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Monthly Archives: October 2011

Sprinkler

My brother Chris used to really hate getting sprayed by the sprinkler. I’ll always remember one time in particular when I got him with a good sprinkler prank. I was probably 4 or 5 years old and he was 2 or 3. Probably 5 and 3… It was a summer day in the Chicago suburbs and the sprinkler was our means of not ending up with heat stroke. My mom was filming us with an old video camera (no sound) and we were just running around the spinning sprinkler as it threw freezing cold water at our feet. It was hard to get all the way up to the sprinkler because the closer you’d get, the more freezing cold water it would drench you with. I’m not sure why I loved tormenting my brother, but I thought it was funny to grab Chris by the hand and pull him as close as I could get to the sprinkler until the water was too cold for me and then run away. That’s when I got the awesome idea to run quickly up to the sprinkler and hold it to keep it from spinning. While it was being held, it only sprayed 3 straight streams of water so anyone could walk right up to it without getting sprayed. Then I’d tell Chris I wouldn’t let it spray him and to come over and check it out. Right when he would get really close to it, I’d let go and run away. Of course, he got drenched and ran from the sprinkler crying hysterically. I think I repeated this about 3 times before he decided he couldn’t trust me anymore, no matter what I said.

– Written by Mr. T on October 16, 2011

 

Shadow

I kicked it around. Stomped on it. Stretched it across the ground. And yet it never failed to leave my side. The loyal companion following me wherever I would go.

It hardly consoled me when I cried, preferring the happier, sunnier days to skip along as I ran or walked across my way. Sometimes I chased it. Other times, it chased after me.

The darkest form of myself, void of my features but a replica of my form. A faceless soul staring back at me as if to say, “What do we do now?” And so we continue on in this world, my shadow and me, two wandering creatures groping our way through life and trying to figure out where to go from here.

For all the abuse it might get from me, the shadow also gets a free ride, if you ask me. Traveling across the world to Sydney, Rome, and Manila without ever having to pay a dime. Living in my apartment and never paying rent. Yep, the shadow has it easy, rarely appears to be stressed about life; but perhaps it will start to worry more when I’m gone from this place, my figure burned and scattered across the ground. Or will it simply seek another companion, another person to shadow around?

– Written by Miss A on October 14, 2011

Couch Potato

New submission from Jack D!

Couch Potato, written by Jack D on October 16, 2011

 

Wishing Well & Witch (combined entries)

Wishing Well & Witch (combined entries), written by Miss A on October 11, 2011

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Deep in the wishing well at the edge of Paddy O’Toole’s land, a greedy little man held dozens of people’s dreams hostage. Collecting them with the five- and ten-cent pieces that were dropped from above, plopping into the pool of shallow water at the bottom of the well. Paddy’s family hadn’t been able to collect water from the thing in over fifty years, which is why they let their neighbors and friends wander through the field and cast their hopes and dreams into the dark, hollowed stone structure, built in 1602.

Little Tommy Kent wished for a year’s supply of lollies to stash under his bed, away from his mother’s eagle eyes, which forbid him any sweets at all. Millie Wayward had wished for a prettier nose. Mrs. Kinsey wished for her dear, crippled John to walk normal on straight, healthy legs. Mary Brennan wished for twenty thousand pounds to feed her children and buy them a proper bed. Perhaps they could have had those things if her husband didn’t spend their Dole at the corner pub, but ah, that is another story for a different time.

None of the well-wishers were aware of the midget camped in the well’s base, hoarding their coins in a wooden box by his pillow and blanket. Crouching in the dark shadows, listening to these pathetic people cast wishes into a hole, he’d smirk and rub his palms together as he waited for the clinking sound of coins to fall.

“Stupid people,” he’d mutter under his breath. “Thinking they’ll find their dreams in the bottom of this here well. If they’re going to waste valuable money on this sort of thing, I’m going to make use of these coins to buy myself a real home.”

Over forty years, this little man had collected almost enough to buy a small house in town on the corner of Modgekin Street. It wasn’t much to look at, but he planned to spend his remaining years in front of a warm fire eating savory lamb stew. When he waded into the murky knee-deep waters to feel for the metal coins along the algae floor, it was worth the disgusting slime on his fingers that smelled like sewage and mildew.

“Just a few more pieces, and that house will be all mine,” he’d excitedly remind himself, tossing the coins into his wooden box.

Meanwhile, the townspeople waited for their wishes to come true, and as time passed slowly, many of them hoped for something more. Sparing a coin from the weekly paycheck or Dole, they continued to trek to Paddy’s wishing well and toss another request down the hole.

“Please cure my mother from her sickness.”

“I wish for my stringy brown hair to be wavy and blonde.”

“I wish for my bloody husband to get a job and make enough money to feed his family. Here’s another five-cent piece if you can cure him from the drink.”

Down in the hole, the little man collected the people’s wishes and dreamt of his own. But on the other side of town, a witch named Helga had wishes and hopes of her own. For years she had observed the silly locals trudge across town to Paddy O’Toole’s property and toss a shiny coin or two down his well.

“There must be enough money down there to buy me a one-way ticket to the Bahamas,” she mused. “And all I have to do is climb down that hole and gather it into this burlap sack.”

One late night, when the moon shone extra bright, Helga crept across Paddy O’Toole’s land to the old stone wishing well, where the greedy little man was tucked under his blanket and fast asleep. Hooking a rope to the base of the well, the witch hoisted herself into the hole and clumsily scaled the wall, but when she dropped her feet into the mildewy waters, the SPLASH startled the little man awake.

“AUGH!” he yelled.

“Eeeee!” Helga screamed in fright. “What are you doing in the bottom of this well?”

“I should ask the same of you!” the little man cried. “This here’s been my home for the past forty years!”

Suddenly, the witch noticed how her boots were planted firmly on solid ground. No coins shifting and clanging when she moved around. Where have all the people’s money gone, she wanted to know.

“There’s no money in this well,” the little man insisted, attempting to block his wooden box from her view.

“You’re lying,” said the witch, and then she spotted the container he was trying to conceal.

Lurching forward, she attempted to steal it away, but her boots slipped on the algae surface and she went flying into the air and landed on her bottom. Angry that her black dress was now wet and brown, she reached for the little man’s feet and dragged him toward her miserable soul. They tumbled and fought, scrambling to own the box of coins at the water’s edge. In their fitful rage, they punched and bit and kicked, and just when it seemed the witch had an upper hand, the little man swung with all his might and pushed his tiny fist into her one good eye. As she wailed in pain, she lost her footing again, falling backwards and knocking her head against the cold, stone wall, which split her skull in two. Releasing her grip on the little man, he, too, found himself falling into the unfortunate path of his beloved wooden box, and when his own head cracked against its corner, the rotted wood splintered and peeled away, causing forty years’s worth of coins to tumble out and bury the greedy man and witch in a whole town’s hopes and dreams.

– Written by Miss A on October 11. 2011

Ninja

Ninja, Written by Miss A on October 9, 2011

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The ninja crept stealthily across the page, searching for the villain, whom he sensed was near. “Come out, come out, wherever you are,” he taunted the enemy who hid. Looking cautiously around the page’s corner for something out of place, his eye caught a man darting between a conjunction and a verb. “Stop!” the ninja bellowed. Then paused. Sneaking toward an “A,” he scaled its wall and perched atop the letter to get a better view of his mysterious evader. No one was visible to his scoping eye. Crouching low, he sprung with his legs across a few, short words and landed on a “T.” Pacing across the thin, black bar, he waited for a figure to emerge among the sentences stacked against each other.

And sure enough, when enough time had passed for his enemy to think all was clear and safe, a miserly figure crawled from the hole of an “O” and lifted his blood red pen to leave his mark. As he pulled off the cap and raised an arm, the ninja swiftly leaped through the air – flying halfway across a half-blank page to land softly on the thin line where his enemy was poised to destroy. Pulling his sword from its sheath, he stood ready to attack. But the wretched, spindly man cowered, dropped his red pen, and turned to run. This time, the ninja was prepared for the flight, casting a long, taut rope into the air, which struck his target and sent him tumbling to the ground. While the enemy tried to regain his senses, our heroic ninja was already binding his wrists behind his back as he whispered scoldingly, “Your mark up days are over, Mr. Sharpie. I’m going to see to it that you never hold a red pen in your cowardly hands ever again.”

– Written by Miss A on October 9, 2011

a Jacket

If you’re gonna go outside today, you better put a jacket on.

It’s raining frogs and cats and dogs and the sun is almost gone.

You’re better off just staying in, just go to bed and dream of sin.

Be sure to keep your jacket close, ’cause icy cold may wake within.

Don’t hold your tongue. Say what you will. Do what you want.

Swallow the pill. Surely you’ll feel your senses fill. Surely you’ll write the song.

But heed these words my little friend,

Your silver-lined dream is frayed at the end.

– Written by Mr. T on September 29, 2011

Map

I wish I had a direct route to the hurt and pain that clouds almost every man. I’d take that route, march and fly and drive my way to the core, and I’d blow that place to pieces with one hundred tons of the world’s strongest dynamite.

It wouldn’t matter if I had to take a left on fear, or a right on hate to get to the house of hurt and pain. I’d take the difficult journey, knowing that these streets would crumble and disappear as soon as that house was gone. Once hurt and pain are extinct, there is no need for a road on fear or hate or anxiety to get you to and from them.

So I’ll destroy the house and stand nearby as it’s consumed by smoke and flames. Then I will turn around, stroll toward the boulevard where love will take me to peace, which intersects with happiness at some point along my way.

I’ll tear the old map to pieces, eradicating any evidence that hurt and pain once soiled the land. That way, no man will know the coordinates to visit the place where they once stood and reigned over us all. A new map will be drawn through streets where we are willing to help each other out and where hope and love guide us toward better, calmer lives. We will walk with peace in our hearts and our minds. We will no longer stand in the blackened distance, angrily eyeing the house of happiness where so few can seem to sleep and play. No, we will live in the house where happiness pours from the shower spouts and blankets the floors.

And when we pass by out-of-town visitors, wandering lost, we will happily stop to help them and show them the way.

– Written by Miss A on September 7, 2011