Link to Parts I and II
Link to Part III
Glimpses of a Man: Part IV
Alone in a crowd of people-
The doors opened slowly and the huddled group pushed its way through the widening hole, a concentrated mass expanding only upon release. A man, probably 35 flows against traffic, tilts sideways and shoulders his way onto the train. His suit, turned to armor. His briefcase, a shield perhaps. He pushes his way through the exiting crowd and clips a young woman across the mouth. She rubs her chin and rotates her jaw as she exits with the rest of the pack. The man sits, restless. His thumbs twitch on his khaki covered knee caps, as he glances at the doors, pouching his lips as he sees people only beginning to enter the train- such an obvious fear that he may not make it to his home of monotony by 6:30, dinner time.
An older man, black, 65-ish, canes his way through the doors as they begin to close. He brushes, hesitantly by me, as I grasp the top third of the center pole. I shift my weight to allow him to pass unencumbered. He sits slowly, his legs barely bending, leaning pendulously- repetitiously, forward and backward until, completion. He rests his chin on the handle of his cane and smiles, staring through the floor, with deep breaths.
The train is silent as it begins to move, except for the intermittent scraping of metal rails. A middle aged couple shares the pole with me, as a curly haired child sleeps in the stroller at their side. They stare at each other, stuck in some vexing stage of love, where they’re able to restrain themselves from touching or talking while the train is in motion. I feel their warmth from the other side of the steel pole that separates us. I close my eyes and let it envelope me. I wonder if they can feel the same from me- they probably attribute it to each other.
“Ici,” the woman whispers, as the train comes to a stop. They release the pole in unison and start toward the closed doors, taking their warmth with them. I peak through partially closed lids as they squeeze through the doors and expand.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Mike: Daily Dose #2 - HoeDown at the Snapple Machine
Daily Dose #2
There’s something about instinct- or maybe reflex – that brings out the best in us. I was 16, and over by the Snapple machine during lunch. I took out my dollar and began feeding it into the machine when an arm came across my face and grabbed my money. I didn’t see who, all I saw was an arm. My instinct was to protect what was mine, so as I saw my money slip from my hand into this hand in front of me, I attempted to take his throat.
Down he went, right into the radiator by the window. As he attempted to get up I pushed his head toward the open window. His friends pulled me off of him. There were 6 of them, all bigger than me. Reason and rationality overcame instinct, and the best of me disappeared. After some words were exchanged, the kid gave me my money back but promised that he and his friends were going to get me after lunch.
The threat reverted me back to a primitive state, watching my corners, focused on the periphery. I had a lot of friends, big friends, mostly football players on a mediocre team. They flanked me as lunch ended and I saw a group of about 12 waiting for me outside of the cafeteria. My fists were clenched, and I was ready to get bloody. As I walked out and they saw the group I was with, they backed down. Apparently rationality can overcome anyone’s instinct.
Sip on some of that sauce.
There’s something about instinct- or maybe reflex – that brings out the best in us. I was 16, and over by the Snapple machine during lunch. I took out my dollar and began feeding it into the machine when an arm came across my face and grabbed my money. I didn’t see who, all I saw was an arm. My instinct was to protect what was mine, so as I saw my money slip from my hand into this hand in front of me, I attempted to take his throat.
Down he went, right into the radiator by the window. As he attempted to get up I pushed his head toward the open window. His friends pulled me off of him. There were 6 of them, all bigger than me. Reason and rationality overcame instinct, and the best of me disappeared. After some words were exchanged, the kid gave me my money back but promised that he and his friends were going to get me after lunch.
The threat reverted me back to a primitive state, watching my corners, focused on the periphery. I had a lot of friends, big friends, mostly football players on a mediocre team. They flanked me as lunch ended and I saw a group of about 12 waiting for me outside of the cafeteria. My fists were clenched, and I was ready to get bloody. As I walked out and they saw the group I was with, they backed down. Apparently rationality can overcome anyone’s instinct.
Sip on some of that sauce.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Scott: Confessions - I was a teenage poet
I know I'm not the only one out there who wrote angst-ridden poetry long before they were old enough to realize that "angst" is really just another word used to describe the impotent rage a young person feels when their horomones ride them for the first few years of high school.
Having said that, I'm going to share a few of the poems I decided to write during my pathetic and overly whiny youth...
---
-Flash-
Moments Between;
Liminal;
Marginal;
Minute;
the infinite no-time between thought and action;
-Crash-
---
Poetry is Symmetry;
symmetry of life and mind.
I'm not the man I was,
nor is my life the same.
A bold revision;
a new direction.
It's time to grow;
apart from youth.
The future -
holds the key.
Dark, Light.
Frowns, smiles.
Before.
After.
---
I breathe in this cold sadness;
inflate my lungs with some half remembered dream;
exhale the hope that died inside my chest.
---
I'm still waiting on that sun-lit shore for you;
pacing back and forth on a dream, staring across an ocean of obstacles;
straining for a glimpse of someday.
---
Having said that, I'm going to share a few of the poems I decided to write during my pathetic and overly whiny youth...
---
-Flash-
Moments Between;
Liminal;
Marginal;
Minute;
the infinite no-time between thought and action;
-Crash-
---
Poetry is Symmetry;
symmetry of life and mind.
I'm not the man I was,
nor is my life the same.
A bold revision;
a new direction.
It's time to grow;
apart from youth.
The future -
holds the key.
Dark, Light.
Frowns, smiles.
Before.
After.
---
I breathe in this cold sadness;
inflate my lungs with some half remembered dream;
exhale the hope that died inside my chest.
---
I'm still waiting on that sun-lit shore for you;
pacing back and forth on a dream, staring across an ocean of obstacles;
straining for a glimpse of someday.
---
Mike: Daily Dose #1: Animosity in the Rearview
I'm going to start writing a little bit of prose here since the fiction I've been writing is trash, that deserves to be instantly incinerated. So these entries entitled "Daily Dose" will just be short little reflections on situations I've found interested, and seem to deserve some commentary.
Daily Dose #1: Animosity in the Rearview
A year back, or something like that, I was driving down a two lane street in my neighborhood and stopped at a red light. I was in the right lane, windows down with some sort of Talib, Mos, or Rakim going. The car behind me starts flashing its high beams, and I look in my mirror. The driver, she’s waving her arms, opens her window, sticks her head out , starts screaming at me, while jamming on her horn…”GO!!!!!!” In NJ it’s cool to turn on red, but only when you need to turn, and I was going straight. I let her steam for a little longer before sticking my head out and said “not a turn only.” I watch her recede into her car, defeated, lights back to normal, horn silent, and see her mouth “oh.”
Smile…and sip on some of that.
Daily Dose #1: Animosity in the Rearview
A year back, or something like that, I was driving down a two lane street in my neighborhood and stopped at a red light. I was in the right lane, windows down with some sort of Talib, Mos, or Rakim going. The car behind me starts flashing its high beams, and I look in my mirror. The driver, she’s waving her arms, opens her window, sticks her head out , starts screaming at me, while jamming on her horn…”GO!!!!!!” In NJ it’s cool to turn on red, but only when you need to turn, and I was going straight. I let her steam for a little longer before sticking my head out and said “not a turn only.” I watch her recede into her car, defeated, lights back to normal, horn silent, and see her mouth “oh.”
Smile…and sip on some of that.
Friday, July 18, 2008
Scott: MAGICLAND: A Beginner's Guide to Dragons (part II)
Link to part I
Just enough time to complete an arcane ritual later…
Mortimer was fast asleep, leaning on his hand and sporting a band-aid over his freshly throbbing nose (He had briefly mixed up the regular band-aids with Ned’s famous invention, “Band-aids of Decidedly Worse Pain” to only vaguely amusing results).
There was a squeal of joy from the back room. Mortimer half opened his eyes as the shop shook at its foundations and The Queen stomped out of the back, joyously carrying a much confused prince over her shoulder. “Sorry, buddy,” He called after the struggling former frog. “But thanks for shopping at Spellsmore’s! Tell your friends!”
“You know Ned,” Mortimer started as the wizard strolled out of the back room “Sometimes I wonder why you keep turning frogs into princes for that…uhhh….woman. I mean, it’s not like they’re *actually* princes, and they’re only going to run, well hop, away when they get the chance.
Ned stroked his beard “You know, Mortimer, sometimes I wonder why I keep doing it too,” he held up a large sack with a dollar sign on it “then she pays me my money.”
“They actually have sacks that look like that?”
“It’s mostly for dramatic effect.” Ned returned. “Notice the size of the dollar sign.”
“You are a strange, strange little man,” Mortimer returned. “Now, let’s talk about fireballs from the eyes, shall we?”
Ned already had his back to Mortimer, taking various knicks and knacks off of the shelves, and gathering them up on the counter.
“I think you might be too busy for us to talk about…whatever it is you’re babbling about. Here, hold this.” He handed Mortimer a parchment, then proceeded to the back room.
Mortimer unrolled the parchment and looked it over, calling after Ned “blah blah blah, evil dragon attacks local townsfolk, no one is safe, citizens flee for their lives, all hope is lost, blah blah blah” Mortimer pursed his lips.
“Ned, what did I tell you about reading gossip parchments – didn’t you learn your lesson after they got your hopes up about that magical, tap-dancing rhino last year?”
Ned was dragging an enormous suitcase out of the back room, shoving at it in a most undignified way.
“The tap-dancing rhino is a well documented phenomena,” Ned replied curtly, his back pressed firmly against the suitcase as he moved it another seven inches.
“Right,” Mortimer sneered as he slapped a hand across the parchment “and even though no one has ever actually seen a dragon, I guess we’re supposed to take it on the Inquisitioner’s word that there’s one in Magicland somewhere, scooping up the citizenry and doing various evil dragon things.”
Ned poked his head out from behind the suitcase (which incidentally, appeared to have slid back several feet from where he had pushed it to) “You know, I would not be terribly upset if he ate you.”
Mortimer crossed his arms in a huff “Luckily, here we are in Capital City, far, far away from any kind of large, exceedingly imaginary reptiles of the giant, magical persuasion.”
Ned snorted from behind the suitcase “sure,” he started “we.” With a mighty heave, Ned pushed the suitcase over onto its side. Immediately, the latches unclasped and the lid flew open. Clearly pleased with his work, Ned took a moment to wipe his brow on Mortimer’s sleeve, and then set about tossing all of the items on the counter into the gaping maw of the suitcase with abandon.
Mortimer (now holding his soiled wizard’s sleeve as far away from his body as he could) raised an eyebrow “Ned, what’s with all this packing suddenly?”
Ned was currently digging through a drawer, his tiny body dangling half-way-in, half-way-out. “trip.” He called back nonchalantly, very clearly consumed with his rummaging.
Moments later, Ned triumphantly hefted a large mace from the drawer, slung it over his shoulder with a loud grunt, and gingerly walked past Mortimer, whose jaw was now literally hanging open. With another heave, Ned dropped the massive weapon into the suitcase; there was a noticeable silence, followed by the sound of the something heavy hitting the ground several hundred feet below.
Mortimer, mouth still hanging wide, stood motionless while his eyes darted between the suitcase, Ned, the suitcase, Ned, the suitcase, Bernie the shrunken head (who was incredibly unhelpful in alleviating Mortimer’s concern), and finally Ned again. “Ned, where did you say you were going again? And precisely why do you need the largest bludgeoning weapon ever conceived of when you get there?” Mortimer pointed down into the endless shaft of the suitcase, taking great care not to get too close to the edge.
“What?” Ned’s head emerged from another draw only briefly.
“Where are you going?” Mortimer called back again. rushing over to the draw; Mortimer peered down into the empty (and exceedingly small) space. Ned’s head emerged several feet away, poking out of a cabinet door. Mortimer dove and managed to grab the Ned’s sleeve before he could disappear again into the oddly enchanted storage unit.
“oooooh no you don’t, Ned! Get outa there!” Mortimer yelled, pulling with all his might. Like a snapped rubber band, Ned came rocketing out of the cabinet, slamming into Mortimer and carrying the duo across the entirety of the shop to land in a heap by the door.
Mortimer groaned. “I see,” he began, his voice slightly muffled by the wooden floor, “that my uncanny ability to end every situation by landing on my face remains intact….”
Ned did not respond. He was dusting himself off slightly, having stuck a perfect landing feet first into Mortimer’s back. After some cajoling (read: anguished screaming) from Mortimer, Ned dismounted and stood in front or Mortimer, standing at the most upright four and two-thirds feet that posture would allow.
Mortimer got uneasily to his feet, and addressed Ned as he attempted to bend his back into its original, non-warped position.
“Simple question, Ned. Suitcase. Large pound-y metal club-thing. Why.”
Ned stroked his incredibly long beard “Well, I guess I can’t put this off anymore, can I? Her majesty…”
“The cow?” Mortimer offered, with a slight frown and two raised eyebrows.
“her majesty,” Ned repeated, undaunted “has asked me to investigate these claims of a Dragon in the town of Utterly Helpless.
“You know, I always did wonder why they named it that…” Mortimer puzzled.
“You can write a letter to the Office of Namerology if you come back,” Ned offered.
“Maybe I will,” Mortimer returned “I mean what an absolutely stupid name for a ….wha?” He stopped mid-sentence and glared at Ned “Survive?”
“Whatintheworldareyoutalkingsurviveyoudon’texpectmetogowithyoudoyou?!”
“With me? No. you’re going to Utterly Helpless to investigate this little ‘Dragon’ thing yourself.” (Ned raised his hands quickly to emphasize the word dragon, by quoting his fingers in the air – something he had wanted to do since seeing it on one of the soap-operas he had taken to watching since installing cable in his crystal ball). “Obviously I can’t go on these dangerous types of missions – what if I were to run into one of those awful things? Dragon might end up singe-ing my good wizarding hat! Do you have any idea how hard it is to get a star-topped cap in this day and age? Back when I was a young apprentice *chatter chatter chatter chatter*… ”
Ned suddenly realized that his apprentice was no longer standing in front of him. Instead, Mortimer was in the process of escaping through the front door. Immediately springing into action, Ned placed two fingers to his mouth and blew, his high pitched whistle causing Mortimer to glance back for just a moment. Suddenly, several lengths of rope hanging about the shop sprang to life, uncoiling like snakes and launching themselves at the apprentice before he could make it out of the shop.
“aaaaagh!” Mortimer was unceremoniously scooped up by the ropes, which wrapped themselves around him tightly and finished off with a textbook perfect sheep-bend knot. Immobilized, Mortimer was propped up by three enchanted rope lengths that held him aloft like those of a chair, and scurried the entire package back over to Ned.
“Wrap his mouth up too, would you? I can’t stand the girlish screaming.” Compliantly, the ropes closed off Mortimer’s mouth, silencing the combination of outlandish threats, and tearful whimpering that had filled the shop moments before.
“Look Mortimer,” Ned began “I know this seems a little harsh, but believe me, this is all for the best.” (Mortimer, unable to scream, had begun blinking profusely in Ned’s general direction).
“There might not even be a Dragon, right?” Ned said cheerily. (tears streamed down Mortimer’s face, mostly from excessive blinking, but also mostly from the unimaginable fear of being burned to a crisp).
Ned turned his back to Mortimer, and lowered his voice. “You’ll be fine. Use what you know. If there is a dragon, the people of Utterly Helpless will need you to stop it.” With that, the magical ropes holding Mortimer bucked like a three legged horse and leapt into the awaiting suitcase.
Mortimer tried his best to scream as, high above, the lid of the suitcase closed with a
-click-.
Mental note, Mortimer: Wreak horrible vengeance on Ned, enchanted ropes, and the luggage. Especially the luggage…
_______
The queen’s men soon arrived and carted off the suitcase, which, despite being a suitcase of the decidedly enchanted variety, was nevertheless bucking around at Mortimer’s heroic efforts to free himself.
Ned stood by the doorway of the shop watching the royal guard’s carriage depart for Utterly Helpless and sipping a cup of cotton-candy flavored tea – a concoction he created shortly after his lesser-applauded discovery of cotton flavored tea.
“You know, Bernie,” (Ned had that certain hopeful twinkle in his sunglasses) “I think Mortimer’s going to be just fine. After all, I taught him everything I know about magic; there isn’t a dragon, enchanted rhinoceros, or man-eating-goldfish in all of Magicland that can stand up to the supreme knowledge of the mystic arts he has gleaned under my tutelage.” More than a little pleased, Ned allowed himself a hearty stroke of the beard.
Bernie opened only one of his eyes this time. “Nedric,” the head yelled, “you didn’t teach Mortimer any magic, he’s been sweeping the floors of this shop since you hired him on!”
Ned stood silently for a long moment, gazing into the horizon at where the carriage had just disappeared.
“whoopsie.”
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Scott: MAGICLAND: A Beginner's Guide to Dragons (part I)
“Aaaaiiiyah!” Mortimer yelled as he flew through the air in what could generously be described as a cross between a trip and a dive. Arms outstretched, he wrapped his fingers around a frog in mid-leap and continued on into the unfortunately placed bookshelf. With a -CRASH!- all of the contents of the shelf came tumbling down, and Mortimer was quickly buried under a pile of dusty old books, larger, dustier, older books, and something that may or may not have been a jar of rabbit’s feet.
“It’s fine,” Mortimer muttered aloud to no one in particular. “It’s only my body that’s broken. Still, at least I caught the frog.” He made the whimpering sound of triumph, and pushed just enough books aside so that he could lift his head – just in time to see the bookshelf lean precariously forward.
“I don’t suppose you’d like to NOT fall on me today, eh Mr. Bookshelf?”
The bookshelf leaned even more.
“Right. Well then; on with the screaming. Aaaaaaaaah!”
The massive bookshelf fell, landing directly on Mortimer and dropping a few more dusty tomes on him for good measure. The frog meanwhile, having slipped out of the grasp of a now very unconscious wizard’s apprentice, proceeded to continue its general habit of hopping about and croaking.
Some time later...
Mortimer awoke to the sound of the shop door opening. “Help! H-e-l-p!” He cried.
“WHAT’S GOING ON HERE!?” a booming voice replied. “MORTIMER!!!”
“Under the bookshelf, you ninny!” Mortimer replied. “Just get this thing off me!”
There was a moment of silence, and the booming voice became a whisper, lowly chanting in some arcane and suitably dead tongue. The bookshelf stirred, and began to rise, tilting backwards and returning to its normal position. At the same time, the many books also began moving; twisting through the air in a reverse fall and ending up perfectly positioned on the shelf. All that remained on the floor was an undeniably flatter, red-robed figured attempting hold his nose, forehead, and back at the same time.
Mortimer jumped to his feet angrily, and looked almost straight down. He was staring into the eyes (sunglasses, technically speaking) of a diminutive, blue robed man sporting a white beard which easily touched the floor and dragged – just so. In fact, the only thing even remotely tall about this fellow was the enormous pointed cap resting upon his head, which was topped off with a small golden star, causing the impeccably starched wizard’s cap to crook just a little, just a the top (a fact that bothered the mighty sorcerer to no end, mind you).
“You know, would it have killed you to put the pieces of my spine back together while you were at it?!” Mortimer bristled.
The wizard reached his hand up and adjusted his sunglasses. “The fact that you’re not an aardvark right now should make you plenty grateful.”
Mortimer stood motionless, finger in the air and mouth agape. His nose was beginning to look several sizes larger than normal. “Good point, Ned.”
Ned smiled wryly and stepped toward the window of the disorganized shop. All around him, piles of scrolls, books and potions littered the tables and floor, along with various knick-knacks of a no doubt magical nature (excluding, of course, the fern which Ned had added some months ago in an attempt to ‘Spruce up the ole’place). “The queen will be coming along shortly, Mortimer” Ned said after a pause. “I assume you’ve kept our little green friend safe and sound?”
Behind Ned, there was a small crash and the swift movement of feet. By the time he turned around, Mortimer was standing before him, panting heavily and holding a moist, green object inches from the wizard’s face.
The item in question was clearly one of the shop’s spare crystal balls dipped in green paint, and with a set of googly-eyes hastily glue onto it. Even as Ned stared at it, one of the eyes began to slide off of the freshly painted orb. Mortimer quickly pushed it back into place. “One frog, as ordered.”
“Mortimer…” Ned began.
“Yuh huh.” Mortimer returned.
Ned sighed. “Despite the fact that this is an obvious, and terrible, frog forgery, I’m feeling charitable. Before you spend the next several months as the stable-boy’s shoes, I just want to know where my frog went. Is that too much to ask?”
“Amazing!” Mortimer replied, focusing on the, now eyeless, painted crystal ball, “Your frog must have crafted this convincing double while I was busy tidying up the shop!”
The old wizard raised a very bushy eyebrow.
Mortimer’s expression grew sour, and he hurled the crystal over his shoulder without looking. “Fine. I knocked the jar with the frog inside over, and spent the next half-an-hour trying to chase the little guy down.”
“Tell the stable-boy I said hello.” Ned said evenly as he crooked a single finger to point at Mortimer. Mortimer noticed it was his smiting finger.
-Ribbit!-
-Ribbit!-
Mortimer’s own red apprentice cap wiggled just a bit, and Mortimer’s eyes nearly crossed as they looked toward the top of his head.
-Ribbit!-
“Frog.” The wizard said as he held out his hand, obviously more than a little disappointed that his smiting finger wouldn’t be getting a workout today.
“Frog.” replied Mortimer coolly as he reached a hand under the hat on his head and produced the very calm looking amphibian.
As Ned received the frog from his apprentice, a very powerful knock at the door caused it to bow inward. Ned scuttled over and opened it.
“Ahhh, your majesty,” He said with a slight bend. “always a pleasure.”
Mortimer rubbed his eyes and blinked rapidly. “Oh dear god what is that thing?”
The Queen was, speaking somewhat graciously, a large woman. Not that there was ever anything wrong with that, however Mortimer was sure that several atrocities had been committed in order to fit her into the tiny shoes upon which she stood. The Queen loomed inside (read: stuck inside like a cork in a bottle) the doorway, glowering at Mortimer.
Mortimer glowered back.
Not to be outdone, The Queen responded with still more glowering.
Ned slapped Mortimer on the back of the head and told him to go get the Door De-Jamming system – in actuality a can of Hog’s grease the wizard used when the queen or some of her more “full bodied” sisters paid a visit to the shop.
Several minutes and an inordinate amount of pushing later, The Queen and Ned had secluded themselves in the back room with the Frog, leaving Mortimer to tidy up the storefront. He grabbed the nearest non-magical broom and began to sweep.
“You know,” He said aloud “when I signed up for this wizard’s apprentice thing, I figured I was going to be learning – I don’t know – magic or something, maybe? None of that ‘fireballs from the eyes’ stuff as awesome as that would be, but conjuring some gold coins, maybe a mansion or two, I wouldn’t mind that. Or anything at all for that matter. I mean, here I am, sweeping the floor of the great Nedric Spellsmore, and I can’t even cast a measly frog catching spell. Where’s the justice in that?!”
One of the shrunken heads hanging from the coat rack opened its eyes. “Maybe if you weren’t so danged lazy, Nedric wouldn’t make you do chores all day to try and teach you some discipline!”
“Like I’m going to listen to what a dried up head has to tell me, Bernie.” Mortimer returned without looking over “You don’t even have a brain anymore, man.”
Bernie raised both his eyebrows and frowned just a little bit “That makes two of us. That’s not the normal broom, Mortimer.”
Mortimer realized what Bernie meant just in time to let the broom go as it went rocketing up, smashing a hole in the ceiling and quickly disappearing out of sight. “I hate brooms.” He said flatly. “Still, it really opens up the shop space, don’t you think? Look at all the light we’re getting now.”
“It’s fine,” Mortimer muttered aloud to no one in particular. “It’s only my body that’s broken. Still, at least I caught the frog.” He made the whimpering sound of triumph, and pushed just enough books aside so that he could lift his head – just in time to see the bookshelf lean precariously forward.
“I don’t suppose you’d like to NOT fall on me today, eh Mr. Bookshelf?”
The bookshelf leaned even more.
“Right. Well then; on with the screaming. Aaaaaaaaah!”
The massive bookshelf fell, landing directly on Mortimer and dropping a few more dusty tomes on him for good measure. The frog meanwhile, having slipped out of the grasp of a now very unconscious wizard’s apprentice, proceeded to continue its general habit of hopping about and croaking.
Some time later...
Mortimer awoke to the sound of the shop door opening. “Help! H-e-l-p!” He cried.
“WHAT’S GOING ON HERE!?” a booming voice replied. “MORTIMER!!!”
“Under the bookshelf, you ninny!” Mortimer replied. “Just get this thing off me!”
There was a moment of silence, and the booming voice became a whisper, lowly chanting in some arcane and suitably dead tongue. The bookshelf stirred, and began to rise, tilting backwards and returning to its normal position. At the same time, the many books also began moving; twisting through the air in a reverse fall and ending up perfectly positioned on the shelf. All that remained on the floor was an undeniably flatter, red-robed figured attempting hold his nose, forehead, and back at the same time.
Mortimer jumped to his feet angrily, and looked almost straight down. He was staring into the eyes (sunglasses, technically speaking) of a diminutive, blue robed man sporting a white beard which easily touched the floor and dragged – just so. In fact, the only thing even remotely tall about this fellow was the enormous pointed cap resting upon his head, which was topped off with a small golden star, causing the impeccably starched wizard’s cap to crook just a little, just a the top (a fact that bothered the mighty sorcerer to no end, mind you).
“You know, would it have killed you to put the pieces of my spine back together while you were at it?!” Mortimer bristled.
The wizard reached his hand up and adjusted his sunglasses. “The fact that you’re not an aardvark right now should make you plenty grateful.”
Mortimer stood motionless, finger in the air and mouth agape. His nose was beginning to look several sizes larger than normal. “Good point, Ned.”
Ned smiled wryly and stepped toward the window of the disorganized shop. All around him, piles of scrolls, books and potions littered the tables and floor, along with various knick-knacks of a no doubt magical nature (excluding, of course, the fern which Ned had added some months ago in an attempt to ‘Spruce up the ole’place). “The queen will be coming along shortly, Mortimer” Ned said after a pause. “I assume you’ve kept our little green friend safe and sound?”
Behind Ned, there was a small crash and the swift movement of feet. By the time he turned around, Mortimer was standing before him, panting heavily and holding a moist, green object inches from the wizard’s face.
The item in question was clearly one of the shop’s spare crystal balls dipped in green paint, and with a set of googly-eyes hastily glue onto it. Even as Ned stared at it, one of the eyes began to slide off of the freshly painted orb. Mortimer quickly pushed it back into place. “One frog, as ordered.”
“Mortimer…” Ned began.
“Yuh huh.” Mortimer returned.
Ned sighed. “Despite the fact that this is an obvious, and terrible, frog forgery, I’m feeling charitable. Before you spend the next several months as the stable-boy’s shoes, I just want to know where my frog went. Is that too much to ask?”
“Amazing!” Mortimer replied, focusing on the, now eyeless, painted crystal ball, “Your frog must have crafted this convincing double while I was busy tidying up the shop!”
The old wizard raised a very bushy eyebrow.
Mortimer’s expression grew sour, and he hurled the crystal over his shoulder without looking. “Fine. I knocked the jar with the frog inside over, and spent the next half-an-hour trying to chase the little guy down.”
“Tell the stable-boy I said hello.” Ned said evenly as he crooked a single finger to point at Mortimer. Mortimer noticed it was his smiting finger.
-Ribbit!-
-Ribbit!-
Mortimer’s own red apprentice cap wiggled just a bit, and Mortimer’s eyes nearly crossed as they looked toward the top of his head.
-Ribbit!-
“Frog.” The wizard said as he held out his hand, obviously more than a little disappointed that his smiting finger wouldn’t be getting a workout today.
“Frog.” replied Mortimer coolly as he reached a hand under the hat on his head and produced the very calm looking amphibian.
As Ned received the frog from his apprentice, a very powerful knock at the door caused it to bow inward. Ned scuttled over and opened it.
“Ahhh, your majesty,” He said with a slight bend. “always a pleasure.”
Mortimer rubbed his eyes and blinked rapidly. “Oh dear god what is that thing?”
The Queen was, speaking somewhat graciously, a large woman. Not that there was ever anything wrong with that, however Mortimer was sure that several atrocities had been committed in order to fit her into the tiny shoes upon which she stood. The Queen loomed inside (read: stuck inside like a cork in a bottle) the doorway, glowering at Mortimer.
Mortimer glowered back.
Not to be outdone, The Queen responded with still more glowering.
Ned slapped Mortimer on the back of the head and told him to go get the Door De-Jamming system – in actuality a can of Hog’s grease the wizard used when the queen or some of her more “full bodied” sisters paid a visit to the shop.
Several minutes and an inordinate amount of pushing later, The Queen and Ned had secluded themselves in the back room with the Frog, leaving Mortimer to tidy up the storefront. He grabbed the nearest non-magical broom and began to sweep.
“You know,” He said aloud “when I signed up for this wizard’s apprentice thing, I figured I was going to be learning – I don’t know – magic or something, maybe? None of that ‘fireballs from the eyes’ stuff as awesome as that would be, but conjuring some gold coins, maybe a mansion or two, I wouldn’t mind that. Or anything at all for that matter. I mean, here I am, sweeping the floor of the great Nedric Spellsmore, and I can’t even cast a measly frog catching spell. Where’s the justice in that?!”
One of the shrunken heads hanging from the coat rack opened its eyes. “Maybe if you weren’t so danged lazy, Nedric wouldn’t make you do chores all day to try and teach you some discipline!”
“Like I’m going to listen to what a dried up head has to tell me, Bernie.” Mortimer returned without looking over “You don’t even have a brain anymore, man.”
Bernie raised both his eyebrows and frowned just a little bit “That makes two of us. That’s not the normal broom, Mortimer.”
Mortimer realized what Bernie meant just in time to let the broom go as it went rocketing up, smashing a hole in the ceiling and quickly disappearing out of sight. “I hate brooms.” He said flatly. “Still, it really opens up the shop space, don’t you think? Look at all the light we’re getting now.”
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Scott: Metropolis Man. "Does break the day"
Morning. The world.
“You can’t stay here. Get up.”
The words sound in His head as if from a thousand miles away. His mind is reeling, now only dimly aware of the man standing over Him, bellowing for Him to return to the waking world, demanding obedience.
Laughable. This tiny man wrapped up in his tiny uniform, spouting his tiny orders.
The police officer grabs His arm and pulls – hard. Joints pop and muscles stretch beyond the point of comfort. He twists his body to rise up, but both of His knees hit the ground almost immediately.
No strength left. A familiar feeling.
“C’mon, move along if you know what’s good for you.”
Unsteadily, He rises to his feet. He wants to reach out to the man before Him for support, but He thinks better of Himself immediately; there is no support to be had in this. He lets out a low noise – a mixture of grunt and a sigh, and raises one bushy eyebrow as He lifts His head to the world.
The sound of the traffic in the city is almost deafening. Cars speed past – honking, braking and screeching in the violent chorus of rush hour. Disorganized chaos.
He turns His head toward the police officer, who crosses his arms lazily. The officer’s gaze is impatient and he jerks his head to the left, another command to for Him to leave.
“Well?”
He gives a quiet nod and, barely finding His balance, turns away from the officer and begins walking. He sees the end of the overpass He had sheltered himself under – watches the approaching threshold between the comforting cool darkness under and the oppressive heat and light above. He thinks for a moment that it is funny that the ground is shaking; as if the planet itself was bouncing back and forth, unsure of its footing. He soon realizes that it’s not the world that is teetering.
Well, that was not exactly true, He thinks with a sour grin. It might not be the ground that’s unbalanced, but the world IS teetering; one slight push from a fall.
“hrrn.” He puts up an arm and instinctively closes His eyes as He steps into the light.
Blinding. Even through His closed eyes He can see a fiery red glow.
His eyes open slowly. His pupils have trouble dilating – He can’t see. Of course, even if He could see, the pounding in His head and His shaking feet would have prevented Him from walking even remotely straight.
He falls for the second time. Again, He thinks bitterly to Himself.
Lying on the ground, He listens to His own breath for a few moments, contemplating for a long time that He should simply stay down. The noise of passing cars screams at Him, ringing painfully inside His head.
No peace. No sleep.
His slender fingers reach out and press into the ground. Chips of gravel dig into His hand, but He ignores the pain. He pushes against the ground – His muscles straining, pained simply from the effort of standing.
On His feet again, He shakes His head hard, trying to compose Himself. He succeeds only in making His skull throb even more.
He reaches up to touch His head, force it to stop shaking. He pauses briefly at His temple. The scars are long faded, but He can still feel them. Can still feel the sand carried on the wind cutting into open lesions; can still feel the dark, red-black liquid oozing down His face and back; can still feel the blood slicking His hair and running into His eyes.
“hrrn.” He opens His eyes again and looks around; a mere twenty feet from where He started. The police officer is still there, His dark eyes watching; His gaze unflagging.
With a bit more steadiness, He lifts His head high again. In the near distance, spires of steel, glass, and concrete rise into the sky – a crown of decadence set gently upon the horizon. Odd to think that such a deceptively beautiful sight could be such a thing of pain and anguish.
He turns his body toward the city and begins walking, His sense of balance asserting itself ever more.
Idly, He reaches His hand out and runs His fingers along a chain link fence as He goes.
There is work to be done.
“You can’t stay here. Get up.”
The words sound in His head as if from a thousand miles away. His mind is reeling, now only dimly aware of the man standing over Him, bellowing for Him to return to the waking world, demanding obedience.
Laughable. This tiny man wrapped up in his tiny uniform, spouting his tiny orders.
The police officer grabs His arm and pulls – hard. Joints pop and muscles stretch beyond the point of comfort. He twists his body to rise up, but both of His knees hit the ground almost immediately.
No strength left. A familiar feeling.
“C’mon, move along if you know what’s good for you.”
Unsteadily, He rises to his feet. He wants to reach out to the man before Him for support, but He thinks better of Himself immediately; there is no support to be had in this. He lets out a low noise – a mixture of grunt and a sigh, and raises one bushy eyebrow as He lifts His head to the world.
The sound of the traffic in the city is almost deafening. Cars speed past – honking, braking and screeching in the violent chorus of rush hour. Disorganized chaos.
He turns His head toward the police officer, who crosses his arms lazily. The officer’s gaze is impatient and he jerks his head to the left, another command to for Him to leave.
“Well?”
He gives a quiet nod and, barely finding His balance, turns away from the officer and begins walking. He sees the end of the overpass He had sheltered himself under – watches the approaching threshold between the comforting cool darkness under and the oppressive heat and light above. He thinks for a moment that it is funny that the ground is shaking; as if the planet itself was bouncing back and forth, unsure of its footing. He soon realizes that it’s not the world that is teetering.
Well, that was not exactly true, He thinks with a sour grin. It might not be the ground that’s unbalanced, but the world IS teetering; one slight push from a fall.
“hrrn.” He puts up an arm and instinctively closes His eyes as He steps into the light.
Blinding. Even through His closed eyes He can see a fiery red glow.
His eyes open slowly. His pupils have trouble dilating – He can’t see. Of course, even if He could see, the pounding in His head and His shaking feet would have prevented Him from walking even remotely straight.
He falls for the second time. Again, He thinks bitterly to Himself.
Lying on the ground, He listens to His own breath for a few moments, contemplating for a long time that He should simply stay down. The noise of passing cars screams at Him, ringing painfully inside His head.
No peace. No sleep.
His slender fingers reach out and press into the ground. Chips of gravel dig into His hand, but He ignores the pain. He pushes against the ground – His muscles straining, pained simply from the effort of standing.
On His feet again, He shakes His head hard, trying to compose Himself. He succeeds only in making His skull throb even more.
He reaches up to touch His head, force it to stop shaking. He pauses briefly at His temple. The scars are long faded, but He can still feel them. Can still feel the sand carried on the wind cutting into open lesions; can still feel the dark, red-black liquid oozing down His face and back; can still feel the blood slicking His hair and running into His eyes.
“hrrn.” He opens His eyes again and looks around; a mere twenty feet from where He started. The police officer is still there, His dark eyes watching; His gaze unflagging.
With a bit more steadiness, He lifts His head high again. In the near distance, spires of steel, glass, and concrete rise into the sky – a crown of decadence set gently upon the horizon. Odd to think that such a deceptively beautiful sight could be such a thing of pain and anguish.
He turns his body toward the city and begins walking, His sense of balance asserting itself ever more.
Idly, He reaches His hand out and runs His fingers along a chain link fence as He goes.
There is work to be done.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Mike: Glipses of A Man Part III
Part III
Tranquility can stir a sane man to madness-
Humidity seeped through the floorboards as he slept upright in the single seater wedged between the door and the closet. A pile of books, stacked largest to smallest, rested at his feet. He was clean to a fault, except for the overflowing ashtrays around the apartment. But despite drowning in ash, they retained his methodic, ordered, flow. One on each end table. Two across the intolerably long window sill. One more placed in the corner of the fire escape.
The fish tank rested, half empty, centered on an open shelf near the window. The water had evaporated slowly over the months since last in-habitation. The remaining water rippled, rather, reverberated with the beat of his neighbors' apartment doors.
A glass rested in his right hand, ice cubes long melted from the heat. The air around the glass, smelled of gin, masked in chap stick and breath mints. His unconscious fingers instinctively caressed the glass, making their rounds around the brim, polluting the sides with humidity induced fingerprints. Finally he rested the glass, on the edge of the couch, balanced only by his palm, as his left hand began a new beat.
He found consciousness, his eyes spasmed open as the glass injected itself into his still resting body. His mouth fell open, as his hand finally smothered the fly into the wrinkles lining his forehead.
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