Scrape away the pain so that a new day can be lived without yesterdays tragedy screaming in the ear. Watching the others with jealous eyes compounded his fractured sense of reality. Brush away the ticking intuition which draws it's voice close to you and whispers "You have had enough." The time to throw in the towel will be dictated by Fate and one's own doing. At times it can be easier to think that the world has forged a menacing plan to consume you on its evolution of devouring souls. And then there are the adventurers who grab life by its throat, pull it close like a famished lover and draw forth from its Mouth of Abundance what they they can get.

The flashbulbs burned. So bright. Burn. Burn. Burn! Charging through the corridors of conquest He stands firmly as his insides twist and bulge. Sit in the fixed position and remember when you were quiet. When silence fell upon your heart and stillness was like an old friend, coming back around to ground you. One foot is in a running shoe while the other is stuck, cemented to the remnants of familiarity. But the old sentimentality conjures up the reveries of a life lived. And the heart thumps more profoundly, resurrecting the affable feelings that were experienced because of a Giver.

Like a burbling fireball Samuel viewed the oncoming red light with contempt. His stomach felt like it was about to explode and his bladder had to be leaking. He tried not to think of water yet he felt that nothing could help him as driblets of urine slowly soaked his boxers. The warmth eased itself gently onto his leg and he slammed his foot onto the gas pedal as he anxiously watched the light turn green. As he sped into his driveway he had already unleashed his seat belt while he opened his car door. Crashing through his unlocked front door Samuel gunned it toward the bathroom.
"Hey, what the hell!" Jason exclaimed.
In front of Samuel, like a boulder blocking a path, was his roommate Jason sitting upon the toilet.
"Bro! Hurry up I gotta take a leak!", Samuel stammered as he buckled his knees and held onto his groin as if it were likely to fall off at any moment.
"Alright. Hold on. I'm just taking a piss."
Samuel was so concentrated on not urinating on himself that these words took time to sink in. As he struggled with an oncoming rush of urine dribbling down his leg he noticed that that the bathroom didn't smell. There was no whirling wind of the fan as well. Samuel began to think.
"No fan. No shit smell. Did he just say he's taking a leak?"
These questions began to bombard Samuel's mind like cannon fodder.
Before closing the door Samuel looked at Jason who was still crouching on the toilet.
"What are you doing?" Samuel asked with the patience and curiosity of a five year old.
"I just told you. I'm peeing" Jason retorted indignantly.
He began to feel uncomfortable as Samuel watched him with a dumbfounded expression on his face.
"But you're sitting down. Why are you sitting down!?"
"Oh. I sometimes pee sitting down."
Samuel found himself losing balance. Urinating was no longer on his mind. He was trying to process new and unsettling information.
"Since when?"
At this point Samuel watched his friend's countenance change. His lips drew back and it looked as if he was just being found guilty of downloading lewd acts of unspeakable doing.
"Julie said that it's more sanitary for the bathroom. It's cleaner bro!"
Jason's voice squeaked as he spoke his last sentence. He was in defense mood and knew the onslaught was coming. Samuel perked up in rage. He felt that his friend's new found pussification was an assault on himself as well.
"And you listened to this! Look at yourself!"
Jason slowly peered down into the bowl.
"YOU ARE PEEING WHILE SITTING DOWN! That's what women do! You're a man! You're supposed to stand and piss. What the hell!"
Samuel found himself slowly backing out of the bathroom. After his tirade he felt drained and weakened. He never envisioned on seeing his friend so emasculated. A dilapidated couch welcomed his body and he didn't even rise to urinate as Jason sneaked out of the bathroom quietly. Without washing his hands.

Joseph used to get these elevated feelings of euphoria and freedom. They laid dormant for so long but they seemed to be coming back. He was in a walking coma for a few years, surviving off a driving, incessant voice that whispered "Hold On!". Which was fine. It served it's purpose. Throughout that time survival was maintained yet life is not about survival. But it was hard to dust off the lint from his clothes. The sun was bright and it's blinding light can often make one want to go back inside. When the course is unclear and the paths zig zag, taking you here and there the challenge lied in following what the heavens brought forth to him. Acceptance can be scary.

With the chords from the banjo sounding off through the amplifier memories drift into my consciouscness. The lonliness of being out on the road penetrates my core just like before. No one but myself and companion. Listening to this song creates little paths that lead me through the thickets of time. Thorny bushes perhaps but even rose bushes contain these. I remember tall thin trees filled. Their arms stretched out toward the highway's edges, their tiny hands bestowing crinkly fingers of fiery yellows and reds upon the asphalt. It's always the same with me. The passing of time seeps sadness deep, conjuring up the days of old and making me realize that I often live in the throes of recollection.

The mozzarella was bubbling like white lava erupting from a thin crusted volcano. Michael watched it with fevered anticipation as the pretty waitress with grey eyes gracefully slid the pan onto the table. She stared at him so strongly that he quickly developed another appetite.
"Watch what you're looking at!"
Michael lowered his head, looking away from the woman and then at Maria. Her blue eyes fired shots of crystal daggers into his chest as he gulped for air. She watched as Michael squirmed uncomfortably for a moment. She never turned too look at the waitress because she didn't care about her. Can't blame her anyway.
"It's about showing respect. I don't stare at others. How would you feel if I did?" Maria answered the question that Michael was spinning in his head for the last thirty seconds. Looking into her eyes, Michael realized that she was right. He also noticed that the pizza had not been touched and was getting cold. Picking up a slice he placed it on a plate and then handed it to Maria. They smiled. One of his best attributes was silence. Not just shutting up but knowing when to be quiet and observant.
After chowing down on more than half the pie Michael unloosened his belt. He felt the safety of his pistol ride into his rear as he shifted. After four years of carrying he never got used to it.
"I have to stop by next door and deposit a check after.OK?" Maria asked but it was more of a statement.
"Whatever."
Breathing deeply, Michael leaned forward to steal another slice. Beyond Maria's Italian fro he could see a figure slipping around the corner towards the pizzeria. Another man followed. They were both neatly dressed and walking hurriedly. Backpacks hung loosely from their shoulders. Michael stared more intensely at them. They seemed to be too well dressed to be wearing backpacks.
"Stop!"
A shout ran out from around the corner of the pizzerias front door. Michael knew who that shout was for and he also knew who yelled it. The confidence, the zeal fit the bill for one type of man. And the two men knew this as well. They turned back towards the voice in a flash. With their backs to Michael he watched the steel flash from their waists. As the cop turned the corner three shots blasted out into the tranquil afternoon and disrupted any peace that was there that day. Like the marinara sauce that exploded from Michael's slice of pizza one minute earlier, two holes burst from the stunned officers body. His left arm and leg ran crimson as he crumbled to the ground.
Screams filled Michael's eardrums as Maria sank her head forward and covered her ears. Squatting out of his seat Michael grabbed Maria by the shoulder, pushing her behind him and to the ground. Instantly he looked up towards where the two men had been and saw them walking at the officer. As he tasted his lunch beginning to rise, Michael bit down hard. He seized his pistol from his waist but remained crouched. The safety had never felt so heavy as that moment. As the tiny click sounded off Michael stood up but kept his knees slightly bent. An ambiguous feeling took control of his body. Although he felt light, almost weightless, there was a heaviness to his motions that he never experienced before. Bringing his weapon up and leveling it at shoulder length, Michael stalled one second before making a decision. As he watched the men approach the officer, he was caught off guard by the cop's eyes. They were staring straight at him. He could make out the whites of his irises and the fear that was drenching his face with perspiration.
A gunshot never sounded so loud for Michael as he let his finger slide over the trigger. In rapid succession he shot off 12 rounds into both of the men before popping out the empty cartridge. With shaky fingers he sized the spare but quickly realized that there was no need. In a state of shock Michael found that he was nearly standing over both men. While he had been shooting he crossed twenty feet of space but hadn't realized it. Blood soaked up the concrete and little lakes of red liquid surrounded the islands of the two bodies. The officer was struggling with his radio but Michael could not make out what he said. There were screams and howling sirens tumbling through his world but it was all just a type of movement. Nothing but the hollow sound of the welkin existed as he stood trapped in his act of giving.

Third and Final Installment of the Majesty of Dale Sullivan

Even though I didn't know Dale from Adam I did feel a bit jealous of his tenacity. Firing from the hip he came out blasting toward that woman. Now, she was caught off guard by his demeanor especially when he did a quick spin before shaking her hand. In most cases I would just pass this guy off as some freak looking for attention. Not so when it came to Dale. When you looked into his face one could sense that he genuinely believed that this was an appropriate and endearing way to encounter people. And surprisingly it was to this woman. For before I could take another sip of my drink I could see that there was a smile split from ear to ear across her face. It was wonderful to see. Majestic, really. It was at that moment that I learned one of the biggest lessons in my life. If you believe your own truth it somehow becomes a reality. It may not be accepted by all but if it is by you, it can be contagious.

I won't extend this story into a fable but I would be fibbing if I was to say that for me Dale's character was not full of mythical proportions. Short of wearing a cape, the guy was a type of superhero or villain. It depends on how you look at it. Standing strong at 5'7 and 118lbs., on a winters morn', he didn't let his size set precedent for how he would live. Meeting Dale on that lonely day was a gift from the heavens. Placing himself next to me at the bar, he quickly ordered Bourbon "Straight up!" His voice squeaked as he chirped out his order. It didn't seem to bother him though. Leaning to his side, almost falling off the stool, he began to search for his wallet. Like a lizard snapping at an eight year old boy's curious fingers Dale whipped his head toward me and yelled "I always pay right away!" He slid his hand out in front of him and extended it across the whole bar. I don't know why he told me this but I didn't care. I slowly inched away and turned to look at a decent looking woman in her thirties who I somehow overlooked. Suddenly I felt slight breathing over my shoulder and heard the word "Tail." slowly ease it's way out of a weathered old voice box. I didn't have to move. I knew who it was. Turning around calmly I figured that this lost soul would slide back into his earlier position yet I was wrong. By the time I got clockwise to the front of the bar I could smell his breath as if it was fumigated right into my lungs. He didn't move an inch. However, the biggest surprise was that his breath didn't smell horrible. A strong permeating minty odor seeped from his face as if he had been sucking on a giant Yorks Peppermint Patty for three hours. I decided to stay put and not face him. He got the clue and turned clockwise as well.
"Yep. Fine piece, my friend. Dale's my name."
He uttered these words so fast that I barely had time to ignore them before his hand gripped mine and began to shake it firmly. I didn't want to retreat so I shook his hand. He wildly released mine then gulped down his bourbon in a flash. His actions were so abrupt that I gradually found myself intrigued by his spontaneity. While my interest grew Dale abruptly switched his eyes from my face and I noticed that he looked past me, way past me. 1,000 miles gone. Leaping off the stool and barely landing on both feet, Dale sped past me but not before whispering "Snooze you lose!" into my right ear. Shuffling past an oncoming biker couple, he made his way toward the woman I had just watched a minute prior.

Last week I was in between a few drinks at a local watering hole. The usual. A few sips here and there. Mostly Jack and Cokes. I tend to keep it simple. I was minding my own, just peeling the labels off of my partners empty Coors'. The place was light on traffic, just a few booze hounds intermixed with strumpets and a twenty year old derelict who had nowhere to go but downhill. He decided that here would be the place to start. And he was right. My head laid low as I kept peeling. "This is a Man's World" was piped out gently, smoothly and it eased my frustration, enough to let me look up as I heard the back door creak open. A large beam of sunlight shot like a cannon ball into our morgue and the vampires turned away as if the earths gift was nothing but a nuisance. I didn't mind it. I actually liked it. The sun cut through the room and illuminated it enough to make me realize that there was a world outside of this one, where day and night didn't blend into one another like tangled ivy. I didn't have too much in life but my world got a little brighter the day I met Dale Sullivan.

Song of Ramble

Setting forth a course in range
Onto life’s other stage
Filled with depth and mystery
Step by step challenging gravity
Unlock the door and step inside
That it was never locked is what you’ll find
But now you’re here what shall you do?
When opportunity bears down on you
To have what you want may bring fear
To have what you need erects a mirror
Reflecting back into your eyes
That life itself is the real prize

In the garden, when dusk had settled in and nights sky darkened everything around it, Stephanie would wade out into the middle of the worn out bricks. Within the circle she crouched low, her sunset dress puffed out onto the ground creating waves of flowing fabric all around her. In the density of those summer nights, when it was so hot that you seemed to choke on your own breath, I would watch her perform. With the illusion of being alone firmly placed in her mind she gave all feelings and emotions over to the unpredictability that arises when all thoughts cease and nothing is left but action. With a quarter moon perched ever so lightly above her head, she lifted her arms out towards nothing yet she was grasping at something. In a moment she sprung from the ground and was making wild leaps into the air. I could not help but laugh. Through these movements she resembled a grasshopper who had lost her legs and now thrashed about because to lay still would mean defeat and to no longer be a hopper. If she did hear my laughter she never led on. Like a proud queen she kept her gaze and chin in arching suspense while her whole being crashed and rose with heaps of energetic splendor. As time wore on her breathing became labored. She stopped. Turning around she stared directly into my direction. With a flutter of quick movements she strode over to my hiding place. I tried to run but was caught from behind with a hard blow from her heel.

The guard rails shoot up towards the heavens and the fortress is founded from the inside. Draw the lines between freedom and suffocation. There was a time when the feelings of independence and life fired through the veins like a shot of dilaudid. Ohhhhh, that wave, that rush! Both the freedom and the drug invigorate yet I would choose the natural high simply because of the opportunities that lie within it.

When Adrian was a boy the lights flickered like fireflies in a glass jar. Clarity was not found when looking from the outside in. The jar's labels had faded and its round edges were scuffed from years of use. A soft haze hovered like a cloud marring its transparency.

Stepped off the path and green leaves were found sprinkled along trampled footprints. Dancing Bears and fire sticks that blinded the eyes were no longer amusing. Onto something rich. Richer. Or poorer. Left to worry about payments that were taken care of by another. No longer able to stand on ones own 2 feet. Difficult to grasp. It grasps around the throat and strangles until the gurgling noises of stressed air pulse out through the nostrils and lips. The rosy ones that spoke of sweet times that were now distant yet not so far removed as attempts were made to make to a return. Spring in fall conjures up feelings of being out of step with the life cycle yet it is better than feeling like winter in fall or winter in summer for that matter. Matters most when one is no longer able to differentiate one season from the next and they all melt into a conglomeration of days that never end, just slipping into a purplish black then awaken as orange heats up the morning sky. But on the way towards the clearing clenched teeth are beginning to loosen and speaking becomes tempered and easy.

It was great to see her. She kindled the breath of fire. The hot sticky kind that some sight as repulsive and to others it is simply life giving. She was always a giver. Sometimes the gifts I got were not well received. With the passing of time comes understanding, with the absence of heated emotion and unusual scary feelings come the clearing. And it is clear. So damn clear that one could shed a tear on it. But I wont. Not that I'm above it but rather that the time for that has gone. Ain't nothing like that freedom though. Ain't nothing like it. Ha, ha. It makes me smile just thinking about her. With her thumb out, looking so old yet so fine at the same time. She was so strong that I was afraid to approach her. But she was magnetic. Drew you in like a black hole swallowing you whole and leaving no trace of what or who you were. Behind. Is where I may always be because she follows no one. But I can't tag along. I got mine to live yet if our paths cross again I'll take the time, this time, to listen and that will make all the difference. Sweet flower of youth. Wilted petals will never look so good.

Nicolai struggled with a torn piece of paper. He dangled it from his fingers and watched as it slowly soared towards the sky with the assistance of the wind, then suddnely flop to the earth. Many stones, cobbles, and streets had passed under his feet. And in those walks and in so few years plenty of images and dreams had been collected. Like pennies in the piggy account they gathered on top of each other, pushing at its edges until they gushed forth. These thoughts evoked a sadness in him seeped from his heart. But he could not help but indulge in them. Melanchonly though they were these memories were a lifeforce all in there own. They kept him dreaming. Bitter. Bitter but sweet.

Inch by inch was gained. Hardened by trial, disciplined by necessity it was a struggle for Oliver to gain momentum. But so it is for most. Nothing really separated him from ordinary people anyway. Except for his Mohawk which stood more than three feet tall and was used for defensive measures when entering strange and foreign areas. Why was he defensive? Well that would take a long time to explain so I'll skip ahead and just say blame it on the childhood beatings. They work wonders on the emotional stability and outlook of a young one.
Stripped bare and lying stark in front of the revealer is healing and trying. Scary to go there. Yet that is how the onion gets peeled. If there was an easier way everyone would be doing it and the psychiatric community would be out of work.
Go dance beneath the moon beam. As it strikes your chest, full powered and illuminating, feel it penetrate through the sternum and strengthen the cells.

Sputtering in a car

She sat in the seat. Looking directly out of her window she made out figures that walked along the pavement. She imagined that they were gliding. It was better that way. Things were better that way. Grander, larger than life. For life could be boring and she had to do something. Something to make it more exciting. Because the world that she sat in was boring. Stimulation laid dead and so spontaneous acts of madness were needed to sustain a pulse. Her belly rose, shoving forward her lavender blouse , skidding along the steering wheel. Sighing she turned the key and her engine slowly rattled back to a roar.

Paint drops drip along the wall leaving yellow streaks of flowing gold. Follow through to the other side and he's found Happy. Without drugs. Narcotic free and he can still laugh. Knowing better he swallows them down wanting to chase down his last meal. There never was elegance. It evaporated if there ever was some.

March on and stay disciplined. These are the things I tell myself. I'm tired. Still stubborn. This presents roadblocks for the clearing. Staying present. I isolate every moment and realize that each is a brick, a tiny one, yet still a significant one which is laying the foundation for the construction and eventual completion of a magnificent temple. One that was given by God but left to erode.

In between the yellow chairs that were sprawled out awkwardly on the kitchen linoleum was our friend Peter. He had been lying upon the floor for some time now. Waiting. Listlessly. Patiently. However, anxious moments seized him with sudden spasms of excitement. With fondness he rewound his thoughts to yesteryear's when rising from his bed was not an accomplishment and cooking was fun to do and not a means of survival. Armed with spatula and mixing bowl he was known to create the finest baked goods to be consumed. Favorites like Peter's Pumpkin Patches, large orange cookies with scenes of hooting owls and clambering zombies delicately placed upon their centers, propelled him to the epicenter of the culinary world. But he fell lame with indifference after a tragic love affair with a temptress and lovely eccentric named Janice. Janice, lovely Janice. Yes she was a firecracker. And it was not just her orange mane, that fireball of a dome God gave her for a head that was unique about her. Janice's most endearing quality was her soft kindness which seeped into Peter Pan's childlike heart and left him defenseless. What could one do with a woman who never argued yet simply resigned herself to smiles and large caresses of ones forearms with her giant hands. Nothing. That's what. Crawl up into the fetal position and hope for the best. But Janice was a delicate being who never intended on harming a soul yet she could not stay still. Her love affair with two lane highways was destroying Peter's tolerance and on Halloween he dumped Janice in one of the shadiest Carrow's in East Los Angeles. Peter continued his reasoning for ending the relationship as Janice began sobbing uncontrollably through small bites of her pancakes. He eventually had to stop due to her choking because she refused to quit eating, thinking it was wise to do something, anything to keep from running away. So she kept chewing, staring solidly at her diminishing 10:43 pm breakfast. Since Peter was poor at planning and preemptive striking, forgetting how uncomfortable a quite ride alone together would be and that he should have brought her roller skates for her to glide home on, the now deceased couple drove along in painful silence. Eventually the strain became too much for Janice as she leaped out of the car at a rolling stop. Upon stumbling to the ground Janice was struck by a bicyclist riding a heavy Schwinn, the Panzer Tank of the cycle world. Janice's leg was broken in three places as the rider B-lined towards her while she lay sprawled out on the pavement. This experience was heavy enough to separate Peter from Janice and visits to her hospital room were unwelcome. Soon Peter found himself alone, growing fat by eating large quantities of cookie dough and skittles.

i want to go back. so i will. i slip on a tiny leaf of memory which hovers in my mind. for as long as i want. or until another one gently slides into the other, passing it onto the bank where recollections gather dust, exageration and increased charm.

Thoughts on 3:10 to Yuma

I saw 3:10 to Yuma last night. I liked it. Russel Crowe, as outlaw/robber Ben Wade,put on a solid performance full of contagious charm and ruthless guile and Christian Bale, as Civil War amputee/ rancher Dan Evans, did an excellent job of portraying a man who was with struggle, both physically and emotionally. 3:10 to Yuma, which was filmed in New Mexico, is unlike some recent Civil War era films like Cold Mountain or Open Range in that there is not a lot of emphasis placed on the cinematography. However, the stark and rugged landscape lends itself quite nicely to the bleakness and desperation which lies within both leading men. While Wade is under capture throughout most of the movie and facing an immediate visit to Yuma prison Dan Evans struggles with a different kind of impending imprisonment: poverty. With the possible loss of his ranch looming over him Evans forces himself to be part of a posse of men who are to escort Wade to a train which will lead him to Yuma. Between the time of their initial visit and their interesting departure Evans and Wade form a connection that is not just based on doing what is deemed 'right' but being able to recognize it. Unlike his gang, there is a part of Wade which is very human, very aware of other men's struggles and pain and while he is consistently violent, it is this dichotomy of behavior which seems to capture the audiences attention and interest.

Choices. They are excreted through an endless vice named oppurtunity. Jake found sadness in the memory of lost encounters with women. The 45 year old Spanish woman working at the insurance agency past closing waltzed her way into his conscious smoothly asking
'Senor wold cha want some cafe.'
Coffe burned his throat but he didnt want to refuse anything from her.

Continued from Auguest 2 2007

With a sounding thud Igor jumped from his chair. He strode to the door expecting a UPS package of Pound Puppies or a life size canvas Skeletor. Instead Igor gazed down at a rosy cheeked dwarf. Dressed in his usual garb of flashy crimson, this tiny little man reminded Igor of a sparkling ruby or a humongous cherry Jolly Rancher. It was a close tie. As Igor stood dumbfounded with the cool breeze slapping him across the face Frank decided to take charge as he walked right into the house. Without skipping a beat he sat down at the kitchen table and began to explain the situation at hand.

-Gentle Sir, my name is Frank Le Carib otherwise known as Frank the Ferocious. Lovers of mine scream Francis. Tell your friends. You may wonder why I am here sitting before you, SO wonderfully dressed I may add! "

While Frank continued to ramble, fluttering his hands around like a flamboyant dictator, Igor scrambled for his thoughts. Franks bright dress was still stinging his eyes causing him to lose concentration and constantly blink. Quite aware of Igor's bewilderment but not exactly caring too much Frank decided to ditch the monologue after a few more verses.

-It has come to my knowledge, through the pipeline, that you need to rejoin the living. Eagerly waiting around for Pound Puppies to arrive is a silly, sad way to peddle through life. Your a grown man for goodness sakes! You should be out dancing at balls, wearing masks and drinking spritzes!"

Instantly a vision of Igor gleefully rolling around on his carpet with stuffed animals flashed into Frank's mind. Disgusted by the thought, especially since it may have been true, Igor violently removed his gloves. In a split second he was lashing out at Igor with quick snaps, the black leather stinging Igor's cheeks and left eye socket. Due to Frank's limp wrists the blows only evoked howls of laughter upon his victim yet the assault was enough to get Igor's attention. Lightly pushing Frank back into his chair Igor took a seat next to him. The leprechaun began to slow his breathing. A small smile emerged from his Joker like face. He was pleased to see Igor patiently waiting to hear more, like a preschooler pausing for refills on animal crackers.

-For my assault I apologize. It is just very vexing for me to find a man of your ability wasting time on such folly.

Deciding that he must explain Igor squeaked out,

-Those toys were to be gifts for my grandchildren. I ordered them three weeks ago for my youngest ones birthday but someone stole it.

This was not Franks first call on Igor, but it was the only one Igor knew about it. The dwarfs prior indignation partially stemmed from a visit he had made two weeks earlier. Although Frank was an official LIFE GUIDE he still had his vices, such as stealing and pain pills. And on a moon lit evening two weeks prior he stole off with those packages, Skeletor barely tied down to his Vespa. . Disappointed with himself he tried to shrug off his shame. And he did. Frank didn't cling tight to situations of that nature. Forgiveness was bestowed upon himself as easily as others. It was in his job description.

-Well, Igor that makes more sense yet those gifts will arrive whether you wait for them or not. In the meantime you must rise, shave, shower, clean your balls and get ready for an evening of fantasy and fun.

Caught off guard a little at the testicle comment, Igor was a bit excited at the prospect of venturing out. Now it wasn't fishing but it was better than Hungry Man's and drooling over Vanna White as she chases down a vowel. Anyways, Frank had his mind on a different kind of catch and it wasn't from the lake.

Comanches strike from the outside. Inevitable decimation lies at ahead yet you stand in presence. To focus on the future would be ridiculous but to deny it would be preposterous. So go ahead and be valiant for the day will come when you will face the natives and you may shit your pants. Or perhaps you won't. Maybe you will stand there with eyes vacant of expectation, collectively letting your fear flow right out through you.

Thank you all for the comments. I enjoy reading them. I also would appreciate any construtive criticism if anyone feels like giving it.

There was always enough time in a day for Igor to go fishing. After he had hauled out his skiff and attached it to his trucks trailer, he began the 45 minute journey to Emerson Lake. Fall fishing was his favorite time to be out on the water. There was that familiar crispness that awoke a calm yet uplifting spirit in him. With it's frosty breeze whipping across his face Emerson Lake was able to instill all the feelings of vivacity that Igor had thought were gone. Despite the loss of his longtime fishing buddy, Georgios, Igor had worked up the strength to continue on since his friends death seven years earlier. After Giorgios' passing a season of apathy descended upon his interests. Fishing had become synonymous with his friend and the very thought of pulling his skiff out from the side of his house never entered his mind. That was until he met Frederick the French Leprechaun. Frederick was not a real leprechaun. He would have to be Irish to be one yet he was tiny. Very tiny. At 4'6 and with a beret of soft orange this Frenchman was kind and sweeter to his fellow man than a chocolate eclair. Famous for his suits of shocking red and purple Frederick instantly became a hit in the quiet town of Postus. But Frederick did not suddenly appear in this quiet section of Ohio for social reasons. Through miniature radar he had learned of Igor's absence from Emerson Lake. In order to understand the emergence of Frederick you have to believe that in life there is order. Even chaos has its own chaotic order which rides itself out in waves of destruction until a gentle tide sways back in to restore flow. Frederick was one of those special people who restored balance to the lives of those who thought they lost their way. With a cross town ride on his scooter the Frenchman was knocking ferociously upon Igor's door on a cold morning in early October.

It was hard to feel sorry for Roman. Maybe it was hard to feel sorry for him once you got to know him. Looking at the young tike one got the impression that bad luck found his mother and lay in her womb for nine months. At the age of fifteen Roman's body resembled that of a small child rather than an adolescent. Yet despite having gangly legs, a concaved chest and pencil sized arms the boy drove forward in life with an inner fire that was matched by few. As an infant and baby his mother had held him every night soothing him to sleep with words of encourgemant and love. Born premature his body was slow to develop and he had trouble walking up until the age of two. After Roman was born Pilar never shed tears for her son. She had come to realize that this was would only validify thoughts of him being unusual or different, beliefs that would hinder her child in life. Instead she constantly bore into his conscious the ideology that man is what he thinks. These words always made Roman feel strong as he would gaze into his mothers eyes all the while thinking of himself as a man. And although he had a woman to inspire him it was a man who brought out Roman's sensitivity. Frank Iglesia would watch his neighbor struggle to stand up to ride his tricycle as a young boy. By placing his hands onto the ground Roman would push himself up then stutter step for balance before feeling comfortable enough to place himself on his steel chariot. From a distance Frank would look on with anger and wonder at this boy who kept moving. At times Mr. Iglesia would play catch with Roman using nerf balls soft and big enough for him to grab. As he encouraged Roman with every activity they shared Frank would feel a burning in his throat and at times he would walk away from because he was afraid to cry in front of him. Nancy would watch as Roman placed himself onto the grass and wait patiently for her husband to return moments later invigorated with a forced spirit. Roman always waited for Frank. No matter how long the middle aged man would cry in the bathroom, little Roman would watch his surroundings knowing that Frank would come out to play again. He never asked why Frank left so sporadically. Roman never felt the need to. He was quite aware of the different feelings he evoked in others and they were so varied that he had long ago given up trying to understand. Roman never minded the wait or the red eyes that greeted him with love and admiration.

If he set himself against all odds then there were no surprises to be had. With the fleeting of memories and the bombardment of panicked thoughts there was nowhere left to go. Stuck in the sludge. But there are those who use their cannons differently. They aim them towards walls of apathy and indifference. Blasting through this mortar of lifelessness is a giant step in the process of revitalization. I will move, I will move, I will move.

It was difficult for Count Bernard Von Straussberg to get dates with women. For starters he lived in a tremendously large castle on top of a remote mountain. Inviting strangers usually meant a mandatory sleepover and this only went over well with occasional strippers and night walkers. So, the Count's dependable driver Theodore had to drive his boss into town all the while careening around sharp turns and avoiding going over cliffs every time Bernard got an itch in his pants. And this was often. With slick black hair, a lean frame and grey eyes the Count was dashing. He seemed to hover above the ground when he walked. With this kind of aura how could one not have a large libido? Once in town the Count was left alone to walk the streets until he found someone who caught his eye. Draped in his favorite cape of black satin, he strode amongst the crowds occasionally rubbing himself against some defenseless woman's thigh or back. The victims usually never knew it was the Count but occasionally he was caught. With an innocent smile and an admittance of guilt he was constantly pardoned. Bernard always attributed it to his charm but mostly it was because no one wanted to talk to a grown man wearing a cape. However, all of this changed on a chilly night in early winter.

With the a grey mist descending upon the town of Allas, a speckling white Rolls Royce strode up to a pink building covered in fluorescent lights. As was customary fashion Theodore dropped the Count off at "Patricia's Pantyhose" on Saturday night near midnight. A rotund doorman acknowledged the count and he floated in. His lifetime membership afforded him this comp along with free sodas and juice. Tomato juice with mint leaves had Bernard coming back for more. Yet Bernard's real interest was in Tamara. Like a match lit in the night she burned the brightest in the houses of ill repute. The Count could depend on her for comfort when his cereal brand wasn't performing well or when he just felt lonely. It was her job to please her customers in any way she could but she took a special interest in Bernard. He was sensitive to her own worries and fears. She knew that he had become attached which was problematic yet what could she do? The money was good and he was kind to her. As Tamara looked up from her purple chair of velvet she could not help but become excited at the Count's entrance. With due formality she gently placed her arm around his and they began to walk as a couple to her room. Suddenly an explosive bang rang out through the hall. As they turned toward the noise the Count could make out three figures in white scurrying through the rooms. In the distance the doorman could be seen drooping over with a dark hole burrowed into his eye socket. With speed unknown to man Bernard pushed Tamara into her room.
"Lock the door. Open it for no one my Love!" he whispered strongly in her ear.
Before Tamara could protest the door had been closed and she heard what sounded like a gush of wind flow through the hallway.
After closing the door the Count encircled himself in his cape. With a plum of smoke and a thrashing from the wind spirit Bernard transformed himself into a three foot winged bat. With a flap of his wings he stole off towards the closest room where he heard screams. A gunshot rang out just as he entered and he could see one of the white robbed attackers standing over a slightly obese working girl named Sara. Her red hair was bathed in blood and and it flowed onto her now soiled dress. Swooping down on the man the Count tore off his head in one bite and as the body fell a necklace with a crucifix taped to it caught his attention. Bernard understood that it was another attack by a mad militant Christian group . They advocated an abolition of cat houses through force. As he dropped the mans head to the floor Bernard was saddened by the useless violence. He didn't want to kill yet it was the only way to protect others and sustain his perversions. In a matter of moments the other attackers were finished off. Disobeying the Counts orders Tamara slowly opened her door. As she peeped her head out she could make out a bat flying around the halls chandelier. As it descended to the ground the room went suddenly dark. Fear seized Tamara's heart and she felt a chill run along her panties. A soft hand touched upon her breast and she began to recognize its gentle massage. With a flicker from the chandelier the whole room was bathed in the brightest of light. The bat was nowhere to be seen. Tamara looked at Bernard with a look of bewilderment as a drop of blood hung from his chin. With her kerchief she wiped it away.
"What has happened Bernard" she asked.
"Mislead souls have attacked your bordello dearie. Are you okay?"
Tamara nodded and watched as the other women began to gather. She felt scared and as that feeling seeped into her Bernard spoke.
"Come to my castle tonight Tamara. Please"
That night was to be one of the happiest for the both of them as they swayed to the wolves cry all night.

Due to constant backaches Michael decided that it was time to see a chiropractor. Forget this. Michael never sought medical help. He was superman. Superman. He was. He is. Dancing to tea cups scattered in the vegetable garden, that's where you could find our modern superman. Supertights and cape had been traded in for a tutu and a leotard. No he wasn't gay. It was just a crisis of identity. Many are not aware of it but sporting the big S can be taxing on the nerves. It's a weight my friend. Don't forget it. So when you see him slipping, let it go. Let it pass. We all recognize the soft grin and hard gaze which indicates that another episode of insanity is about to spew forth from superman as he prances to and fro like a dictator addressing an audience of three. I prefer that he is alive. He makes life worth living.

In a time when royalty was relegated to inbreds and derelicts one could find a different type of majesty in the ordinary bubbles of the world. Their grandeur was demonstrated through their observations and reflections, not caste. In the crowded streets of Punaz, Santiago could be found selling sweet churros to drunken rich kids and the occasional diabetic. Though he rarely hit the sauce he carried himself with a bit of an inebriated sway that accidentally brought him bumping into others. These slight conflicts were easily defused by his continual waving of hands and a quick memorized ballad which he would sing and dance to with his cart. He glided along the streets like a pacifistic vampire, hovering above the party goers observing them with indifference. Throughout his twenty-nine years he had watched the plaza change but then again it never did. Although faces were different and styles came and went eventually Santiago found himself blending everyone together. They all seemed to coagulate into one being and it was on rare occasions that he found an individual in that sea of continual movement and hysteria.With the black sky empty of clouds a crispness began to descend upon the cobblestone streets. Santiago's bright pink cart decorated with prancing stallions and flower laden ladies squeaked as he slowly dragged it over potholes laid to waste. Up ahead he could see the beginning of the party train, long snake like lines of people spilling over each other while trying to squeeze into the next cantina. Drawing in his breath Santiago ventured into the plaza avoiding the calls for his fried treats. He had decided that this would be the last night of his churro career. With a spin of his cart and a quick tap of the heel he made his way toward his competitor 'Raunchy Ralph's'. The greenish building contained the largest desert shop in the city. It was full of heart stopping delicacies that Santiago no longer wanted a part of. With a flick of a churro that rested in his hand Santiago began his assault. No one really knew what spurned this upheaval of spirit but what was evident was this churro man was snapping. Grinding his teeth and blasting out his favorite ballad 'La Senorita Nervosa', he continued to let the churros fly. No one was safe as Santiago pegged employees and customers alike, leaving no one safe. He ducked behind his cart as a screaming mother began to throw 'Raunchy Ralph's' infamous eclairs at Santiago after her toddler received a stinging churro to the forehead. In the ensuing madness Santiago began to slowly advance towards the kitchen using his cart as both a battering ram and shield. The employees were putting up a valiant effort but eventually Consuelo, 'Raunchy Ralph's' perverted manager who was rumored to wear panties decorated with tarts and cookies, called for a retreat through the back door. All the customers had now fled including the indignant mother. While sitting on a counter top, chomping down on a melted popsicle Santiago surveyed the scene. He flung his legs back and forth like a child on a swing and grinned with pride. In a matter of moments he had decimated his rivals clientele and brought 'Raunchy Ralph's' to it's knees. As the police swiftly swam through the door Santiago could be seen tap dancing to an inaudible rhythm. He continued to step as he was hauled away chanting his favorite balled 'El Inferno Interno'.

In a time when royalty was relegated to inbreds and derelicts one could find a different type of majesty in the ordinary bubbles of the world. Their grandeur was demonstrated through their observations and reflections, not caste. In the crowded streets of Punaz, Santiago could be found selling sweet churros to drunken rich kids and the occasional diabetic. Though he rarely hit the sauce he carried himself with a bit of an inebriated sway that accidentally brought him bumping into others. These slight conflicts were easily defused by his continual waving of hands and a quick memorized ballad which he would sing and dance to with his cart. He glided along the streets like a pacifistic vampire, hovering above the party goers observing them with indifference. Throughout his twenty-nine years he had watched the plaza change but then again it never did. Although faces were different and styles came and went eventually Santiago found himself blending everyone together. They all seemed to coagulate into one being and it was on rare occasions that he found an individual in that sea of continual movement and hysteria.With the black sky empty of clouds a crispness began to descend upon the cobblestone streets. Santiago's bright pink cart decorated with prancing stallions and flower laden ladies squeaked as he slowly dragged it over potholes laid to waste. Up ahead he could see the beginning of the party train, long snake like lines of people spilling over each other while trying to squeeze into the next cantina. Drawing in his breath Santiago ventured into the plaza avoiding the calls for his fried treats. He had decided that this would be the last night of his churro career. With a spin of his cart and a quick tap of the heel he made his way toward his competitor 'Raunchy Ralph's'. The greenish building contained the largest desert shop in the city. It was full of heart stopping delicacies that Santiago no longer wanted a part of. With a flick of a churro that rested in his hand Santiago began his assault. No one really knew what spurned this upheaval of spirit but what was evident was this churro man was snapping. Grinding his teeth and blasting out his favorite ballad 'La Senorita Nervosa', he continued to let the churros fly. No one was safe as Santiago pegged employees and customers alike, leaving no one safe. He ducked behind his cart as a screaming mother began to throw 'Raunchy Ralph's' infamous eclairs at Santiago after her toddler received a stinging churro to the forehead. In the ensuing madness Santiago began to slowly advance towards the kitchen using his cart as both a battering ram and shield. The employees were putting up a valiant effort but eventually Consuelo, 'Raunchy Ralph's' perverted manager who was rumored to wear panties decorated with tarts and cookies, called for a retreat through the back door. All the customers had now fled including the indignant mother. While sitting on a counter top, chomping down on a melted popsicle Santiago surveyed the scene. He flung his legs back and forth like a child on a swing and grinned with pride. In a matter of moments he had decimated his rivals clientele and brought 'Raunchy Ralph's' to it's knees. As the police swiftly swam through the door Santiago could be seen tap dancing to an inaudible rhythm. He continued to step as he was hauled away chanting his favorite balled 'El Inferno Interno'.

In a time when royalty was relegated to inbreds and derelicts one could find a different type of majesty in the ordinary bubbles of the world. Their grandeur was demonstrated through their observations and reflections, not caste. In the crowded streets of Punaz, Santiago could be found selling sweet churros to drunken rich kids and the occasional diabetic. Though he rarely hit the sauce he carried himself with a bit of an inebriated sway that accidentally brought him bumping into others. These slight conflicts were easily defused by his continual waving of hands and a quick memorized ballad which he would sing and dance to with his cart. He glided along the streets like a pacifistic vampire, hovering above the party goers observing them with indifference. Throughout his twenty-nine years he had watched the plaza change but then again it never did. Although faces were different and styles came and went eventually Santiago found himself blending everyone together. They all seemed to coagulate into one being and it was on rare occasions that he found an individual in that sea of continual movement and hysteria.

With the black sky empty of clouds a crispness began to descend upon the cobblestone streets. Santiago's bright pink cart decorated with prancing stallions and flower laden ladies squeaked as he slowly dragged it over potholes laid to waste. Up ahead he could see the beginning of the party train, long snake like lines of people spilling over each other while trying to squeeze into the next cantina. Drawing in his breath Santiago ventured into the plaza avoiding the calls for his fried treats. He had decided that this would be the last night of his churro career. With a spin of his cart and a quick tap of the heel he made his way toward his competitor 'Raunchy Ralph's'. The greenish building contained the largest desert shop in the city. It was full of heart stopping delicacies that Santiago no longer wanted a part of. With a flick of a churro that rested in his hand Santiago began his assault. No one really knew what spurned this upheaval of spirit but what was evident was this churro man was snapping. Grinding his teeth and blasting out his favorite ballad 'La Senorita Nervosa', he continued to let the churros fly. No one was safe as Santiago pegged employees and customers alike. He ducked behind his cart as a screaming mother began to throw 'Raunchy Ralph's' infamous eclairs at Santiago after her toddler received a stinging churro to the forehead. In the ensuing madness Santiago began to slowly advance towards the kitchen using his cart as both a battering ram and shield. The employees were putting up a valiant effort but eventually Consuelo, 'Raunchy Ralph's' perverted manager who was rumored to wear panties decorated with tarts and cookies, called for a retreat through the back door. All the customers had now fled including the indignant mother. While sitting on a counter top, chomping down on a melted popsicle Santiago surveyed the scene. He flung his legs back and forth like a child on a swing and grinned with pride. In a matter of moments he had decimated his rivals clientele and brought 'Raunchy Ralph's' to it's knees. As the police swiftly swam through the door Santiago could be seen tap dancing to an inaudible rhythm. He continued to step as he was hauled away chanting his second favorite balled 'El Inferno Interno'.

In the depth of winter life laid low. The morning sun rose late and the nights sky descended too soon. With darkness nothing could grow. It was hard for the light of day to create anything before Moon would sweep down along the plains and forests choking out anything that tried to exist. But there were those few men who lived inside with these conditions. Rather than fight them they they used the elements of darkness to thrive. It was by night that the hunting took place. Whether it was deer, rabbit or the occasional mammoth food would be sought after and found. Through these arduous times many children were raised. Being that they had no outside wordly influences they were raised to believe that this was all that existed. With the white coat of winter upon them they created new ways to thrive. It was during the toughest months that Alek decide to head out and seek his fortune in silk trading. Dressed in his robes of yellow and white he struck out for the peaks of ice he had not crossed before. Out past that land must be another he thought.

And so it begins. With a slow and excited stumble a new step is taken.