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Monthly Archives: May 2012

a Monkey

So the story goes, we all evolved from monkeys. I believe it, but still it seems practically impossible. While so many other species out there have evolved over just as long a period of time, and can’t even make a decision outside of instinct, how is it that people can question whether we came from monkeys? How is it that people can question anything at all? Dogs are pretty smart. They don’t question what they evolved from. Maybe they’re even smarter than we think and just decided to leave well enough alone…a concept that monkeys and people haven’t really been able to embrace. I think it’s a good thing though that we haven’t. We’d probably be living in a communist world with no real feeling of being free to chase our dreams. Here’s a good question: why are there still monkeys? Why, after millions of years, didn’t any of them evolve into any other more “intelligent” monkey-like creatures? Maybe it wasn’t a fluke…maybe something was tampered with…maybe monkeys are and always were just monkeys and we just came from something that just happened to fit the “monkey evolved” mold. Monkeys are cool.

– Written by Mr. T on May 29, 2012



The sleek, black birds perched atop the arthritic limbs of trees once filled with life. Now winter’s frost had stripped them bare, leaving all which tried to hide there exposed and vulnerable to the roaming eyes. The eyes which never blinked.

My heart clamored faster against my chest with every step I advanced down the dirt path toward the decrepit house which exemplified all the stories I’d grown to love within the past five years. This was where the pendulum struck down the house of Usher, where Lenore brought forth the tell-tale heart, and the ravens…

Their beady eyes as black as coal frowned at me as I crossed below. The sadistic twist of my soul wished for darker skies and explosive lightning bolts to invade the skies overhead, give me the true mood of this place where haunted tales linger on the porch and in the kitchen. Blood stains ringed the floors.

I caught a raven peering at the grumpy clouds sulking above us all, and for a moment, there was a twinge of fear that perhaps he could read my thoughts,

A whir caught my ear, and I turned to see a few more of the dark birds soaring in and settling onto branches along the road from which I’d come. There were more and more than I wished to count, but it may have been my own paranoia amplifying their presence and multiplying them by three.

The ravens spoke not a sound, as I treaded softly to the wooden house, leaning to one side in its saddest state of mind. Why would you bother coming this far to see the waste that I am? It mumbled, its words garbled by the stroke which paralyzed its right side and caused it to slump just so.

At the edge of its first step, I sat and observed the ravens, now an army of one hundred or more, stationed stoically atop their posts, watching me back.

There were no words to describe the ghost which crept from behind and entered my soul, bestowing the eyes which gave me the light to see this place as it once had been in another time – the house where the deepest, darkest thoughts of our minds were liberated to wreak havoc on the page. This house was Poe’s imagination, but not his home.

Caw. Caw. Caw.

The call of the┬áravens echoed through the trees. Barely a whisper at first, but growing stronger and louder against the incoming breeze. I drank in their cries of “intruder,” closing my eyes and then awaiting their inevitable attack on the stranger who had intruded upon their dream.


– Written by Miss A on May 24, 2012


Green took my eyes

And made them real,

Gave me breath and love,

Put to long rest

My nerves of steel.

Tormented by fear

Grown strong with rage,

Green led me forward

Where times were good,

Tears outpaced by age.

There goes the child

Who almost never was

No longer lost

But barely found,

Green outshone the flaws.

– Written on May 21, 2012



Gargoyle, written by Miss A on May 19, 2012

The sun is showering us with light uninterrupted by pesky or cumbersome clouds, and the mood of the city has lightened, as people stroll to work. Some chat on their phones, others grin and wave to familiar faces as they walk past, occasionally stopping to say hello to a friend or business partner decked in some fancy suit. As I breathe in the urban life, the metropolitan energy which glows on a warm, sunny morning, I start to appreciate this place where people surround themselves worth sky-high buildings and compete with bright yellow cars to get them to the next leg of their journey.

But then there is this guy.

I stop and peer at the angry face crouched atop the stairs of an old, marble structure – a library or legal firm, perhaps? Why must he look so angry, I wonder. I’ve seen his kind before – with stony faces warped in scowling expressions, with vicious, pointy teeth which look as though they might eat me whole. It’s obvious he is indifferent to a blustery, rainy afternoon or the rays of light which cast a fresh glow across the city on a spring morning.

I’ve heard he and his disgruntled friends were assigned to scare away the evil spirits that might try to break in and corrupt innocent souls. I glance at the signs beside the building’s door – Jackson and Morton Law Firm, Madison Hedge Fund, Tagel’s Brokerage Firm – and see these guards made no difference at all.

Well, Mr. Ugly Thing, I think to myself and hope he hears. I’m sorry you must serve such an unhappy fate, glowering at all the people who have a choice to lead happy lives. It must be a horrible eternity to spend crouched in stone and waiting to attack, with no relief from your position, no moment to sit back and crack a smile.

– Written by Miss A on May 19, 2012.


The nerves take a beating every time fear or worry come slinking around, looking for trouble, for someone to shake up real bad. Poor nerves can barely stand it, trembling and hoping the scary times will pass by soon.

They get to fluttering the heart and making it pulse real hard. That heart nearly flies out of the chest, it’s pumping so fast and quickening the breaths of my body, which is itching to run. Sprint far away from the fear and worry that are knocking around town.

Knock, knock, knock. Anyone home? We need somewhere to stay, to spread our roots in this place.

And some minds let ’em come in and take up residence for a while. But I’ve had those pesky house guests for long enough and I already know how they can make those nerves fray at the end. Threads coming loose all over the place. Me left picking up the pieces and pushing my nerves to move on ahead.

So no siree, I’m not answering the door or opening my window while double trouble is creeping all about, waiting for that perfect moment to strike and spook my nerves into thinking something isn’t right.

You gotta whole lotta nerve shutting us out!

Well, yes, yes I do, and that’s what gives me the strength and wisdom to know what you’re all about. Trying to make me shake in my boots and hide away from the unknown. I’ve seen the damages you can do, and that’s why you’re no longer welcome in my home.

– Written on May 15, 2012


An oasis tricks your eye – builds cities out of sand, lakes from dust and glaring sun. There you stand at the center of desert, throat parched and mind heavy, thinking you behold something magnificent, only to stagger close and find nothing is actually there. An illusion of hope dissipating into the harsh reality that where you are is truly a hell from which you can’t escape. And endless walk toward signs of hope…but the oasis is a deceiving mirage.

Because a true oasis wouldn’t disappear into the sand. Rather it would stand as the haven for hope. Robust animals would hover over its glistening waters, sipping as they please. You would linger under the shade of palm trees, and sigh with the breeze.

– Written on May 10, 2012


I done seen some thangs in my life, but da day I witnessed young Tommy Woodson clean dem Bradley boys in a game a marbles…well, son, dat dem day done outshine all da rest.

Now Tommy was a tall, spindly boy – no pudges a fat on dat kid. Probly ’cause his mama was poor, workin’ to keep her kids in shoes and a roof o’er dem heads. Dat kid had risk in his eyes – probly took it from his papa, who knew a thang or two ’bout goin’ after what he wanted. Dat’s a diff’rent story for a diff’rent time, tho.

So on dis day I speak ’bout, dem Bradley boys were crouched on Miss Mayson’s porch. Dat’s where all dem childs gathered in da afternoons when summer done roll around. Dey was playin’ marbles, beatin’ all dem other childs and makin’ a good pile for demselves. Mac Bradley liked to bring him a mason jar and plop each of dem marbles in dat glass while dem childs watched with sad eyes. Lordy, you woulda reckon you took dem families away when you seen dem looks they give.

Couple of us old men liked to watch dese childs hangin’ ’bout. ‘Minded us ’bout when we were childs, I s’pose. Young Tommy held back and watched dem childs lose dere marbles one by one. Didn’t say a word. He never played ‘gainst dem Bradleys before. Nah, he played dem other kids in da park sometimes, but he knew da racket dem Bradleys had goin’. So he kept to da back of da group ‘n just watched dem lil’ childs run cryin’ off dat porch when dem marbles clanged in Mac’s glass jar.

Mac reckon he had clean all dem childs out, so he goes to seal dat jar real good, but Tommy step up and say, ‘I wanna play.’ Joe Bradley eye him real good and say, ‘boy, you gotta have marbles to play us.’ Tommy pull out his shoota marble in one pocket and seven marbles in da other. ‘I got marbles,’ he says to dem boys.

Da other childs gathered ’round day playas as dey crouched ’round dere circle and begin da game. Dat Tommy was a real shark, comin’ outta nowhere, shootin’ straight ‘n collectin’ Mac’s marbles one by one from dat jar. Pride kept Mac ‘n Joe in da game. S’pose dey reckon Tommy was touched by stroke a luck, but us men could see dat Tommy was beyond dat. Boy knew how to play ‘n he had been waitin’ for da right moment to take dem Bradleys down.

His pockets done bulged wit dem marbles from Mac’s jar, which got emptier ‘n emptier as da sun crept down. Der ain’t but four marbles left in dat jar by suppa time, but silly Mac didn’t pay no mind to his loss ’cause he still reckon he could win. ‘One more go,’ he says ‘n Tommy shrug like it ain’t no big deal to him.

‘Cause dem marbles was already his before dat last game began. Mac’s shoota marble missed that last ball by an ant mile, ‘n all dem childs ’round the boys looked on in anticipation when Tommy crouched down to shoot. Everyone sucked in dere breaths real good, ‘n when his shoota knocked out dat lonesome marble in da center, childs cheered like dat Tommy was a war hero returnin’ home. And don’t ya reckon, dat boy reach in his pockets ‘n start handin’ out dose marbles to der rightful owners, keepin’ only a few for a tip to himself, before headin’ home to his mama. While dem Bradleys slinked away to sulk by demselves.

– Written by Miss A on April 28th and May 6th, 2012