"No! And in fact, I would love for you to know that the subject of insomnia, sure as fuck is a sore one."

       The telephone had pissed him off. Computer and television screens both smashed atop their old resting places. Visitors, they didn't stand a chance of recognition. A knock at the door meant about as much to him, as more pussy did to Hue Hefner.

           He wasn't a bad guy. Most called him a prick or said he was a bitter man. It's only because he had more so enjoyed keeping to himself than he did sharing gossip or simple hellos' through the grapevine of everyday conversations. Chosing to not fill the limited brain space, allowed, with irrelevant facts or names. Repetative, everyday non-sense.

       Many really didn't see the need as to why they had even shunned him. It wasn't so much as a "olden-days" banning that took place, but more so a more modern cold shoulder amongst the town population and the everyday working man or any other normal New Jersey resident at the time.

She closed the storm door behind her with an encouraging shove and sarcastically smiled at him with a spec of pepper wedged in between the two front teeth of her dentures. He had a hard time deliberating on what to shy away from, the pepper or the smugged stain of cranberry sauce on her orange Cashmere sweater. 

As she stood there glaring at him; huge, fluffy snowflakes started collecting in her curly platinum hair and he hardily noticed the contrast of white on white. She looked down at him with discouragement sneaking past her two gray cataracts and muttered in her smokers voice "Next year, why don't you bring your ex-wife. I think she's what I like the best about you."

She hobbled back into the red brick home, leaving her son alone at the end of the concrete steps. He rubbed his stubbly chin with his stained red fingers and wondered if that meant that he wasn't going to be invited to Christmas next month.

Allen... not known by any other name drifts through mist portals leading forwards and backwards in time maby not time but alternate realitys loking for his own maby both time and alternate realitys always seeming as the same reality on his back is a device unlike any other created by his late father it allows for one to slip in to a fog or a mist and travel to places unknown in his left hand a saber thats glows in darkness and in his right a book of infintie magic spells stored on scrolls with indents as to type and shape of the spells his home lies unknown lost like the mists of existence forever seeking home but somehow caught up with unknowing have to scearh each place for a clue to where his mist to home lies...

now in the first he decides to learn a little about some of these places he traverses and his adventures are great to ordinary people he comes a strangers and leaves with the wispers that a god had walked in among men.

He walks a little more bent and limping these days not that he would even be noticed in a group of people. After 25 years using his body as a means to financial freedom the ravaging affects are starting to show in each movement. The gray hair left on his balding head, the tenderness with which he takes each step.He wears his usual daily attire; worn tennis shoes, pocket tee, and stained jeans and he wonders what it was all for. The drive, determination, time lost with family, scrimping, saving and doing without just to reach a goal. It has been so long he cant even remember what the original goal was, It seems so depressing and yet so fitting; no matter how hard he worked or how honest he was this was preordained to be his destiny. His mood matched the sky over head, over cast and without light.

Helooks at the land he has owned for the past twenty plus years cluttlered with the renters trash; dumped oil, car parts and some unidentifiable sludge. Then he wonders if it was all worth it. Unable to view the lack of caring and complete disregard for the things he worked hard to obtain, he shuts the doors on his business forever. Its been a hard road that started at 14 working for in his father's business down at the shrimp docks in Tampa. He was the next generation to learn the skills that had been passed down to each male in the family. Come to think of it, was it ever his goal because it never really seemed like a choice; more like his destiny by birth right.

The newest rescue, Ms. Stinky MaGoo (part Pug and part God knows what), came barreling into the kitchen like a bat out of hell. Two freaked out and frightened felines flew onto the counter tops, one knocking over Mr. Coffee and the other sending the pan of sizzling sausages in every direction. After watching marathon episodes of the Dog Whisperer, I felt I knew just what to do.

I gathered up the sausages, washed them off,  put them on a plate with some green onions and garden tomatoes, cracked open a cold beer and walked outside, shut the door and sat on the deck... by myself. 

All the rescue energy sometimes took its  toll, and in the long run you needed to take care of your own self first. If you don't,  you become overwhelmed and have days like the previous. Poor little piggy. That squealing had just been too much.

A haze covered the desolate field near the old red barn. But it wasn't smoke or fog. It was the kind of muggy morning where you could actually see the humidity in Wichita. That's where Rory was tending to over 10,000 honey bee's when the phone began to vibrate in his pocket. He walked away from the white square boxes that colonized the hardest workers on the planet and set the smoke canister down next to his tattered boots. He righted himself and pulled the sheer veil net away from his face before removing the yellow bee hat off his wavy, auburn hair. The cell continued to pulsate as sweat beaded across his forehead like a Slurpee cup left on a dashboard. He wiped his brow with a sleave of flannel and the dense fabric soaked up the sweat like a paper towel erased spills. He had gotten so use to the random stings on his arms that he abandoned the protective suit a long time ago. But none of them could've prepaired him for the sting he was about to recieve when he answered this sad call.

The day had just begun or had it already started. Two slim wine glasses lingering on the table, an empty bottle accompanied the two. What had happened previously to this scene evaded me. A mystery. Or was it just wishful thinking that i could forget. I clung to the mystery, there was something more heart warming and sincere in not knowing. Ignorance is bliss they say?

I sat up, my head pounding, my hands clasping around my temple it felt as if there was a battle going on . My gaze quickly ran around the room as if moving in beat with a pounding drum probably in synch with the battle, looking at all the objects taking in the dingy surroundings but not really caring it was a blistering blur . Items that people claim to be a beacon of their personality, tokens gained. I failed to see what these "things" do for me now, 26 years and nothing much to show. No reassurance. Just existence.

In comparison to my up beat nature the weather seemed to be braving through the day as if on an on going mission, the leaves battling against the pounding rain. Summer at its best? In all my life I new one thing that I had always had , he was very consistent in nature and always had a witty remark on life’s quarrels I could remember that, but It had been some time in which we had conversed or let alone acknowledged one another.

I looked to the door and I could just about recognise a shadow underneath the gap flickering back and forth like a candle, between the door and the stale carpet circa 1942. There’s someone or something at the door, For once in my life my stubby fingers are crossing with enthusiasm for one of the two. spam mail - mail which tries to convince you, that you are in fact lacking something in life which is I think a common thread in people, society in fact .But buying a second han by Samantha | (0) comment

"Bolox to this" said Adrian smashing down his pint glass, "I can't stand you bunch of losers anymore".

"Fine" said horseboy, "you're the world's worst bassist anyway".

Adrian stumbled outside, where he got wet, because of the rain, not because he was upset about leaving the band. He took his anger to the bus stop, where he smoked until the bus arrived. On the way home to his studio flat above the chip shop, he fulminated about how the others had refused to play any of his songs.

 Outside the shop he found his pockets did not contain the makings of fish and chips, money was there none. He stomped upstairs, he unlocked the door and shoved it open to survey the warzone of his flat.

Stumbling to the fridge and breaking a couple of empty cd cases on the way. He wrenched open the fridge and found there was life saving lager inside amongst the mould and stains and left over fast food.

Staggering around, he managed to connect up the equipment to make what he thought was the world's best music.

"Bolox to this" said Adrian, smashing down his pint glass. "I can't be arsed with you bunch of losers anymore".

"fine" said horseboy, "you're the world's worst bassist anyway".

Adrian staggered outside, where he got wet, this was due to the rain, not because he was upset about leaving the band. He took his bad temper with him to the bus stop. Where he smoked until the bus came. On the way back to his studio flat above the chip shop Adrian raged internally about the fact that the others had never played his songs.

Standing in front of the chip shop, he found his pockets where devoid of the makings of pie and chips, money was there none. He stomped up the stairs,unlocked and shoved open the door to survey the warzone of his flat.

Stumbling into the mess, breaking a couple of empty cd cases along the way, he found his way to the fridge. Wrenching open the door Adrian found that there was life saving lager in there amongst the mould, stains and leftover fast food.

For the rest of the nite

From the gently lapping shores of the Faerill Sea in the east, over the vast sweeping plains of the lands of Tyria, and north to where the Broken Mountains rise majestic from their bed of gnarled forest – peace reigned over all Cyriad. In a private gulley, deep in the verdant Creased Valley - the lazy, ambling flight of a bumble bee was being observed by even lazier onlookers.

Lying by a pool and idly chewing a twig, his dirty feet resting on a rotten log was Hack Tintwistle. Hack was a simple lad, who enjoyed simple pleasures. At least that’s what he’d have people believe. Being dismissed from his duties for the day was no accident, however much he had made it look like one. Together with his good friend Thom, the pair had been ordered away from the plough after snapping several tailpieces and having the horses bolt – it suited them just fine. Yet now, as he finally lost interest in the bee’s erratic flight, Hack was growing tired of another afternoon spent on his back.

What it came down to was a situation far too beyond silly to even began analyzing. What were the god damned chances of it happening anyway? He was only a boy. No smarter than any other child at the age of nine either. This we've caught onto by his lack of understanding throughout the easiest parts of most childrens schooling. Things as simple as coloring inside the lines or the spelling of his own name.  Which in my apolgies I have failed to mention yet.  I don't believe he started talking much before the age of six or maybe I've mistaken my information. Really at this point, none of that appeared to matter to the general public nor to his family.              

       Nine years ago Dorothy Frapp, made way to the hospital to give birth to a 3 months pre-mature little boy.

 On this day, present time, something has changed. That nine year old boy was soon to make way into the history books, they shoved so relentlessly down our throats, all throughout grades one through twelve.

The day had just begun or had it already started. Two glasses on the table, an empty bottle accompanied the two. What had happened previously to this scene evaded me. A mystery. Or was it just wishful thinking that i could forget. I clung to the mystery, there was something more heart warming and sincere in not knowing. Ignorance is bliss they say?

I sat up, my head pounding, my hands clasping around my temple. My gaze ran around the room at all the objects . Items that people claim to be a beacon of their personality, tokens gained. I failed to see what these "things" do for me now. No reasurrance. Just existance.

 In comparison to my up beat nature the weather seemed to be braving through the day, the leaves battling against the pounding rain. Summer at its best? Theres someone at the door. My body fails to resserect its self.

"IN A MINUTE!!!!!"

 Little did i know that the knocking i heard was just the reasurrection that i subconsiously needed.

By this time, it hadn't even mattered anymore. Your lust for her was beyond imaginable and your thoughts, well, we'll get back to those later. Those may or may not turn you off (or on) way too early on, in the get-go. This book will remind you of that drunken girl at the party who wouldn't dare give you the light of day while sober, but in the moment (or numerous drinks later) wants you all for herself and refuses to leave your side. So you show her off in a unfashionable way. "Of course I'm going to be fucking this later", you dragged her half concious body through out the three story house, proposing toasts to yourself and slurring your words.

Bumping fists with others upon the show casing of your 'score'. Lucky bastard, this is what some were saying as he paraded about, with the confidence of a mouse approaching an elephant. An ego boost mutiplied by an infinite amount of numbers. Cockier than Ron Jeremy himself. An all around class A kid, ready for the fuck of his life.

Steven’s nan was asleep. She was small.  Very small.  Steven reckoned she was half her original size.  It was hard to describe how she looked really.  Kind of like an airbed that is half deflated.  Her arms were thin, so thin that her veins lay on them like freshly laid train tracks.  And her face was …so…well she looked in pain, a lot of pain.  Her face twitched in her sleep.  She stirred, mumbling something and Steven panicked, she was waking up. 

‘Nan are you ok…?’

She moaned.

‘Nan, can I get you anything?’ He patted her arm gently and tried to put the blanket up around her in case she was cold.  She came to, started to recognise him and smiled. 

She was mumbling something but it made no sense whatsoever, didn’t even sound English to Steven.  Then she uttered a word that he knew. She wanted a cup of tea.  He left is nan, pulling the bars up on the bed in case she fell out, she looked like she could fall out.  Then he found a nurse who brought over some tea a few minutes later. 

‘Are you fucking joking?’ He whispered between his teeth to the nurse as she handed him the plastic beaker with the kiddies drinking spout.  ‘Haven’t you got any real cups like or what?’ The nurse reached out and stroked his arm handing the tea over to him she whispered, ‘this will help your nan, so she doesn’t spill it, its hot you know.  You need to help her.’  He felt ashamed, and quickly took the beaker from the nurse, stuttering a sorry to her. She came back with some biscuits ‘try by julesy | (0) comment

It was warm and dark, with red and gold patterns of light swirling around me like flames as I drifted aimlessly, turning and swirling in an ethereal spa.  Sounds, muffled and distant, swam before my bleary eyes as well, in waves of purples and greens. There was nothing to contemplate, nothing to do except open my eyes and close them again, breathe in the warmth around me, and drift.  

I think being born must have felt like drowning.  Being sucked down deeper and deeper, farther away from every place I’d known, away from the safety and serenity of that peaceful place.  No way to run, no way to fight, only to struggle haplessly until I was out in the cold, cut loose – all that air threatening to smother me.

            You’d have to grab onto something pretty fast to survive such a thing, probably the first thing you could get – a piece of cloth, a gloved finger, a warm breast.  Anything to endure the relentless pull of all that space threatening to suck you deeper still.  I don’t know what I grabbed onto during my first days of life.  Whatever it was, it must have turned to vapor in my small, wrinkly hand, because the next time I opened my eyes I was lying in my brothers quivering arms, hanging on for dear life.

            When a baby is born it doesn't know who it is.  Or what it is, or even that it is.  It will have to wait, until it figures out a few things about the world and about other people and about itself before it can finally know the answer.  I think that takes a long time for a lot of people, though some figure things out sooner than others, like me.  It can become an odyssey full of twists and turns, red herrings, missed opportunities, villains and heroes, but ultimately events so unexpected yet so significant that it seems I should be able to halt the world's turning and establish, right then and there, at that very, very moment, that I AM.  Yet those moments have come and gone enough. If I have learned nothing else about myself during this journey from heaven to hell and back again, I do know that I am equally ineffective at making the world stop and take notice of my life as I am at making sense of my life myself. 

 "I am, I said."  Neil Diamond said that in a bad pop song years ago. 

"I am I said. 

"To no one there

" And no one heard at all,"

and in the next line he took a dive because he would have to find a phrase that had six distinct beats and ended with a rhyme for "there" because that's the way Neil Diamond defines himself as a song writer.  And that's another thing -- while Neil Diamond and his many devoted fans may have chosen to define him that way, is that really who he is?  Is that all he is?  Can any one of us be reduced to a single word or phrase or title? 

And how this ended up being about Neil Diamond is beyond me.  I can't stand that stuff.

Let me start off by saying the first intial taste of blood is the most shocking. After that, it's almost sort of soothing. Providing your mind with that sense of a warm comforting feeling. Something like eating tomato soup.

     He knew he was fucked from the beggining, but hey, you should have seen the other guy. How he so helplessly floated into the current. Limbs tossing, clothing soaked through. Jeff and his two buds, they sat and watched in despair. Self defense? It wouldn't fly. Every other idea the three compiled were as terrible as a winter in upstate Minnesota. I could say this much though, there wasn't so much as the slightest thoughts of turning themselves in. Back to Jeff's broken nose, it was time to go take care of that. They flicked the butts of their cigarettes into the water joining the body and the rest of the sea to float off into nothing.

The detective couldn't help but think to himself how beautiful it was in peaceful morbid sort of way, "Murphy, you ever think these jumpers always look like somethin' out of the Guggenheim?" he said, gazing up the corner of Avenue C and 4th on the lower east side.

 "Nope, just another body to me." Murphy wiped the sweat from his brow and neck with an old handkerchief then stooped next to the body taking a pen from his jacket pocket. Held loosely in a twisted hand was a glint of gold amidst the red. Murphy hooked the pen around the chain and lifted it into light of a setting sun. The charm dangled there turning ever so slowly in the wind, it was a simple locket open to the dazzling smile of a little girl, daughter, sister, niece, it was anyone's guess. Whoever it was she must have meant the world to him clutched the way it was, it was the only thing to arrive on the ground level unbroken; there she spun apart from the blood or gore but surrounded entirely by the mess of carnage. "Pity."

Nobody knows how it happened. Over a thousand separate recounts, anecdotes, perspectives and articles, but no complete picture. Far from it, actually. This is probably the most poorly recorded event in human history, yet it is all we have. Some will complain, many will be left confused, but all will be wondering "did it really happen?"

Of course, no one really knows, but what you hold in your hands now is the Great Tool, the Key to unlocking the truth, if one exists. Unravel the truth or unravel yourself, that is the point. Read on if you wish, you can't possibly be worse off for it. Under the covers, if you are so ashamed, or in public if you are equally inclined. Read, and when you conquer the final page, ask yourself. Answer me...

Did it really happen?

It took over two packs of menthol cigarettes and all the daylight April 14th could provide for Rory Shannahan to figure it all out. With the deadbolt locked and all the cheap, nicotine stained curtains in his stuffy apartment hiding him from the world, he wrote the last few lines of his suicide letter...

the Zolfoft superheroI've becomesleep my life awayjust another stupid daythe telephone is ringing off the walltoo far down the hallcouldn't care who calls

...As he re-read his words on the tear spattered paper, he thought they had the makings of a good chorus if there was a funky enough baseline strolling behind it. He knew his mother wouldn't hear the music when she pulls the note free of his lifeless grip and gives it a read, and it made him smile devilishly. 

5:09

She wouldn't bother running. She always missed it anyway. She came up just in time to hear the whistle blow. 

She stared blankly at the mocking doors of the train as they closed. A somewhat faded man, who looked like he was in his 40's, slicked hair and all, stared back her. They mainainted their mutual, silent hatred for each other for only a few brief moments before he was wisked away into the night. She decided he was probably an architect, going home to his homebound wife, who would suspect him of cheating on her with a younger woman. Or man.

She closed her eyes, thinking up a life for the architect. She imagined jazz records playing on  hideously scratched vinyl, hidden away all those years, gooves full of dust, played during their family time. His 2 daughters, both saintly creatures during the day, yet secretive rebellious demons during the night. His wife, suspicious of her husbands actions and a feral addiction to ridiculous soap operas and cask wine. The perfect family.

There she is, sitting on the window sill, cigarette smoke surrounding her silhouette with the back-drop of a sleeping Bornean city.  The atmosphere is humid, intense and sexual.  The outline of her breasts show between her unbuttoned shirt, how I long to touch them again with an intense gentleness.  I’m still shaking slightly, droplets of sweat on my top lip and others making their way down the side of my face.  My head is swimming.  I still haven’t come to terms with the situation in which I have found myself.  Is this a dream? It is a dream; it’s a living dream, too perfect for the imagination, one of the very few perfect moments in life.  Who is she? She is beautiful, not in a purely aesthetic sense, but holistically, she just oozes beauty, sensuality and emotions too inexplicable for the human tongue.  To think it all began with a wink and a smile at a duty free shop in Sydney International Airport.

The air was crisp with autumn, and a scattering of bright yellow maples leaves skittered across the walk as Leonid Barzneshki walked briskly from the entrance of the Cabriole Hotel toward the waiting ink black limousine pulled into the entryway drive only a few footsteps from the door. The distance was only slightly more than usual today because of a strategically placed van that had just delivered a load of patrons from Barajas airport, Madrid’s international flight destination.

As was his usual practice, Leonid Barzneshki varied the cadence of his walk, and added an exaggerated weave into the uneven steps as well. It was a maneuver that had served him well in army during his time as Commander of Polish forces in Iraq, and actually saved his life on two separate occasions. No sniper could possibly anticipate any of the random movements. Most snipers anyway.

Leonid had almost reached the limousine, it’s waiting door already ajar as an aide prepared to open it fully, when the spatter of a bloodied projectile slammed into the window of the limousine with a loud spattering smack, and a heartbeat later Leonid Barzneshki stumbled, regained his footing momentarily, then sagged to the ground. The assassin had found their mark, and Leonid Barzneski lay crumpled on the cold slab of the concrete parking ramp.

There was a large 'phwump!' as the train plowed over something in the tracks and Tim awoke as his head slammed back onto his small pack.  His temple somehow managed to land very precisely on something hard and he laughed achingly at the harshness wtih which he'd been yanked from his sleep. He tried to to gather what time it was from the light clambering in through the railcar door.  His eyelids were grainy and leaden from the ash and dirt that had filled them overnight.   Attempting quite unsuccessfully to wipe them on his also-filthy shirt, he rose with a creak his young body had no business emitting.

He reached into his pocket for a crumpled cigarette and lit it as he leaned against the car's entryway.  Dilapidated buildings and small brush whizzed by.  He had no idea how long he had been asleep.  Maybe four hours, maybe two days.  Maybe years.  "No, not that long," he thought with a bitter, smoky smile, it had not been that long: all that he left behind still felt far too close. 

There was a large 'phwump!' as the train slammed over something in the tracks and Tim awoke as his head slammed back onto his small pack.  His temple somehow managed to land very precisely on something hard and he laughed achingly at the harshness wtih which he'd been yanked from his sleep. He tried to to gather what time it was from the light clambering in through the railcar door.  His eyelids were grainy and leaden from the ash and dirt that had filled them overnight.   Attempting quite unsuccessfully to wipe them on his also-filthy shirt, he rose with a creak his young body had no business emitting.

He reached into his pocket for a crumpled cigarette and lit it as he leaned against the car's entryway.  Dilapidated buildings and small brush whizzed by.  He had no idea how long he had been asleep.  Maybe four hours, maybe two days.  Maybe years.  "No, not that long," he thought with a bitter, smoky smile. All that he left behind still felt too close.  It had not been that long.

The first real job I  had was telemarketing. I was seventeen, optimistic and stupid. I honestly believed that the Better Business award on the wall meant something and that my boss, a lamp tanned slickster, was misunderstood. The product was a nation-wide business directory, a glorified phone book. It contained a useless spectrum of geographically and thematically isolated contacts, from strip joints to law firms. We were provided with a standard script, no deviations allowed. Making a sale depended only on smooth delivery and tone of voice and the familiarity I trained into my voice implied some kind of relationship. I quickly discovered the minimum number I needed to unload in a given week to not get fired, sold exactly that many and spent the rest of my time dialing wrong numbers and talking to myself.

This is ah awe stowee!  We wrota this stowee togetha.  Is abouta lotta tings an abouta lotta stuff, cause you know everyone is ah writin this ting togetha! Alrighta here a we go, boom!

We gonna starts off with a couple ah characters interacting together somehow and such and maybe make them worried or happy or mad about somethin or someone somebody maybe.

So like any pretty ok normalass stowee we need some kind of narrarator that people will believe and shit.  Not me of course, I'm just writtin this mo-fo into, naw-mean?

But like i said, we wrote this stowee dat you readin right now and so like, thatz some shit dawg.

So we gonna letz dis ting roll now....

Intro

The morning breeze was hardly a breeze at all.  Some would call it a hurricane, while most would call it a tropical storm.  Either way, it wasn't stopping my nymphomaniac mom from bellowing out whale noises into the dinning room, soaking the furniture with a goo of sound, like a plastic sheet made up out of microscopic larvae. 

'Grief wins nothing' she told herself in consolation. 'Grief makes me old before my time.' No, it didn't help. Grief might not be on the top ten list, but Sarah felt very strongly that she was being cheated out of hers. Sam slammed back another and got up from the table. "I'm going to the store, you want anything?" she asked. Sarah said nothing in response, and Sam grabbed her wallet before she left the room. Sarah wanted to wail in the rain, or stare over the edge of a bridge wondering whether or not she could ever give up. 

Instead, she got up and started running water in the sink, adding soap, drowning the glasses of stupid visitors who thought they could help. Adding the plates that held empty food, sugar for the stomach but not the soul, Sarah wondered how long before people would stop 'dropping by'. Adding Sam's glass, even though Sarah knew she had gone to get more liquor. Never enough. 

I came across a web site, which chose to share this rediculous home remedy to cure writer's block. They put this out there and expected us to believe it

"Writer's block" a term used loosely and held close to some more than other's. Something that will tear apart the human mind over years of stress related happennings. It's known to cause: shortness with others, bitterness, seclusion, and loss of sanity in some cases studied. In other's, it's something that comes and goes as it pleases. Short bursts of, long nights ending with stacks of crumpled paper//s, loitering in the corner of your room (or wherever it may be) not close to the waste basket by any means, but piled up enough in your head so much, it makes as a makeshift trash bin already.

So this is what they said. In the year 1932, a man named Richard Beliguin, discovered and simple remedy for what's commenly known as writer's block. It came about when Rich mixed the urine of Meercats and the pollen of a Purpledious Emazia. His livestock and maybe even family were in risk of being eaten//harmed by a pack of wild dogs. Rich, he wouldn't harm an animal, if it came down to life or death. He always said he'd go how it was planned. A circle of life. Anyway, the urine and pollen. He wanted to use this potion or remedy as a tranqualizer for the dogs. Take his family and animals out of harms way. Also, tranquing the rabid dogs and maybe, in hopes, coming to terms with these manic pups and let them roam his plentiful acres of land without harming anything and also creating a bond between the groups. It took a turn for the best though, as Rich loaded the tranqualizers into the dart gun he accidently shot himself in the foot. Oops. When he came to, he wrote the most wonderfully enchanting story about a land where a mutual agreement between animals and man was made and honored. They lived as one. But really as two. This book, it made Rich by NIcholas | (0) comment

I`m sitting right now on a hard, wooden chair, and my right thumb feeling the soft strings of my old guitar. It was a long day, I should be at home enjoying dinner with my dog, but I`m here again.  I slowly, open my eyes to enjoy the fading sunshine. The old lady in front of me is on her knees, praying. This is a place where I find peace. But for some people, this is where they freely express themselves as drama queens. Tomorrow, I will drop by here again because this newly built church has been my stopover for the past three days.

It was lucky for me that Jimmy’s movie club order arrived on the same day that I got the letter. The mailman rang the doorbell and I opened it, wiping my hands on my apron. He put the mail right into my hands. I saw the envelope immediately. It was right on top of the stack, addressed in simple block letters written in plain blue ink. My mother must have thought that a non-descript letter had a chance of slipping past Jimmy’s inspection. It wouldn't have, but for once that wouldn't matter.

Two year old Sandy had followed me to get in on the excitement. While she flirted with the mailman from behind my leg I slipped that precious envelope into my apron pocket. Sandy would remember this rare visit from the mailman, but not the envelope on top of the box. For good measure, I called Jack to come see the mail truck. I would need witnesses. 

She had committed herself, as much as she knew, to getting to know the ghost. It had taken years off her life and still she sometimes felt that she was no closer to its true nature than she had been on that frigid December day, when she was first penetrated by its coldness, biting into her much deeper than the weather had. It was something like love or weakness and from that day on, she sometimes barely but mostly completely welcomed the iciness, the isolation that flooded her insides, stole her wind, or felt like it anyway. Her relationship to the ghost, not that it was a relationship but it sometimes somehow resembled one, was something she felt she had to keep a secret, but with sadness, she realized then that when this cold wind was finally past, no external mark would be left and everything between them would well have never existed.

She sat by the edge of the river, in a calm gracious quiet. The wind moved the mist through the mountains quickly and her thoughts ensued. What was she really doing here? What had she set out in search for? She couldn't remember. It had grown so much a part of here that she could no longer tell what she was looking to find and what she had already found. The journey to here homeland always left her content. She'd always been comfortable, almost too comforable.

Kim Anh was trying to connect the pieces, but she would only know them when they came. She would only know them when they resonated with something inside her. Having lived all of here life in the United States, she never knew herelf in Vietnam. She never knew what music she would find in the undending traffic of Saigon's busy streets. She never knew what would be reflected in the glassy water of the Mekong River, or how the thick, moist air flowing in these high mountains she now found hereself in would change her.

On Sunday afternoons when I was small. my father would take my brother Gary bowling. Mom would fall asleep on the couch with the newspaper in her lap -- her head tilting back unnaturally, mouth open and snoring -- and I would lie on the floor in the patch of sun that blared through the picture window as the sun moved down across the sky. Sometimes I read the funny papers, sometimes I found an old movie on TV, but the day I’m thinking about right now, as I lie here like my 8 year old self – curled with my knees to my chest, one arm crooked under my head, I held a dog-eared copy of A Field Guide to Birds against the hardwood floor, a pen hovering over a notebook in the other.

“Mo-om!” I protested, “I’m reading!”

With a frustrated sigh she sent the newspaper fluttering all over me. “For crying out loud, Ruby,” she said as she stomped to the door. The door opened and I heard somebody speak, then everything went quiet. Totally quiet.

Barely breathing, I peaked under the coffee table.  I remember feeling like a spy h by Lonely Acrobat | (5) comment