<br /><br />But someone took her cocoon<br /><br />And now she’ll never be complete<br /><br />She was a little dolphin<br /><br />But someone locked her down<br /><br />And now she’ll never be free again<br /><br /> <br /><br />She was a little girl<br /><br />But something happened to her<br /><br />And now she has to learn how to be herself… again<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Submitted </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://creativebigbang.blogspot.com/">by Strings</a><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8724693814281412961.post-24124806720785623602009-01-20T06:44:00.000-08:002009-01-20T06:45:01.197-08:00ShakesQuill not down or outHey, Shakesquillians. Just want you to know that things are far from over here at ShakesQuill, and posts will be coming more regularly soon. The problem, unfortunately, is with me, at the moment, as I just do not have the time to dedicate into what can really become a popular blog.<br /><br />So bear with us, and thing will be rolling consistently again soon.<br /><br />BillUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8724693814281412961.post-71939170236339303442008-11-25T08:22:00.000-08:002008-11-25T09:55:10.870-08:00Summer Mud Summer BloodWe rode our bikes through the mid-morning heat and after an hour we departed from the wide dirt road and onto a small path that slinked through the thick mix of juniper and prickly pear on the desert plane. <br /> <br />Before long we rode to the edge of a vast and ancient wash. Four hundred yards below a coyote lapped at the edges of a large brown pool of water and the breeze carried the smell of the hot desert summer; that of wild mustard plant and steaming yucca needles. <br /> <br />We stood on the trail watching the coyote. <br /> <br />You think he’ll come after us, Chris said looking onward. <br /> <br />Nah, he’ll probly run off once we start a’headin down. He already knows we’re here. <br /><br /> <span id="fullpost"> <br />The trail heading down into the wash was tight and sandy requiring the both of us to walk our bicycles over the sand and rocks. It flattened for a bit and we rode on the edge of the trail so we wouldn’t get stuck in the sand and we rolled off a small shoulder-hill and down the rest of the way into the wash; coming to rest at the water hole. <br /> <br />Like I expected the coyote had run off and we saw him trotting up the other side; a spirit of the land, stopping every so often to look down at us. Chris stood at the muddy edge of the pool amongst the animal droppings and old tires. I threw a rock into the pool and Chris skipped one across the surface. <br /> <br />Too bad it’s so dirty—I could go for a swim right now. <br /> <br />You don’t want to swim in that—couldn’t anyway. It’s probly no more than a few feet deep in the middle. <br /> <br />Chris threw another rock and said, Yeah—maybe five feet max—you dare me to ride through this part? <br /> <br />He stood at a muddy corner no more than a foot deep and ten feet across and he tossed a small rock into its center to check the depth. <br /> <br />Sure, I shrugged. <br /> <br />He mounted his BMX bike and started down a trail heading due South and turned with a slide at a hundred feet or so down the trail. He stood straddling the bike in the middle of the trail and waved his hands. <br /> <br />Go! <br /> <br />Chris stood and mashed the peddles; his short arms pumped the handlebars from side to side leaving a skinny line of dust behind him that waved in the mirage that clung to the ground. When he got closer I could hear him huffing and puffing; his face beat-red looking like some kind of wild adolescent demon animal. <br /> <br />He stopped peddling when he got close to the edge and he lifted his arms and legs bringing the bike into the air as if he were going to try to jump over the watery span, but with no ramp, jump, or anything to help his trajectory. <br /> <br />The tires skimmed the surface then splashed down in the middle, sending a wave of brown water and mud forward into the air. At the end of the wave I saw his ankles flying through the air where his head should have been, and the outline of the bike stood still and the water came crashing down; water, mud, and Chris. <br /> <br />He landed on his back at the edge of the pool and rose from the water coughing and spitting the foul water from his mouth. Cursing and waddling he plopped down on the sand beside me and we observed his bike standing up; perfectly erect, peddles deep in the mud. <br /> <br />I collapsed in laughter as he shamefully retrieved his bike from the mud and he emerged from the pool covered in water and sludge; looking like a squat adobe shack. <br /> <br />I continued to laugh as he returned to the sand and sat down. <br /> <br />Mother fucker, he said shaking his head. Small chunks of mud and sand fell from his back. <br /> <br />Dude—you almost made it, I said through my laughter. <br /> <br />Fuck you. <br /> <br />Noon time found us sitting in the shade of an enormous Gambel oak. I sat on a berm emptying the sand from my shoes. Chris was stripped down to his mud-stained underwear laying his shirt and shorts out on a large rock to dry. <br /> <br />He walked back up to the tree; his skinny pale body was all stained the color of his underwear and darker drips were dried on his face and legs like brown paint. He waddled over joining me on the berm. <br /> <br />You wanna turn back, I said squinting in the dry heat. <br /> <br />Nah, we’ll keep going. I’ll be fine—just gotta dry my clothes out a little at least. Where you want to go? <br /> <br />Don’t know—thought we would cross the tracks down yonder to the south and head up towards the highway. <br /> <br />Sounds fine to me, Chris said watching his clothes dry in the sun, I aint got shit to do. <br /> <br />And, we sure didn’t. It was the summer break between our sixth and seventh years in school. We would often run off on our bikes all day exploring the desert. We never really looked for anything in particular, just explored. <br /> <br />Chris and I had been friends since we were born; our mothers being best friends. We were born a year and three months apart; Chris being the senior, but I was quite a bit taller and thicker. We grew up on the same street, and attended the same school. <br /> <br />Our dads ran off around the same time too; Chris’s mother told him he joined the army, but everyone knew that wasn’t true. She found him out back hanging from their old Ponderosa pine. <br /> <br />My dad took off to California. He sent me gifts on my birthday and Christmas the first two years, but then they stopped coming and so did the phone calls. I guess it’s all the same they weren’t around. Texas had no use for them, and neither did we. <br /> <br />Chris and kept each other company while our moms danced down at the bar. We didn’t have anyone to take us fishing, hunting, or any of that stuff we saw on the TV. We did stuff our way. It was the only way we knew how. <br /> <br /> <br />The sky was clear and the color of turquoise; small in the distance was a murder of ravens riding the thermals that spiraled upward from the desert floor. We sat there on the berm for thirty minutes or so before Chris walked down to the rocks to retrieve his clothes. The fronts were dry, but the backsides were still damp and mud clung to them still; dried and cracked. <br /> <br />We rode out to the south, still in the ribcage of the wash; Chris looking like a statue made of pumice breaking apart as it became animate. We walked our bikes up the steep trail that flanked the railroad tracks as it crossed the wash before they sunk once again into long trenches on either side; dug I imagine to keep the track level as it crossed the rolling desert. <br /> <br />Standing high on the railroad tracks we overlooked the waterhole far below. <br /> <br />Check it out, I said pointing to the corner of the waterhole. Darker fresh mud could still be seen in a starburst pattern radiating far from the bank. <br /> <br />What were you thinking pulling up on your bike like that, I asked. <br /> <br />He looked down into the valley. Dried mud still caked his hair and it hung like yarn. <br /> <br />No idea, he said continuing on; pushing his bike over the course gravel on the side of the tracks. I followed close behind. <br /> <br />I think that was y’er problem, I laughed. <br /> <br />He turned around with a big muddy smile and said, Pretty funny though. <br /> <br />Got that right. <br /> <br />We followed the tracks into the side of the hill and the vertical sides of the trench loomed down on us. The farther we ventured into the trench, the less chance we had of ever escaping in the presence of a train, but still we continued on. We looked over our shoulders every so often to watch for trains and even though there were none, we hurried our steps anyway. When the trench receded down to waist high we walked up over the side and into a small clearing. <br /> <br />On the top of another small hill we headed North again and onto a high desert plane thick with juniper trees. Then we heard the train passing. <br /> <br />Chris looked at me and motioned like he was wiping his brow in relief. I acknowledged him and we pressed on. <br /> <br />Chris and I mounted our bikes and rode single file on a narrow trail that disappeared into a juniper grove; our peddles slapping the hot leaves of the mustard and Mormon tea plants and we carried with us the smell of the desert summer. <br /> <br />The air hung still in the grove. Small birds chirped; quarreling in the ragged thickets and cicadas buzzed all around like downed power lines. The junipers became brown and singed before we entered a clearing surrounded by the dead and burnt junipers and there was a half burnt down trailer home in the center. Parked to its side was a pick-up truck that was burned down to bare metal and pooling plastic. <br /> <br />We rode through a corner of the clearing to the trail on the other side. Chris peddled up beside me and we stopped a little ways past the clearing. <br /> <br />Hey man, he said, we should go back. <br /> <br />Why? <br /> <br />Because—there could be someone in there. Or somthin else—who knows what. <br /> <br />I laughed in an attempt to belittle him, Yes—I know fucknose. That’s why I don’t want to go back. It’s obviously a meth lab or some shit. I aint messin with no dopers. <br /> <br />I watched him set his bike down and he started into the bushes; motioning for me to follow, C’mon fucker, he said, let’s just go and have a look. <br /> <br />I reluctantly followed him between two junipers and we moved on an animal path through the lower lying brush until we could see the trailer between the spans of trees. We crouched for a moment and listened before moving forward toward the trailer. <br /> <br />Chris lead the way as we purposefully lined ourselves up with the brush as to avoid being seen from the trailer, and once the gap was closed we were hunched over just beneath the only unbroken window on the backside of the trailer. Chris put his hand down over a scattering of ashes that had fallen from underneath the trailer. <br /> <br />Its warm, he said looking up at me; his hand still hovering over the ashes. <br /> <br />Of course it’s warm—everything’s warm. It’s a hundred and ten degrees out. <br /> <br />No—feel it. <br /> <br />I stooped down and held my hand where he had his, and I could feel it as well, Yup—fire hasn’t been out for long. <br /> <br />This discovery did nothing to ease my nerves. Chris crept around the back side of the trailer that wasn’t burned and I followed close behind. I concentrated on my ears and I listened for any stirring about. When we reached the other side of the trailer we could see fully the damage that had been done. <br /> <br />The far side of the trailer had blown out sending various charred items out into the clearing with aluminum shrapnel of varying sizes, and pink fiberglass insulation material. There were buckets stained with red phosphorous and black trash bags that had been ripped apart scattering empty bottles of ephedrine pills in the trees and all around. <br /> <br />There was a fire pit circled by melon sized river rocks in the center of the clearing and the lawn chairs that once sat around it were also blown against the trees with the pill bottles. <br /> <br />Told you it was a meth lab, I said kicking an empty ephedrine bottle. I added, Surprised the whole thing didn’t burn to the ground. <br /> <br />Yup, Chris said walking along the front of the trailer toward the front door that was slightly ajar. <br /> <br />I looked all around and didn’t see any fresh foot prints. I raised my head to see Chris opening the door. <br /> <br />He screamed as his body was pulled forward into the doorway and the door closed on his legs obscuring the rest of his body. It slammed onto his legs again and he kicked it away; banging the side of the trailer. I ran to him and just his legs could be seen kicking wildly; his screaming and a roar of some other voice filled the desert air. <br /> <br />I swung the door completely open and a man had Chris by the neck of his shirt. He breathed heavily through his groans and he lay on the floor pulling Chris into the burnt trailer. His legs looked like two melted candles and may have been stuck to the floor; his hair wet with sweat was pasted to his forehead. I wrapped my arms around Chris’s torso and pulled against the burnt man’s strength. His grip only further tightened and my 12 year old muscles were no match to his, even in his condition. <br /> <br />Chris used his other free hand to push and punch the man’s face and the man snapped at his fingers with his yellow teeth gnashing and snarling. And, all the while screaming, It was you—It was you. <br /> <br />I let go of Chris and he squirmed wildly; howling and screeching like a rabbit in the throws of impending death. I turned and ran to the fire pit and retrieved a cantaloupe sized chunk of sandstone. I pushed Chris to the side with my left elbow and threw the rock down on the man’s face, striking him square on the forehead. <br /> <br />Much to my surprise he didn’t let go right away. Instead he groaned and heaved deep in his chest and blood shot between his rotted teeth to the ceiling; covering Chris’s face and neck. I picked up the blood soaked rock once more and smashed it down, still holding it with both hands, directly into his gaping mouth. <br /> <br />Blood streamed from his ears and he loosened his grip on Chris; sending us both tumbling backward onto our backs. <br /> <br />We lifted ourselves to our elbows and Chris turned to face me; his heart thumping through his torn shirt. His face was wet with blood and mud irrigated with tears, like an Indian shaken with bittersweet victory. <br /> <br />He coughed and cursed catching his breath, and we both watched the blood drip through the burnt floorboards; usurped by the sand. <br /> <br />I rose first and offered a hand to Chris who was still quite shaken. He attempted to dust himself off but his efforts only smeared the blood further across his chest and he stood there looking around panting. <br /> <br />Is he dead, he said wiping the blood from his forehead. <br /> <br />I’m pretty sure he is—but I aint stick’n around to check. <br /> <br />He nodded and spat. <br /> <br />Just then a noise caught our ears and we turned in the direction of the main road. A column of dust filtered up through the trees. A motor roared near and the body of some vehicle clanked on its frame; making its way toward us. <br /> <br />Without a word we ran around the back of the trailer the same way we had arrived and grabbed our bikes and peddled feverishly down the trail away from the trailer and the unknown vehicle. <br /> <br />We made our way through the juniper grove until it broke to a field where the trail widened as it straitened. I could hear the sounds of old car doors slamming and shouts behind us, even over my own heart beating. <br /> <br />I caught up to Chris, who was leading the way, on a short downhill and passed him as we overcame a blind crest. The shadow of the crest was steep in the late afternoon and it hid a fallen Scrub oak which I struck at full speed. <br /> <br />I saw sky then dirt, and I was sent ass over teakettle down the trail like a rag doll. When I came to, Chris knelt over me looking over his shoulder, then down on me. <br /> <br />You okay, he said studying my face. <br /> <br />Nope, I struggled to say. My chest— <br /> <br />Chris moved his hands over my chest, Oh God. You broke your fucking collar bone—its all—man o’ man—I can see it from here—the right one—well your left one I guess. <br /> <br />I took a deep breath trying not to be too panicked. Look, I began solemnly, we have to get off this trail. They’re going to follow our bike tracks for sure. Help me up. <br /> <br />Chris now offered me his hand and I clinched my teeth tight as I was brought onto my feet. I motioned with my chin to a bundle of ocotillo a little ways off the trail and we walked, me with my left shoulder slung low, to the bushes. <br /> <br />Once under the cover of the brush Chris used his pocket knife to cut off my shirt from the back. He tied the sleeves together to make an impromptu sling, and I hung my arm in it close to my body. The sounds of the men shouting and things thrashing about could still be heard as we made our way back home avoiding the trails. <br /> <br />In the evening we walked along a ridge of sage brush. Our small tattered bodies cast long sweeping shadows over the red grassland, and our bicycles in true scale seemed to simply grow from our legs; our shadows moving across the land as one. We didn’t speak and even the birds hushed on our approach. <br /> <br />Nightfall found us a few miles outside of town, but still a long way to go home. It was far enough North that we saw it safe to ride on the trail so we caught the closest one heading our way and followed it till it glowed blue in the moon light. <br /> <br />Chris pulled his bike to the side and stopped. <br /> <br />How you holdin up? <br /> <br />My fucking chest and neck hurt so bad I could die. Arms aching too—throbbing like a som'bitch. <br /> <br />I think we better head into town. We’re so far out of our way now, we wouldn’t make it home by eleven. <br /> <br />And? <br /> <br />And, my moms gunna turn a switch on my ass! How did you expect this all to go down? Did you think we was just gunna waltz into the house at this hour—covered in blood? <br /> <br />I didn’t expect none of this to go down Chris—it just did. Killed a man for Christ’s sake. Late or not late—blood or no blood. I gotta get home. <br /> <br />I was so pissed off but the pain kept me from raising my voice. Chris stood there wild eyed in the middle of the trail. I could make out a tear running down the gulches of his face. He turned and gripped his threaded hair letting out a guttural scream. <br /> <br />Holler’n aint gonna get you nowhere, I said calmly. <br /> <br />Holler’n? Chris said turning around, This trail aint gunna get us nowhere. You’re all broken up—I’m cold—you’re cold. This whole thing is way beyond what I can deal with right now. We need to be call’n the po’lice and you know it. <br /> <br />For what? So I can land my ass in jail Chris? So they can lock me up? <br /> <br />No ones gunna lock you up. Shit—you saved my life. God knows what would have happened if you wouldn’t have done that. Som’bitch may bitten off my face for all we know. <br /> <br />I stood there thinking about our choices. I could see a light glowing off in the distance. <br /> <br />You don’t think they’ll lock me up? <br /> <br />Hell no. There aint a sheriff in this town that would bring you in—at least not for permanent. You saved them some time the way I see it. <br /> <br />I looked again to the light glowing across the fields. <br /> <br />We broke trail and headed to the East walking through the high grass until we found a small trail that lead us to a paved road. Chris rode ahead in the middle of it, and I in the back with only one hand on the handle bars. After about an hour after we broke trail, we arrived at a gas station. We rode up to the front doors and leaned our bikes against the wall. <br /> <br />You wait out here, I said. If you see anyone lookin suspicious you just go ahead and take off okay? <br /> <br />Okay, he said leaning with his bike against the wall. The light really showed the condition we were in, and to the untrained eye someone might think we had been shipwrecked and Shanghaied for ages. <br /> <br />The man behind the counter was balding in his late thirties and wore a blue vest as a uniform. I made my way to the counter and he looked at me like trouble incarnate. <br /> <br />May I help you, the man said under his mustache. <br /> <br />Yes sir—you got a phone I can use, I asked setting my right palm on the counter. I got to call the po’lice. <br /> <br />Damn boy—what the hell happened to you? <br /> <br />Some stuff just a’happened and I need to call the po’lice. <br /> <br />Where’s your parents? You can’t be more than ten years old. <br /> <br />Their busy—now how about that phone? <br /> <br />The man mumbled something then produced a cordless phone from behind the counter and I dialed 911 with my thumb; holding the phone in the same hand. <br /> <br />When I walked back outside Chris was sitting up against the wall picking dried mud from the frame of his bike. <br /> <br />What did they say? <br /> <br />Said their sending a car down here to meat us. <br /> <br />What did you tell them? <br /> <br />Nothin—I said that there was an accident and I broke my collar bone and I’d tell’em the rest when they got down here. <br /> <br />You gunna tell’em the truth? <br /> <br />I figured I would. No sense piss’en off the good guys too. <br /> <br />Chris nodded and continued flaking the mud from his bike and I leaned on a newspaper stand; covering it with sweat and blood in the process. <br /> <br />After about fifteen minutes or so a sheriff car turned into the service station. It drove up along side of us and we both stood up. The window rolled down and the sheriff hung his head and elbow out of it. <br /> <br />Y’all the boys that called the po’lice? <br /> <br />Yes sir. That’s us, I said. <br /> <br />He looked at the both of us and said, Looks like y’all got hit by a train. <br /> <br />No sir, I said, But—we sure caught everything else. <br /> <br />The sheriff looked us over once more and said laughing, Yeah—I guess. <br /><br />---<br /><br />There is something—isn’t there? <br /> <br />When someone ends a life. <br /> <br />The word ‘change’ doesn’t really capture it. <br /> <br />De-evolve? <br /> <br />Is that a word? <br /> <br />Maybe ‘mutate’ would be a better fit. <br /> <br />At any rate, that’s what happened to me; it’s what happens to a person after they have executed their most animalistic rights. To fly or fight. To die today, or put it off till some other time. <br /> <br />No one knows when. <br /> <br />I can’t even pick up a rock without think’n about that man in the trailer. It’s all I see. I feel his teeth shattering under that sandstone. And all the blood, God damned there was a lot—all gurgling in his throat. Dark blood, that made a foam all around his broken jaw, and the rock—like raspberry jello in a blender. Coughing and heaving, gurgling and spouting. <br /> <br />Somehow I think all that blood made me stronger later on. A 'right of passage' some might say. <br /> <br />Chris was a little more affected than me. <br /> <br />He was never right after that day in the fields—hell, no one was. <br /> <br />Guess things have a way of stick’n to some folks, others it just slides right off. <br /> <br />Last time I heard the name Christopher Wainscot was in the paper. I was turning the pages while I ate my breakfast down at Peggy’s Dinner on 3rd street. Paper says my childhood friend killed a man—a Marine in some shit-hole bar in Austin. Paper says he pleaded insanity. Shit, I know that’s right. Paper says he cried when the jury delivered their verdict. I don’t pay much attention to what the paper says these days. <br /> <br />Both our mothers came to pick us up from the po’lice station. Neither one of’um turned a switch on us. They just let us be. Thought they’d just be in the way I guess—let us work it out on our own. Just like everything else. <br /> <br />Po’lice did a pretty good job of keep’n the whole thing quiet. As it turns out the land was owned by Mr. Bradshaw the City Councilman. He was up for re-election, and didn’t need anything cloud’n up his name. But, for whatever the reason was; we come out clean. <br /> <br />Me and Chris, we stayed friends all the way up till high school let out. Few days after we graduated he packed up his shit and shipped out. Joined the Army—wanted to be a man. I told him there’s no sense and goin through all the trouble. There’s some gals down at the tavern that’ll take care of that real quick. But, he shipped out anyway. <br /> <br />He came back into town a different person. I guess there’s nothin wrong with that—he came back to a different town. Different than what he remembered. <br /> <br />His momma died on a rainy Easter Sunday while he was away. My momma went over to bring her fresh eggs from our coupe, and found her hang’n from that same Ponderosa pine out back—like it was planted by the Devil himself. Capturing souls one by one. <br /> <br />Matter of fact, that’s the first thing he did when he came back—cut that fucker down. I helped. <br /> <br />It reminded me of when we were kids. Chris and I stick’n together. <br /> <br />I’ll never forget one night in October when we were just in the fourth grade. Chris’s mom called us over to their place. Said there was an emergency. <br /> <br />We went over there and found that she was with child, or had been anyway. Some truck driver that worked at the quarry had knocked her up. <br /> <br />The baby—a little girl—came out much too early I reckon. She was born into this world deader’n a doornail, not bigger than both your fists put together. My momma was hold’n onto his momma real tight, and both of them cried n cried. Momma told Chris that he was the man of the house and to do the honorable thing, and me’n him did. <br /> <br />We took that little baby girl off the bathroom floor; blood all around—and wrapped her up in a scarf real nice, and put her in a two gallon pickle jar—laid her in a hole we dug out in Chris’s back field. <br /> <br />We stood out there in the dark. Two little men. <br /> <br />I never let those types of things change me too much. <br /> <br />A wise man has to know his limits. At least that’s what I’ve been told. <br /> <br />He has to be able to admit when he’s at fault, and when there’s no one to blame. When there’s nothing to be done, and to just let it be. He’s got to accept his life for what it is, and not spend all day cry’n about what it’s not. Gotta know that there’s some things that just happen—you cant take ‘em back. <br /> <br />I kept tell’n him it wasn’t his fault, but he never listened. Maybe he wanted it to be his fault. No matter how much you know someone, you never quite know whats goin on in their head. Maybe he was just look’n for an excuse to go crazy. If he was, then he found it—sure as shit. <br /> <br />A mans gotta be able to look inside—deep inside where no one wants to look, not even God himself. He’s gotta walk in that dark room; walls stained red, piled to the ceiling with people—memories. Papers with words; things that should’ve been, things that you shouldnt've done, things that happened to you—things that cant be taken back, or undone. <br /> <br />I walked in that room once. <br /> <br />I was my 24th birthday. I sat there on the banks of that same waterhole and let the desert breeze take me there, to that room. I didn’t bother clean’n up the walls. It was much too late for that. <br /> <br />I walked around in it for a while sayin hello to the bodies layin around on the floor; covered in papers. I moved’em all into the center of the room, and swept up each little scrap—all with words, stories, and names. Things that happened to me, things that happened to my momma, and all the things that happened to Chris—and his momma too. <br /> <br />I swept them all up in the middle of that room with all the people and their half forgotten faces. I piled them as high as I could and placed the papers that told this story; the summer of mud and blood, and placed them right on top of the whole heap. <br /> <br />I concentrated real hard and soaked that whole pile with gasoline. I soaked it till my nostrils dried and cracked and tears ran from my eyes. The papers became translucent in the dim light; their words ran off the page and mixed with the gas that pooled all around. I stood there at the door way and lit a match. <br /> <br />Burnt it all--burnt every last fuck'n thing in it. Burned that mother fucker right to the ground. <br /> <br />I don’t aim to ever go back. <br /> <br />So when you stand there and ask me, Have I changed; I got a real simple answer for you. <br /> <br />Ye’sir—ye’sir I have.<br /> <br /><em>Submitted by Leslie Johnson</em> <br /><br /><em>For more of Leslie Johnson’s writing visit <a href="http://www.TheLongDownwardSpiral.com">TheLongDownwardSpiral.com</a></em><br /><br /></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8724693814281412961.post-90703459072706423522008-10-28T04:45:00.000-07:002008-10-28T04:48:01.286-07:00Gay in FloridaMy love in on the ballot, up for vote,<br />though laws against us long-existing stand,<br />"Defending marriage" as if I promote<br />destroying it with simple wedding bands.<br /><br />No “substantial equivalents thereof”<br />means benefits for all will disappear<br />for anyone unmarried and in love;<br />They’ll find their rights are not protected here.<br /><br />Hospital visitation could be gone,<br />and health care for partners both gay and straight.<br />And all they'll say when asked why they said yes<br />is that God's word can justify their hate.<br /><br />Election day, the best thing you can do<br />Is vote for “no” on Proposition Two.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br />Submitted by Shaker Spiffy</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">About the work: </span>"For English, I had to write a love sonnet, and I ended up writing about Amendment 2 in Florida. I thought it might amuse the people of Shakesquill, so I'm submitting it! Forgive the poor writing - it's a homework assignment, and therefore -3 quality points automatically, but hopefully still entertaining. "Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8724693814281412961.post-68150871521372804152008-10-08T05:56:00.000-07:002008-10-08T12:08:04.524-07:00Defining LoveAs I sit here I am aware of your every move. Even though I am turned away, I can feel your eyes look around the room. I turn toward the room, and immediately find you. You turn and catch my eye. You smile that amazing smile. I wish you wouldn't. Every time you do it make my heart leap, and my stomach drop. I take a deep breath to regain my senses. I open my eyes and look out the window, willing myself not to look at you. I hear your voice above the noise, and melt inside. I close my eyes and sink into my chair.<br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br />Your hands are on my waist, and my arms wrap around your neck. Your arms pull me into you, and our bodies' form into one another. I press my cheek against your warm chest, and close my eyes. One of your hands slides up my back, and to my face. You tilt my chin up, and lean in. I lean into you, and stand on my toes. Our mouths meet. A soft, slow kiss, that lives forever.</span><br /><br /><span id="fullpost"> <br />"Sarah? Are you feeling alright?"<br /><br />My eyes fly open, and there he is; perfect in his own way. He looks at me with a soft expression, and opens his mouth again, but then stops.<br /><br />"Yeah, I'm OK Mr. Baur," I reply softly.<br /><br />"Are you sure?" he asked with a worried tone in his voice.<br /><br />"I'm just a little tired," I lied with a smile.<br /><br />He smiled back, and I melted again. He turned and walked away. I sighed inwardly. I heard the bell ring, and I gathered my stuff up. The class had emptied in a very short time, and I was almost out the door, when his perfect voice chimed in my head. I flushed at the sound.<br /><br />"Sarah, I wish that you would take better care of yourself, you always seem tired in my class," he said as he walked over to me.<br /><br />"I'm sorry, Mr. Baur. It won't happen again. It's just been a busy week," I replied quickly, realizing my excuse was getting over used.<br /><br />"There's nothing to apologize for," he said, putting his hand on my shoulder.<br /><br />I practically fell over.<br /><br />"OK. I guess I'll see you at the football game later then," I said stumbling over words.<br /><br />He nodded and smiled that perfect smile. I turned, and walked out the door. I could still feel the warmth of where his hand had been placed. I hated this feeling, but loved it at the same time. I loved him, but could never have him. That is life, and it was love.<br /><br />--<br /><br />I walk around the room, waiting for someone to ask me a question, as students usually do. I look around the room briefly and see her looking at me. I decide to meet her eyes. Her eyes lock with mine and I smile surprising myself. She quickly looks away, and looks flustered. I turn away, and divert my attention from her to the student in front of me. I look at the project on his desk. It could be better, but is still satisfactory. I give him my opinion on it, and look back over at her. Her eyes are looking out the window, and she is breathing slowly.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">I am sitting across from her. She is so beautiful and looks like an angel. I reach for her hand. She mirrors my action, and our fingers intertwine. My breath gets shaky.<br /><br />"You're not like other girls," I say slowly.<br /><br />She smiles and hides her face behind her hair. I use my free hand to tilt her face back up, brushing back her black silk hair. She meets my eyes and smiles.<br /> <br />"What makes you so different?" I ask her.<br /><br />"I have you," she replied with no hesitation.<br /><br />I leaned toward her; aware of her hand that was resting gently on my leg, and the other that was slowly wrapping around my neck. I pulled her toward me. Her eyes closed, and her mouth met mine. It was an amazing moment, one that would last forever.</span><br /><br />I soon come back to reality, and look over at her again. She had her eyes closed and she had sunk down in her chair. A brief worry crossed through my mind, but then a smile flickered over face. She looked so content, I didn't want to disturb her but something compelled me to walk toward her. I stopped about a foot in front of her, and I stood there looking at her.<br /><br />"Sarah? Are you feeling alright?" I asked, curiously.<br /><br />She sat up quickly and looked stunned at my appearance. I open my mouth, about to tell her something I shouldn't, but catch myself at the last moment.<br /><br />"Yeah, I'm OK Mr. Baur," she said in the softest and prettiest voice.<br /><br />As I listened to her speak I heard some sort of exasperation in her voice.<br /><br />"Are you sure?" I ask her slightly worried now.<br /><br />"I'm just a little tired," she said smiling.<br /><br />There was something in her voice that I didn't believe, but I couldn't help but smile back. I turned away and walked back toward the front of the room, realizing that the class was almost over. The bell rang and the students quickly filled out of the room. Sarah was still there, stumbling with her stuff. She started to exit the room.<br /><br />"Sarah, I wish that you would take better care of yourself, you always seem tired in my class," I said to her, as I walked over to here.<br /><br />Her face was flushed as she turned around toward me. I smiled, because she seemed to have been caught in her bluff.<br /><br />"I'm sorry, Mr. Baur. It won't happen again. It's just been a busy week," she stammered.<br /><br />"There's nothing to apologize for," I said encouragingly.<br /><br />As if at an impulse I put my hand softly on her shoulder. She took in a big breath and I smiled at her again.<br /><br />"OK. I guess I'll see you at the football game later then," she stammered again.<br /><br />I nodded, smiled, and watched her turn away. Her hair swung ever so slightly, and her walk was perfect. I watched the person that I loved but never could have walk away. It was forbidden for me to feel this way but I still felt it. That was life, and it was love.<br /><br /><em>Submitted by Sarah Bridges</em></span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8724693814281412961.post-62040140195735569122008-10-01T10:22:00.000-07:002008-10-01T10:25:09.910-07:00On Broken WingsOn broken wings did the bird learn to fly<br />Pity it not but watch<br />that fluttering leap in to the unknown<br />that first swing up in the sky,<br />that crash upon the cactus on the rock<br />that surge of strength to rest<br />and mend its broken heart<br />and then that desire to rise and take on the sky yet once again.<br /><br /><em>Submitted by <a href="http://lovingtruths.blogspot.com/">Sangeeta Kapur</a></em> <br /><br /><strong>About the Author:</strong> "I interact with children, teaching them human values, my drop in the ocean to make the world a better place to be in. Poetry comes naturally to me."Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8724693814281412961.post-48565879858590302802008-09-30T18:51:00.000-07:002008-09-30T18:58:06.912-07:00CCCW Request Post For the WeekGreetings, Fellow Feather Brandishers!<br /><br />It's Tuesday, so that means it's time to hit me with your best shot for this week's chapter of the ongoing Creatively Created Creative Writing Story!!<br /><br />If you are new to this, you readers leave comments - bits of action or dialog or narrative - and I, your humble writer, weave them into a story come Sunday. Something like...<br /><br /><blockquote><table cellpadding="10" bgcolor="#deb887" border="1"><tbody><tr><td>I wasn't quite sure how, but the marmoset ended up on top of the armoire. Or was it a chiffarobe? </td></tr></tbody></table></blockquote><br /><br />...or whatever you'd like. <br /><br />(previous chapters are <a href="http://bobscreativewriting.blogspot.com/">here</a>)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0