On the list of conversations I intended to have today...this one was not on it.
I was at a Bucky's gas station. Because, of course, this conversation could only take place under the halogen flicker of dying light, upon wilted linoleum floors, whilst breathing in the stale farts of strangers. I shit you not, to my left there was, what could only be described as, Arnold Schwarzenegger if his mom had abandoned him at Hot Topic circa 2005. Anyway, this terror of a man, had a tear drop tattoo under his left eye and a condom tattoo on his neck. Because, of course, he did. He was, quite evidently, not the poster child for quality decision making. If you need more proof to that fact, beside the tear drop tattoo, ever-so-delicately transcribed, was the word "bitch". I don't know about you, but a story, not dissimilar to the O.J. one, began to formulate in my mind. Now, I'm not great at being incognito about my eyes wandering. So, he noticed. Which, normally, wouldn't fuck me to this degree, but fucked I was. So, here is the conversation that ensued:
"You got a problem?"
"Me? No. No sir-ee."
"Why are you staring at me?"
"Was I?"
"Yeah."
"Sorry, about that."
"It's the tattoos."
"Noooo..."
"I killed someone."
*We must now pause, to answer your questions. First, yes, he just came right out and said it in the middle of a Bucky's in broad daylight. No, he did not express emotion, good or bad, about the statement. And, yes, my sphincter sealed itself off when he said it. Let's continue. *
"It was a long time ago," he began. "I'm a different man now, but I'd do it again. She was a bitch, and she deserved the axe."
*Quick interlude: How does one respond to this? Like, is there a handbook, a how-to guide, a talking to murderers for dummies volume one? Anyway, we'll carry on. *
I began my response with an audible gulp. "Axe?"
"I took no joy in it, but it had to be done."
*This is about when an involuntary high-pitched squeal of disagreement was uttered from my dumb mouth, accompanied by a squint, and a doggish head tilt. *
"She was a good girl, until she wasn't."
*I'm sorry...a what now?*
"Raised her from a pup. It's my fault. Should've paid more attention. Gotten her vaccinated. I did what I had to do."
*Now, I'm not John Wick by any means, but is this fucker telling me he axed a dog? Because I might need to get his tattoo artist's info in a second. *
"All is fair in love and war," he said as he grabbed a Snickers, paid, and left. And that was it. That was the discussion. On a Tuesday afternoon, in a Bucky's gas station, a grown-ass man decided to ruin my day by telling me that he took an axe to his puppy. Leaving me with nothing but the horrific realization that I, somehow, would have preferred if he had told me that he'd murdered a person. And now I just have this information. Forever.
Apache OpenOffice post - videlicet converting ascii format back to ODT.
I (Matthew Harris) scrolled thru a small number of threads applicable to issue iterated in Subject box, but yours truly (me - a spry boyish looking married sexagenarian - Doctor Demento humanitarian wannabe) does NOT consider himself technically savvy with computers (NOR anything electrical), hence a panic stricken state prevailed regarding .doc written and saved poetic material somehow getting converted into orthodox ASCII irretrievably lost. After doing a Google search I came (upon the midnight clear) witnessing your forum emblazoned across the sky. After reading similar laments courtesy countless unknown persons, who experienced a similar quandary (most posted some years ago) methought there must exist a verbal incantation that can be uttered to reverse the unwanted ask key transmutation nearly rendering hours of blood, sweat, and tears on a three dog night all for naught.
After familiarizing myself with creating a username and password at the following link (User community support forum for Apache OpenOffice, LibreOffice and all the OpenOffice.org derivatives), a hare brained idea awoke to communicate far and wide across the webbed wide world namely elaborating to elucidate (peppered with light humor), and enlighten anonymous browser (reader) aside from being gifted as a storied poet or poetess in particular or writer in general to help distressed dude, perhaps (ideally) courtesy a former damsel in distress.
If nothing else this beatle browed, doobie brother, foo fighting half noiser maker jumping jack flash blinding as a luminaire nonchalant poetaster reaches toward virtual wizardry gave thee dear reader a chuckle.
Please do NOT reply with message encrypted as text clipping with bangles, NOR goo goo dolls serving red hot chili peppers. A private joke only known to myself.
Noah’s Car Ferry
Anyone had a car problem recently? What was wrong? Maybe a dead battery? A bad transmission? Worn or flat tires?
Well, did you know that cars can get stomach aches? Me neither. But the other day my three-and-a-half year-old granddaughter Natalie came to our house and told me things about automobiles that I never dreamed were possible. And it's a good bet that these things were never anticipated by Benz, Ford, Chrysler, Tesla, whoever.
After her mother dropped her off, Natalie and I went downstairs to play with toy Matchbox cars. This is when she explained that a red race car had a "stomach ache." She named the patient "Lightning McQueen," because it resembled the cartoon star of "Cars," her favorite movie.
So Lightning McQueen was rushed to the doctor's office in the bowels of Noah's ark. This gets complicated. When we play at my house, Natalie insists on multi-tasking: getting out a wooden toy Noah's Ark in addition to the Matchbox cars.
Look, I WAS TRYING ... REALLY, I WAS ... trying to engross myself in child's play, but my mind was flooded with serious questions. And concerns. Did Lightning McQueen have health insurance? Or did he need flood insurance? And how did he get a stomach ache? Drinking diesel instead of regular unleaded? Twenty weight oil instead of 30 weight? And how do I explain all this to a three-year-old?
Or was Natalie creating a post-apocalyptic world in which automobiles replaced humans? Y'know, this might have movie potential. And you know Hollywood likes the Noah story. Like when Charlton Heston parted the Red Sea and ... no, no, wrong story... No, we should ask whether Natalie was going for the Russell Crowe version of Noah, or the Steve Carell version. But still... how would the cars get fuel if a Great Flood covered the Earth and all the gas pumps in Thunder Hollow? But I stifled all my questions, and just went along because my granddaughter was busy playing and she seemed contented. So who was I to rock the ark?
But back to the patient. While Lightning McQueen was being tended by another car (Doc Hudson was his name, according to Natalie) ... by the way, I'm going to assume that "Doc" was short for doctor. But was this ark doctor an M.D. or veterinarian? Or a garage mechanic? Somehow, other cars found out that Lightning McQueen had been taken ill, and they decided to visit! But how do I explain visiting hours?
And a lot of cars ... let's see, Natalie called them Cruz, Jackson Storm, Mater, Mister Scurley ... and a lot of other vehicles just rolled into the bottom hold of the ark. And, Natalie flew some cars in! But c'mon, cars flying? And landing on the ark? Which I felt was dangerous because Noah's Ark was not an aircraft carrier, and it had no helipad or runways. But I said nothing, because there was a bigger problem on board.
In minutes there were so many autos in the galley and top deck that Noah's ark could have been mistaken for the Ludington Car Ferry. It looked like it was getting ready to cross Lake Michigan to Manitowac, Wisconsin. Wasn't there a load limit on this thing? And you can't dodge this question: If God instructed Noah to allow only two of each animal species aboard, why were 20 or more cars parked on our ark? Or do the Ford Bronco, VW Beetle, Chevy Impala, and Dodge Ram count as species?
At least the wooden animals were not booted off the ark. They remained in the top level of the carved wooden vessel. But they were packed into a little enclosed space. One on top of the other. Probably breathing in exhaust fumes. Does PETA know about this? Or what if Sarah McLachlan found out? You know, she's the one who narrates those TV ads against cruelty to animals. I envision a closeup of these wooden animals while Sarah sings "In the Arms of An Angel" with phone number superimposed.
Oh, do you know who else was in the same cramped space with all the animals — a wooden Noah and his wife! By the way, the biblical account in Genesis does not give the name of Noah's wife, but Natalie assured me her name is "Ava." Must be so, because the three-year-old said it with such confidence. You know, I would find out later that Natalie has a preschool friend in her neighborhood named Noah. Who has a sister named Ava. What a coincidence!
We continued to play Matchbox cars/Noah's Ark until Natalie's mother came back. Mom called for Natalie, and the little girl reluctantly set down a car and headed for the stairs. And here I was, left to contend with Lightning McQueen's stomach ache and where he would go for post-Ark treatment.
I yelled "goodbye" to Natalie, and managed to spit out one question: "How did the cars fly?"
The little girl stopped on the steps, turned around, and lowered her eyebrows at me in disgust. And she said, "Grandpa, pretend."
Oh.
Shrooms
I saw the dresser move
It moved up and it moved down
I though it started to talk
I saw movement
I heard things
There was light and there was sound
I saw everything move with a cackeling voice
That came from the great beyond
The only question that came to my mind?
Was it haunted? Or was I wrong?
I saw my plate of mushrooms
It was then I knew
That the dresser was not haunted
Just my thoughts from mourning you
The Pencil
“Hey, can I borrow a pencil?”
I’m sitting in my 10th-grade Chemistry class when I speak those fated words. We’re about to take a test, one of those scantron things that have to be filled out in No. 2 pencil only, and I can’t find my pencil anywhere. I lean over to the kid sitting next to me. Tom Peli-something. He’s a bit weird, and I’ve never really spoken to him much before, but I’m desperate, and this kid’s always prepared.
“Sure.” Tom pulls another pencil out of his backpack. Before he hands it to me, he holds it up between us. “Just so you know, it’s haunted.”
“What?” Did I just hear what I think I heard? I knew the kid was weird, but what the hell?
Mrs. Conway’s sharp voice pulls me out of my thoughts. “Put everything away except for your pencils and erasers. I will not pass out the test until everything is away and the room is quiet. And you will need the entire class period for this test.”
After a few more whispers and shuffles of books and other materials, the class grows quiet. Tom is still holding the pencil between us.
“Whatever, I’ll take it,” I say, grabbing the pencil out of his hand.
Tom just shrugs. “Okay. I warned you.”
Mrs. Conway hands out the test, and I get to work filling in the little bubbles for what I hope are the right answers.
C. Hydrochloric Acid
A. Carbon Dioxide
B. 18 Electrons
C. Hydro—
“Of all the things you could do with a pencil, and you’re just filling in those little bubbles?”
I look up at the sound of the small voice. It sounds like the speaker is right in front of me, but there’s no one there. I look around, but no one else seems to have heard the voice. Confused, I return to reading the next question.
If a sample of matter is uniform throughout and cannot be separated into other substances by physical means—
“I’m not complaining, really. It’s just that there are so many other things you could use me for.”
Again, I look up, but there’s no one there. I glance over at Tom, but he is focusing on his test. I scan the room, looking for any sign that someone else heard the voice, but all of my classmates have their eyes on their test.
“Do you need something, Mr. Speero?” Mrs. Conway is at her desk, glaring a warning at me over her glasses.
“No, Mrs. Conway,” I answer quickly and try to get back to my test.
But when I pick up my pencil to fill in the next bubble, I notice something on the eraser. Something sitting on the eraser.
“I mean, you could doodle, or even sketch a masterpiece!” the thing says. “You could write a story or a letter. Even an essay would be better than this!”
I gasp and drop the pencil on my desk, drawing the attention of several of my classmates and my teacher.
“Mr. Speero! Is there a problem?”
“Um, can I go to the bathroom?”
Mrs. Conway looks at me sternly and then rolls her eyes. “Fine. But don’t dawdle, or I might suspect you are up to something.”
I just nod at her, stealthily grab the pencil, stuff it in my pocket, and walk out of the room. Out of the corner of my eye, I think I see Tom smirking at me as I leave.
When I make it to the bathroom, I pull the pencil out of my pocket and stare at it. It looks like an ordinary pencil – yellow except for the black lettering spelling out the brand name and a number 2, with a dull, lead point on one end and a pink eraser held in place by its metal holder.
Suddenly, the eraser begins to morph. Two little arms stick out and grab the edge of the eraser, and soon a head appears. The little thing pulls itself all the way out as if he were pulling himself out of a hole. When his entire body emerges, he sits down on the edge of the eraser and looks at me thoughtfully.
I stare back at him in fascination. He looks like a fully grown man, but he can’t be more than half an inch tall, and he’s entirely white, though slightly transparent. He’s wearing an equally white, equally transparent outfit consisting of khakis, a collared shirt, and a sweater vest, and on his nose sits a pair of wire-framed glasses.
“What are you?”
The little man shrugged. “Ghost, ghoul, poltergeist. Call me whatever you like; I’m not picky.”
“Tom was telling the truth?”
“He usually does. One of the reasons most people think he’s kind of weird.”
“So, do you, like, belong to him?”
The ghost looks indignant. “I don’t belong to anyone! Tom just happens to be the current keeper of the pencil that I haunt. Or, at least he was. Now, that honor has been passed to you!”
“What? Because I borrowed the pencil?”
“Yes!” the little ghost says excitedly. “And now you get the benefit of my great wisdom!”
“Look, I just needed a pencil to take this stupid Chem test.” Then an idea hit me. “Wait, the benefit of your wisdom? Does that mean you can help me on my test?”
He sighs. “I suppose I can. But I wouldn’t be much help. The sciences are all well and good, but they don’t hold the pure passion and depth of literature or art. If you really want to put me to work, set me loose on an analysis of Shakespeare or a short story about the futile pursuit of love. I was a writer, painter, and professor of art and literature in a past life, you see.”
“Of course you were,” I mutter. “Look, I gotta get back to finish the test or Mrs. Conway will fail me for suspected cheating. Sorry, but I don’t have any use for a haunted pencil. Tom can have you back.”
“Wait!” the little man shouts at me as I exit the bathroom. “I can make myself useful! I can! I’m intelligent and ambitious. Together, we can really go places!”
“Not interested.”
“Please, don’t give me back to that idiotic boy!” the ghost begs. “I cannot stand that imbecile!”
Getting tired of the little ghost’s whining, I shove the pencil into the pocket of my jeans, but that doesn’t shut him up. His muffled voice stays with me all the way down the hall from the bathroom to my chemistry class.
“You don’t know what it’s like! He’s had my pencil for four years, and I don’t think I can take it a day longer. Please! Don’t give it back to him!”
His pleas are starting to wear on me, and I consider giving in and just keeping the pencil for the sake of the little whiny ghost professor, but when I enter my classroom, I come face to face with Mrs. Conway.
“Are you ready to take your test now, Mr. Speero?”
“Um, actually, I need a pencil.” Her raised eyebrow tells me that she doesn’t quite believe me, but she still leads me to her desk, pulls a sharpened pencil from her drawer, and hands it to me.
“Anything else?”
“No, Mrs. Conway. Thank you.”
I walk silently to my desk as Mrs. Conway sits down at hers. The little professor is still yammering away in my pocket, making my next decision easier. I pull the haunted pencil from my pocket and hold it out to Tom.
“Thanks, but no thanks,” I whisper.
Tom looks up from his desk and glances at me and then the pencil. The little professor is now on his knees on top of the eraser, his hands clasped as he pleads with me. “Don’t do it! I’m begging you! I’ll do anything! I’ll—”
Tom shrugs and reaches for the pencil. The instant Tom takes the pencil from my hand, the ghost disappears, and I can no longer hear him.
Tom smiles down at the pencil. “Hello again,” he whispers to it before sliding it back into his backpack. Then, he goes back to his test without another word.
Trying to shake the memory of the tiny ghost from my mind, I do the same.
Which element below has the highest electronegativity?
The Hand of Jealousy
She had received a call from her younger brother.
And on Fashion Week.
An-- interesting call. With a great commotion in his "sanctum," where he made all his babies flourish and fly off the mannequins' hard, lifeless bodies.
He must be dying, she decided. Odd that she'd be her first call. Had it been their Mother-- well that old bag wouldn't have told her. And Dad probably knew, being dead and all. Or a dandelion by now. He'd liked all that Buddhist stuff.
She didn't use the bell. Deciding to surprise him of the wine cradled in her arm. If he really was going then he deserved a treat. Just this once.
She'd even cry a little with him.
Having stolen his spare key a long time ago she let herself in.
To where she heard a moan and then a crash. Then her brother mewling his lungs out like Torbin Bates after she'd dumped his own cat's litter over his head. Shouldn't have called her insect fairy of a brother a fairy! Only she got to do that.
And perhaps he'd finally admitted that to himself and got himself a fine, gentlemanly hooker to entertain.
"No! Not Arn I need him for--!!"
He screamed again!
And this time with the thud of what could only have been his fists pounding on the floor as he sobbed.
"Twink!" she cried.
"Oh Pheebs, Pheebs save meeeee," he whined.
Among the explosion of fabrics and gaudy colors was Quinton, besieged upon by one of his female models.
The ravishingly firm and black Ramona mannequin.
Beating him with one of its own plastic hands.
And Arn? Another dummy who was now defiled in orange and black and puce green marker.
Phone out, she flashed a photo. "Hehehe, girlies got jealous you dog?"
And then Ramona paid her mind.
Besides the truly artful work on her lashes... she needed that midnight blue and black for herself... there was, an eerie green about her eyes. And she was sure her brother didn't have that kind of color. Because that color... that color was lighting up the whole studio.
"And who is this whore sweetums!?!?!?"
That's it.
She was going to Exorcist puke across this whole situationship.
The Haunted... What?!
"Somethin' the matter?" wriggled Carlyle, scootching closer to the stranger, along the bus booth bench, a slight drizzle catching the polycarbonate wall siding, separating bodies from the elements, while admitting a hazy view of the city dimming.
"What?!" said the old dog, his whiskers so profuse the chap couldn't tell if he'd been spoken to, at all. He certainly didn't feel sure, not with that big word ones use when they're disappointed already, asking if you "understand," or if you've, "understood."
He could picture ole Mrs. Tibby, with her massive arms crossed over chest and belly, looking down, frowning, with a treat in her other hand. But he weren't mad much.
"What's the matter?" he tried again with genuine small pup sincerity, twisting his head to mirror the lean of the fellow next to him. Surely, he was looking right at him now. Must have seen his mouth moving up and down, and figured he'd been talking to 'em all along, side by side.
The old timer's eyes gave a little glimmer of seeing, and he once again stuck his nubbly claw in his ear and gave a firm wiggle.
His jaw dropped.
"'What?' my ear--- It's haunted!"
05.02.204
The Haunted... What? challenge @AJAY9979
rejection changes you in every way
haunts materializes spooks actions
you wonder if you smell repudiated
you wonder if others smell the spurn
on breath armpits belly folds privates
is there a cool overall deodorant spray
that can be used to hide dampen kill
the stench smell odor stinking funk
the envelopes my being like a ghost
from Christmas past chains clinking
I've washed my skin body bloody raw
trying to unputrify foul reeking specter
do you have a soap eau de toilette goop
for a buck ninety five fifty five hundred
to cleanse me from this embracing spirit
whatever the cost it cost me much more
to walk veiled villainized malvaporidden
because you found me to be undesirable
in that moment and threw me to hounds
licking open wounds with raspy tongues
rejection changes you in every way
haunts no comedy to be found here
Totally Real Reviews Of My Last Book
I would like to assure you that all of these are TOTALLY 100% real reviews of my new book, “I HATE Your Prophecy“.
I mean…as you should know by now…
…a Dark Lord wouldn’t LIE, right?
“I thought a satirical apocalyptic Dark Lord novel would make me want to drink. Unfortunately, I accidentally knocked over the bottle of whiskey onto the tome. Undaunted, I drank the book. It had a honey sweetness going down, and then a kick like a giant mutant mule with a bad temper and very, very heavy metal shoes. Seven stars out of five; would drink again.”
-Charles Dickens
“I was somewhat worried, having read the author’s books and found them to be made entirely out of tricksy stuff, namely, words. I thought he might have repented and be seeking redemption, but what’s that I see in this book? That’s right…more words. the author is clearly beyond hope. I put the damn thing down and went to go watch more videos about people yelling at each other.”
–Jean-Paul Sartre, famed comedian
“Sir, you shall be hearing from the Elvish Court shortly.”
~Gimli, Elf King
“Do not attempt to place this object on your head and use it as a Sorting Hat. I found out the hard way. Please don’t ask what the hard way was. I’m giving this book five stars, on the condition that the author takes it away and never lets it near me again.”
–Catherine the Great, pop star
“I literally could not put this book down because I temporarily forgot how hands work, and also, I’m a giant lobster and don’t have hands.”
–Arya Stark, motivational speaker
"It's more fun than a barrel full of monkeys. Although it turns out that filling barrels with monkeys is actually a violation of a number of animal rights laws, even if the monkeys themselves very much enjoy it."
~The Man With The Yellow Hat
“This is definitely one of the two best novels I have ever published.”
–Jeff Mach, professional burrito
“On the one hand, nobody would want to read this weirdo’s idea of a fantasy universe. On the other hand, I’m from the future, and I can assure you that George R. R. Martin’s “Ice and Fire” thing was never finished, so you might as well blow your cash on this.”
-J.R.R. Tolkien, Elder God
She’s All That
"I'm supposed to be the man," the narrow minded thought can't help but emerge. I mean - I did say that, once or twice? As a joke. Regardless, the thought persists. The smile on my face grows. It's so funny.
I snap my sports bra to remind myself it's there and real. So, how did I fail?
Outdone?
Outdone?
OUTDONE?
OUTDONE WITH NO QUESTION!?
Oh, how refreshing. The reality settling in tethers me to reality, as a gentle warm breeze says hi to my face. I smile hi right back at it, begrudgingly. Hours. Days. Weeks. Months. Just on the resume, man.
All to be outdone. Flawless social skills, pleasantries, perfect resume appearance, outdone for a less qualified, 'better team fit'.
The humor in the fact I over-qualified myself for 'entry-level' but 'under-qualified' without 'entry-level', supposedly...? Appears to me as plainly as the stench of the mass amount of rotting apples around me hits my nostrils. Yup. I always forget how the trees grossly overproduce, the excess fruits dying off en masse, those highest apples spoiled, naturally, as a part of their individual life cycle. The proof is in the proverbial pudding, as well as the sad attempt my feet have of avoiding street-style applesauce.
"Maybe life is more like a cartoon,"
If I'm ugly or something... I guess, would someone tell me?
"Would I be an ugly cartoon? Oh, some sort of offensive caricature, of sorts?"
As I near the end of the mystical, mythical orchard, I see the white and blue top of the bus stop sign in the distance.
"And this morning, in the mirror, I saw an offensive stereotypical caricature staring back at me," Oh, what an insidious mind, inside what is apparently sometimes a lady killer body. As I stroll past the equally rotting field, placed perfectly along a growing zone and city limit, isn't that an offensive stereotypical caricature? The forgotten corn field parallels an equally forgotten soybean field.
"All that food, gone to waste - I would've eaten it if I had known I was allowed to," The sweet release of an innocent thought reminds me to again, ground myself in my own reality.
Ahh... unemployment. More like, "Isn't this supposed to be funemployment, amirite, ladies!?"
I force my hands into my pockets to feel my empty wallet. Oops. That is not fun or funny.
...But really, to some, it is. As the blue and white top transforms to a full sign, and joins the grey steel pole to the ground, I see him. Oh, joyous day!
It's the homeless man who calls himself God but is the nicest sweetest guy ever - like to the point you kinda... he... excuse me, He. Let's all respect my view of God in this poetic... probably... I mean. If God says He takes many forms - anyways, how lovely the sight of H-him is!
Looking at the flaking, cracking leaves of the decaying yet standing stalks, the deep yellow ochre shades, the black mold shades, the baby yellow hues, the big orange patches scattered throughout... how grounding and mentally stimulating.
"Hey, God!" I call out to Him. [Thou shalt bear no false idols, in sincerity.]
"Ah, my Child!" He calls right back as He rears up from what I had assumed a sitting position, reaching his natural seven foot tall height.
"God, your Earth is surely, naturally, Created - Glorious and beautiful!" I need a really good windup for this one.
"Child of Mine, you are Blessed with the Gift of Plain Sight," Throwing His arms out to welcome me into the final stretches of reaching the city limits bus stop, He booms His support of me.
"Yes; But Father, mine cup runneth dry."
"Surely - You Jest, Child!"
"Father, I solemnly swear this is no jest - I was out-butched in a job interview. I don't even know if you know what that is? But you call me She, I assume you can see how that may not be the easiest thing in a man's world."
"...Surely. You Jest, Child."
"Father, I really need the regular ribbing right now, no jest, I am still unemployed."
"Child."
"Yes, Father?"
"Surely, I Solemnly Swear, Ye Was Out-Butched Two Times Today - In Quick Succession, As Well. Your Father is Your Mother."