A warm blanket covers me, breathing in cold morning air in a quiet room. “Another day”, I say to myself and then get out of bed and put on blue slippers.
First thing—pee. Second thing—wash face, and next brush teeth. Staring in the mirror is such an unusual thing for me each morning. Gazing at the reflection and trying to figure out who is looking back. Who does this reflection belong to?
“The reflection belongs to me”, I say out loud; “You are the man who forgot to die.” That is what the neighborhood kids have dubbed me; The Man Who Forgot To Die.
That’s the question in my head, that same repetitive question that will not go away. It will always wake me at exactly 7am. I never need the aid of an alarm clock. I have always gotten up at exactly 7am since the incident. What is up with that? Who gets up with a haunting repetitive question in their mind every day? Me, I acclaim, the man who forgot to die.
Monday 7am, the third of December I awake to the question of Existence. Not the question of ‘do I exist’ but the why and how of the longevity of my existence.
This is what I think about at 7am under a warm blanket, breathing in cold morning air. My long existence…
My existence has been mundane at best, not at all a great reality, nor a horrible one either. In all truth it has been a boring life, mostly.
I am the man who forgot to die…in hindsight it is a peculiar thing to put out of your mind, but forget I did. In truth, I did not forget to die. It was more like I didn’t remember that I was supposed to die.
It seems only natural to think about your death. Far as I know there is no cure for that condition called birth. If you are born you will die. Harsh, nonetheless true. Death has no cure.
This is the oddity of all the oddities…if you are born you will die. In between the light of birth and the darkness of death you get to think about it. On some random day for a haphazard reason you will die and there is nothing you can do to stop it. If that wasn’t bad enough you get no control over the how, why or what of your looming death. There is suicide for the control freaks, but that is a bad choice for those who have been baptized.
The compelling subject of death has missed my thoughts; I question my existence and speculate about what purpose it has. Bloody hell there is so much rubbish in my head. Truly maddening, repetitive and worthless…I need coffee, lots of it.
I turn off the running water, flush the toilet and go down to the kitchen.
Seven twenty two AM. Black coffee and toast, this is my same breakfast…mundane…isn’t it? I do use different jellies to break up the humdrum of it all.
On my kitchen table I keep a large yellow legal writing pad. In the morning with coffee and toast I like to write about myself, at least what I understand regarding my way of life. I hope that keeping lists, notes and casual whatnots about my life will help. It is my intention that these words may be of use to somebody some day. I feel bad for the poor bastard who needs these words.
Today’s page is titled ~
The Man Who Forgot to Die
~ I did not cheat death but forgot, so I remembered later, much later
~ No supernatural gifts or powers that I know of
~ No special diet or exercise program, in truth I am a slovenly lad
~ No fountain of youth or magical elixirs
~ Not a vampire
~ Not cursed, that I know of
~ Not blessed, that I know of
~ I do not pray or meditate or talk with the dead
~ Never studied on how to sustain long life
~ I did buy a juice machine off of a late night infomercial, maybe that had something to do with it? Probably not. I only used the juicer twice. Beet and celery juice is dreadful…
~ Spent a long time in a coma or hibernation or deep suspended sleep. The doctors never did agree on what to call it
*****
Twelve years ago I walked out of Saint Clair Memorial Hospital with three Kurt Vonnegut novels, two Beatles CD’s and the complete Pittsburgh Steelers decade of champions history of the 1970's in my head and not much else.
I knew how to tie my shoes and how to find my way home. I knew where I kept the coffee and how to find the post office. I even remembered my way through the local woods and short cuts to get across town.
What I couldn’t remember was:
~ My name
~ Age
~ If I had parents
~ If I had siblings
~ If I went to school or held a job
~ Was I liked or was I a self-absorbed wanker
~ Did I know love, did I break hearts or have my heart broken
~ Indian, Thai or Italian?
~ Why on earth my closet was filled up with tie-dye t-shirts, black skinny ties and a large woolly sweater with leather patches covering the elbows?
~ What was disco?
Nobody was quite sure how long my stay in Saint Clair Memorial Hospital was or even how I got there.
When I arrived at Saint Clair’s their record-keeping system consisted of hand-written notes on 3x5 white index cards that a nurse would type up in some meaningful order for the next physician to use.
When I left, patient information was readily available on something they called smart-phones that had no resemblance to a phone at all, more like a hand-held calculator with no numbers. A flat screen that gave you information when you touched it, as far as I could tell it responded to your thoughts and finger’s needs.
A doctor would walk into my room pull out this tiny black plastic gadget, wave his fingers over it and tell me that my vitals are looking good. Next the black-plastic-calculator-looking gadget would ring or chirp or play music and that was the warning sign that the doctor would say good-bye to me and walk out of the room.
With the switch from the pen to wireless technology my medical history was lost, the majority of it anyway. Dating my stay in the hospital it would appear that I have been here at least 23 years, best guess.
For the past seven years I had the same nurse; Dolores.
Dolores filled me in on much of what happened. She was the one who would read me the Vonnegut novels and play the Beatles music for me. Dolores felt sorry for me that nobody ever came to visit. Those novels and music were her son’s favorites during the wars that he was in.
Wars? What did I miss?
Dolores told me about how her son gave his life for us in a war and how the world has fallen into a world of terror, sac-religion and worst of all you can watch it all on the tellie.
So, Dolores would sit with me and mourn her son. Trying to comfort me with some of his favorite things even though I was sleeping. Dolores the Kind Nurse.
One day I awoke in Saint Clair Memorial Hospital with Dolores the Kind Nurse sitting next to me.
I was refreshed, strong and ready to go. I could bend over and touch my toes, I could do push-ups, was not sore or achy. My muscles should have been atrophied and deteriorating, but they were not. I had energy.
The explanation that the doctors had for me was that I was in a different state of consciousness during my long stay at the hospital. I was neither awake nor sleeping or dreaming. I was in an “alternate state of consciousness” was all they could figure.
They diagnosed it this way because apparently my heartbeat and brainwave activity continuously stayed the same. Neither slowing down nor speeding up. I am told that when you’re in a coma or asleep you will still have changes in brainwave activity and heart rate. I did not.
The comparison they gave me was that my brainwave activity and heart rate could be qualified as a marathon runner, running at peak condition that never altered pace or thoughts, for 23 years non stop.
To the doctors I was neither man nor angel or demon. I was unexplainable. This alternate state of consciousness left me ageless.
I aged but less; I grew strong during my absence.
I had some gray hairs on my chin and flecks of gray in my hair but I was muscular with little to no body fat. I had no wrinkles or age spots on my skin. I stood tall, well built with good posture and bone structure.
The experience should have left me decaying; in reverse it made me trans-human.
Three days after my awakening, with clarification from Kind Nurse Dolores, a barrage of questioning and tests from the medical staff, I walked out of Saint Clair Memorial Hospital with 3 Vonnegut novels, 2 Beatles CD’s and a hug from Kind Nurse Dolores.
Shortly after leaving the hospital I found out that I had become some sort of media-medical-celebrity. Everybody recognized me from the tellie, newspapers and Internet hoopla…but no one remembered me.
What type of blimey bastard must of I been? Twenty-three plus years in a hospital with no visitors and now all this media-medical-hype and still no one remembered me. I left this world and went to sleep and nobody missed me…
Over the next few years people began to think of me as this strange trans-human-being. People would walk up to me and ask all sorts of questions about my alternate state of consciousness. I favored calling it my “long-afternoon-nap”, but nobody seemed to care what I preferred.
Questions regarding the afterlife, heaven, hell, purgatory; they would want me to lay hands on them or they wanted to touch my hair for good luck. They would ask for my blessing over them or to heal their sick.
I had no answers for them. No gifts of wisdom to give them.
“Surely that occurrence must have had existential meaning to it”, they would say, or “What did you see” or “What did you learn”, they would ask of me.
Sorry to report—no visions, no knowledge, no memory…
It was disappointing to see their faces when I told them the only truth that I knew, which was “Sorry, I can not help you.”
After a while of not being able to stand all the disillusionment that I was causing in the masses, I decided to start giving one blank statement to all the hundreds of questions; Be Nice.
Be Nice ~ that was it, that was all I could come up with. Not much of a curbside prophesy but I figured with a statement like that I could do no harm.
Just like that I became “The Man Who Forgot To Die”, walking the streets telling people to “Be Nice” to one another. It looks as if nobody was listening at any rate. No wonder why I took my-long-afternoon-nap.
*****
Passing a church bake sale I could smell fresh apple pies. I remembered that I liked apple pie but I could not remember if I ever held a job or went on a date. Go figure.
I walked down into the church basement and heard my name spoken out load for the very first time and at that moment it all came back to me, my existence, my purpose, and my name.
I nun falls to her knees in front of me and said,
“Dear God”.
“Yes”, I answer.
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Showing posts with label Short Story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Short Story. Show all posts
The Man Who Forgot to Die ~ Short Story
A warm blanket covers me, breathing in cold morning air in a quiet room. “Another day”, I say to myself and then get out of bed and put on blue slippers.
First thing—pee. Second thing—wash face, and next brush teeth. Staring in the mirror is such an unusual thing for me each morning. Gazing at the reflection and trying to figure out who is looking back. Who does this reflection belong to?
“The reflection belongs to me”, I say out loud; “You are the man who forgot to die.” That is what the neighborhood kids have dubbed me; The Man Who Forgot To Die.
That’s the question in my head, that same repetitive question that will not go away. It will always wake me at exactly 7am. I never need the aid of an alarm clock. I have always gotten up at exactly 7am since the incident. What is up with that? Who gets up with a haunting repetitive question in their mind every day? Me, I acclaim, the man who forgot to die.
Monday 7am, the third of December I awake to the question of Existence. Not the question of ‘do I exist’ but the why and how of the longevity of my existence.
This is what I think about at 7am under a warm blanket, breathing in cold morning air. My long existence…
My existence has been mundane at best, not at all a great reality, nor a horrible one either. In all truth it has been a boring life, mostly.
I am the man who forgot to die…in hindsight it is a peculiar thing to put out of your mind, but forget I did. In truth, I did not forget to die. It was more like I didn’t remember that I was supposed to die.
It seems only natural to think about your death. Far as I know there is no cure for that condition called birth. If you are born you will die. Harsh, nonetheless true. Death has no cure.
This is the oddity of all the oddities…if you are born you will die. In between the light of birth and the darkness of death you get to think about it. On some random day for a haphazard reason you will die and there is nothing you can do to stop it. If that wasn’t bad enough you get no control over the how, why or what of your looming death. There is suicide for the control freaks, but that is a bad choice for those who have been baptized.
The compelling subject of death has missed my thoughts; I question my existence and speculate about what purpose it has. Bloody hell there is so much rubbish in my head. Truly maddening, repetitive and worthless…I need coffee, lots of it.
I turn off the running water, flush the toilet and go down to the kitchen.
Seven twenty two AM. Black coffee and toast, this is my same breakfast…mundane…isn’t it? I do use different jellies to break up the humdrum of it all.
On my kitchen table I keep a large yellow legal writing pad. In the morning with coffee and toast I like to write about myself, at least what I understand regarding my way of life. I hope that keeping lists, notes and casual whatnots about my life will help. It is my intention that these words may be of use to somebody some day. I feel bad for the poor bastard who needs these words.
Today’s page is titled ~
The Man Who Forgot to Die
~ I did not cheat death but forgot, so I remembered later, much later
~ No supernatural gifts or powers that I know of
~ No special diet or exercise program, in truth I am a slovenly lad
~ No fountain of youth or magical elixirs
~ Not a vampire
~ Not cursed, that I know of
~ Not blessed, that I know of
~ I do not pray or meditate or talk with the dead
~ Never studied on how to sustain long life
~ I did buy a juice machine off of a late night infomercial, maybe that had something to do with it? Probably not. I only used the juicer twice. Beet and celery juice is dreadful…
~ Spent a long time in a coma or hibernation or deep suspended sleep. The doctors never did agree on what to call it
*****
Twelve years ago I walked out of Saint Clair Memorial Hospital with three Kurt Vonnegut novels, two Beatles CD’s and the complete Pittsburgh Steelers decade of champions history of the 1970's in my head and not much else.
I knew how to tie my shoes and how to find my way home. I knew where I kept the coffee and how to find the post office. I even remembered my way through the local woods and short cuts to get across town.
What I couldn’t remember was:
~ My name
~ Age
~ If I had parents
~ If I had siblings
~ If I went to school or held a job
~ Was I liked or was I a self-absorbed wanker
~ Did I know love, did I break hearts or have my heart broken
~ Indian, Thai or Italian?
~ Why on earth my closet was filled up with tie-dye t-shirts, black skinny ties and a large woolly sweater with leather patches covering the elbows?
~ What was disco?
Nobody was quite sure how long my stay in Saint Clair Memorial Hospital was or even how I got there.
When I arrived at Saint Clair’s their record-keeping system consisted of hand-written notes on 3x5 white index cards that a nurse would type up in some meaningful order for the next physician to use.
When I left, patient information was readily available on something they called smart-phones that had no resemblance to a phone at all, more like a hand-held calculator with no numbers. A flat screen that gave you information when you touched it, as far as I could tell it responded to your thoughts and finger’s needs.
A doctor would walk into my room pull out this tiny black plastic gadget, wave his fingers over it and tell me that my vitals are looking good. Next the black-plastic-calculator-looking gadget would ring or chirp or play music and that was the warning sign that the doctor would say good-bye to me and walk out of the room.
With the switch from the pen to wireless technology my medical history was lost, the majority of it anyway. Dating my stay in the hospital it would appear that I have been here at least 23 years, best guess.
For the past seven years I had the same nurse; Dolores.
Dolores filled me in on much of what happened. She was the one who would read me the Vonnegut novels and play the Beatles music for me. Dolores felt sorry for me that nobody ever came to visit. Those novels and music were her son’s favorites during the wars that he was in.
Wars? What did I miss?
Dolores told me about how her son gave his life for us in a war and how the world has fallen into a world of terror, sac-religion and worst of all you can watch it all on the tellie.
So, Dolores would sit with me and mourn her son. Trying to comfort me with some of his favorite things even though I was sleeping. Dolores the Kind Nurse.
One day I awoke in Saint Clair Memorial Hospital with Dolores the Kind Nurse sitting next to me.
I was refreshed, strong and ready to go. I could bend over and touch my toes, I could do push-ups, was not sore or achy. My muscles should have been atrophied and deteriorating, but they were not. I had energy.
The explanation that the doctors had for me was that I was in a different state of consciousness during my long stay at the hospital. I was neither awake nor sleeping or dreaming. I was in an “alternate state of consciousness” was all they could figure.
They diagnosed it this way because apparently my heartbeat and brainwave activity continuously stayed the same. Neither slowing down nor speeding up. I am told that when you’re in a coma or asleep you will still have changes in brainwave activity and heart rate. I did not.
The comparison they gave me was that my brainwave activity and heart rate could be qualified as a marathon runner, running at peak condition that never altered pace or thoughts, for 23 years non stop.
To the doctors I was neither man nor angel or demon. I was unexplainable. This alternate state of consciousness left me ageless.
I aged but less; I grew strong during my absence.
I had some gray hairs on my chin and flecks of gray in my hair but I was muscular with little to no body fat. I had no wrinkles or age spots on my skin. I stood tall, well built with good posture and bone structure.
The experience should have left me decaying; in reverse it made me trans-human.
Three days after my awakening, with clarification from Kind Nurse Dolores, a barrage of questioning and tests from the medical staff, I walked out of Saint Clair Memorial Hospital with 3 Vonnegut novels, 2 Beatles CD’s and a hug from Kind Nurse Dolores.
Shortly after leaving the hospital I found out that I had become some sort of media-medical-celebrity. Everybody recognized me from the tellie, newspapers and Internet hoopla…but no one remembered me.
What type of blimey bastard must of I been? Twenty-three plus years in a hospital with no visitors and now all this media-medical-hype and still no one remembered me. I left this world and went to sleep and nobody missed me…
Over the next few years people began to think of me as this strange trans-human-being. People would walk up to me and ask all sorts of questions about my alternate state of consciousness. I favored calling it my “long-afternoon-nap”, but nobody seemed to care what I preferred.
Questions regarding the afterlife, heaven, hell, purgatory; they would want me to lay hands on them or they wanted to touch my hair for good luck. They would ask for my blessing over them or to heal their sick.
I had no answers for them. No gifts of wisdom to give them.
“Surely that occurrence must have had existential meaning to it”, they would say, or “What did you see” or “What did you learn”, they would ask of me.
Sorry to report—no visions, no knowledge, no memory…
It was disappointing to see their faces when I told them the only truth that I knew, which was “Sorry, I can not help you.”
After a while of not being able to stand all the disillusionment that I was causing in the masses, I decided to start giving one blank statement to all the hundreds of questions; Be Nice.
Be Nice ~ that was it, that was all I could come up with. Not much of a curbside prophesy but I figured with a statement like that I could do no harm.
Just like that I became “The Man Who Forgot To Die”, walking the streets telling people to “Be Nice” to one another. It looks as if nobody was listening at any rate. No wonder why I took my-long-afternoon-nap.
*****
Passing a church bake sale I could smell fresh apple pies. I remembered that I liked apple pie but I could not remember if I ever held a job or went on a date. Go figure.
I walked down into the church basement and heard my name spoken out load for the very first time and at that moment it all came back to me, my existence, my purpose, and my name.
I nun falls to her knees in front of me and said,
“Dear God”.
“Yes”, I answer.
First thing—pee. Second thing—wash face, and next brush teeth. Staring in the mirror is such an unusual thing for me each morning. Gazing at the reflection and trying to figure out who is looking back. Who does this reflection belong to?
“The reflection belongs to me”, I say out loud; “You are the man who forgot to die.” That is what the neighborhood kids have dubbed me; The Man Who Forgot To Die.
That’s the question in my head, that same repetitive question that will not go away. It will always wake me at exactly 7am. I never need the aid of an alarm clock. I have always gotten up at exactly 7am since the incident. What is up with that? Who gets up with a haunting repetitive question in their mind every day? Me, I acclaim, the man who forgot to die.
Monday 7am, the third of December I awake to the question of Existence. Not the question of ‘do I exist’ but the why and how of the longevity of my existence.
This is what I think about at 7am under a warm blanket, breathing in cold morning air. My long existence…
My existence has been mundane at best, not at all a great reality, nor a horrible one either. In all truth it has been a boring life, mostly.
I am the man who forgot to die…in hindsight it is a peculiar thing to put out of your mind, but forget I did. In truth, I did not forget to die. It was more like I didn’t remember that I was supposed to die.
It seems only natural to think about your death. Far as I know there is no cure for that condition called birth. If you are born you will die. Harsh, nonetheless true. Death has no cure.
This is the oddity of all the oddities…if you are born you will die. In between the light of birth and the darkness of death you get to think about it. On some random day for a haphazard reason you will die and there is nothing you can do to stop it. If that wasn’t bad enough you get no control over the how, why or what of your looming death. There is suicide for the control freaks, but that is a bad choice for those who have been baptized.
The compelling subject of death has missed my thoughts; I question my existence and speculate about what purpose it has. Bloody hell there is so much rubbish in my head. Truly maddening, repetitive and worthless…I need coffee, lots of it.
I turn off the running water, flush the toilet and go down to the kitchen.
Seven twenty two AM. Black coffee and toast, this is my same breakfast…mundane…isn’t it? I do use different jellies to break up the humdrum of it all.
On my kitchen table I keep a large yellow legal writing pad. In the morning with coffee and toast I like to write about myself, at least what I understand regarding my way of life. I hope that keeping lists, notes and casual whatnots about my life will help. It is my intention that these words may be of use to somebody some day. I feel bad for the poor bastard who needs these words.
Today’s page is titled ~
The Man Who Forgot to Die
~ I did not cheat death but forgot, so I remembered later, much later
~ No supernatural gifts or powers that I know of
~ No special diet or exercise program, in truth I am a slovenly lad
~ No fountain of youth or magical elixirs
~ Not a vampire
~ Not cursed, that I know of
~ Not blessed, that I know of
~ I do not pray or meditate or talk with the dead
~ Never studied on how to sustain long life
~ I did buy a juice machine off of a late night infomercial, maybe that had something to do with it? Probably not. I only used the juicer twice. Beet and celery juice is dreadful…
~ Spent a long time in a coma or hibernation or deep suspended sleep. The doctors never did agree on what to call it
*****
Twelve years ago I walked out of Saint Clair Memorial Hospital with three Kurt Vonnegut novels, two Beatles CD’s and the complete Pittsburgh Steelers decade of champions history of the 1970's in my head and not much else.
I knew how to tie my shoes and how to find my way home. I knew where I kept the coffee and how to find the post office. I even remembered my way through the local woods and short cuts to get across town.
What I couldn’t remember was:
~ My name
~ Age
~ If I had parents
~ If I had siblings
~ If I went to school or held a job
~ Was I liked or was I a self-absorbed wanker
~ Did I know love, did I break hearts or have my heart broken
~ Indian, Thai or Italian?
~ Why on earth my closet was filled up with tie-dye t-shirts, black skinny ties and a large woolly sweater with leather patches covering the elbows?
~ What was disco?
Nobody was quite sure how long my stay in Saint Clair Memorial Hospital was or even how I got there.
When I arrived at Saint Clair’s their record-keeping system consisted of hand-written notes on 3x5 white index cards that a nurse would type up in some meaningful order for the next physician to use.
When I left, patient information was readily available on something they called smart-phones that had no resemblance to a phone at all, more like a hand-held calculator with no numbers. A flat screen that gave you information when you touched it, as far as I could tell it responded to your thoughts and finger’s needs.
A doctor would walk into my room pull out this tiny black plastic gadget, wave his fingers over it and tell me that my vitals are looking good. Next the black-plastic-calculator-looking gadget would ring or chirp or play music and that was the warning sign that the doctor would say good-bye to me and walk out of the room.
With the switch from the pen to wireless technology my medical history was lost, the majority of it anyway. Dating my stay in the hospital it would appear that I have been here at least 23 years, best guess.
For the past seven years I had the same nurse; Dolores.
Dolores filled me in on much of what happened. She was the one who would read me the Vonnegut novels and play the Beatles music for me. Dolores felt sorry for me that nobody ever came to visit. Those novels and music were her son’s favorites during the wars that he was in.
Wars? What did I miss?
Dolores told me about how her son gave his life for us in a war and how the world has fallen into a world of terror, sac-religion and worst of all you can watch it all on the tellie.
So, Dolores would sit with me and mourn her son. Trying to comfort me with some of his favorite things even though I was sleeping. Dolores the Kind Nurse.
One day I awoke in Saint Clair Memorial Hospital with Dolores the Kind Nurse sitting next to me.
I was refreshed, strong and ready to go. I could bend over and touch my toes, I could do push-ups, was not sore or achy. My muscles should have been atrophied and deteriorating, but they were not. I had energy.
The explanation that the doctors had for me was that I was in a different state of consciousness during my long stay at the hospital. I was neither awake nor sleeping or dreaming. I was in an “alternate state of consciousness” was all they could figure.
They diagnosed it this way because apparently my heartbeat and brainwave activity continuously stayed the same. Neither slowing down nor speeding up. I am told that when you’re in a coma or asleep you will still have changes in brainwave activity and heart rate. I did not.
The comparison they gave me was that my brainwave activity and heart rate could be qualified as a marathon runner, running at peak condition that never altered pace or thoughts, for 23 years non stop.
To the doctors I was neither man nor angel or demon. I was unexplainable. This alternate state of consciousness left me ageless.
I aged but less; I grew strong during my absence.
I had some gray hairs on my chin and flecks of gray in my hair but I was muscular with little to no body fat. I had no wrinkles or age spots on my skin. I stood tall, well built with good posture and bone structure.
The experience should have left me decaying; in reverse it made me trans-human.
Three days after my awakening, with clarification from Kind Nurse Dolores, a barrage of questioning and tests from the medical staff, I walked out of Saint Clair Memorial Hospital with 3 Vonnegut novels, 2 Beatles CD’s and a hug from Kind Nurse Dolores.
Shortly after leaving the hospital I found out that I had become some sort of media-medical-celebrity. Everybody recognized me from the tellie, newspapers and Internet hoopla…but no one remembered me.
What type of blimey bastard must of I been? Twenty-three plus years in a hospital with no visitors and now all this media-medical-hype and still no one remembered me. I left this world and went to sleep and nobody missed me…
Over the next few years people began to think of me as this strange trans-human-being. People would walk up to me and ask all sorts of questions about my alternate state of consciousness. I favored calling it my “long-afternoon-nap”, but nobody seemed to care what I preferred.
Questions regarding the afterlife, heaven, hell, purgatory; they would want me to lay hands on them or they wanted to touch my hair for good luck. They would ask for my blessing over them or to heal their sick.
I had no answers for them. No gifts of wisdom to give them.
“Surely that occurrence must have had existential meaning to it”, they would say, or “What did you see” or “What did you learn”, they would ask of me.
Sorry to report—no visions, no knowledge, no memory…
It was disappointing to see their faces when I told them the only truth that I knew, which was “Sorry, I can not help you.”
After a while of not being able to stand all the disillusionment that I was causing in the masses, I decided to start giving one blank statement to all the hundreds of questions; Be Nice.
Be Nice ~ that was it, that was all I could come up with. Not much of a curbside prophesy but I figured with a statement like that I could do no harm.
Just like that I became “The Man Who Forgot To Die”, walking the streets telling people to “Be Nice” to one another. It looks as if nobody was listening at any rate. No wonder why I took my-long-afternoon-nap.
*****
Passing a church bake sale I could smell fresh apple pies. I remembered that I liked apple pie but I could not remember if I ever held a job or went on a date. Go figure.
I walked down into the church basement and heard my name spoken out load for the very first time and at that moment it all came back to me, my existence, my purpose, and my name.
I nun falls to her knees in front of me and said,
“Dear God”.
“Yes”, I answer.
The Abandoning ~ Short Story
The Abandoning ~ Short Story
Dear…
Mr. & Mrs. House; that’s my parents and they love coffee and not much else. They have 7 kids and I am the 7th. Max, that’s me. Coffee that is their life actually was their life.
Mr. & Mrs. House up at 6:30am, by 6:35 they are sitting at a small kitchen table built for two. Yellow formica table top with four rusted steel legs two chairs that are permanently wrapped in a thick plastic with faded pink flowers imprinted on the cushions.
My Mom makes the coffee like a sacred ritual. She opens the big blue can, takes a deep breath of the grounds and then four large scoops into a stainless steel coffee pot that was given to them as a wedding gift. They sit at that table and wait the 4 minutes and 32 seconds for life to begin, again. After the 1st cup is drank my father pours the 2nd cup for the both of them and then looks at his wife and says, “Don’t say I never do anything for you.” He says this everyday and not much else to her. My Mom just smiles and reads yesterday’s newspaper.
This is what I wake up to; the smell of coffee, and two fat parents in a small kitchen who could care less about me. To be fair, at least they treat me like all their others kids. The siblings seven: the two oldest in jail for drugs, next set got the hell out of here over ten years ago. I don’t see either of them very often but they do send me books and music at Christmas and on my birthday. That leaves the two siblings that I should be close with, my brother & sister. I am not for no particular reason. We do not fight or have different views; we are simply distant from one another. It’s like when you see a cousin every other year at a family event. Sure there is a family resemblance and polite conversation, nonetheless he is a stranger to you. That’s us as siblings; strangers who are polite.
As for me being born as lucky number 7, well that is not clear to me yet. To say that my arrival into this world was a surprise would be an understatement. If the New York Giants did not win the Super Bowl in 1987 there is a good chance that I would not of been born. But here I am at this computer telling you my stories and hoping somebody out there is reading them. They say that you choose your parents before you’re born in the great Hall of Bluff in Heaven. I have no idea what I was thinking up there in the after life or the before life or whatever you want to call it. All I know is that I must have been up for a challenge choosing Mr. & Mrs. House.
Nine months and 12 days after the Giants won the Super Bowl my parents finally got around to giving me a name. There was no debate or thought as to what to name me; they just didn’t get around to it.
On day 12 of life they decided on a name for me. At 6:39am one minute before the coffee would be ready. Mrs. House holds ups her beloved blue can of coffee and looks at Mr. House and says “How about Maxwell?” So, Mr. & Mrs. House named their 7th child after their true love. That must mean something, right?
Searching for life,
~MH
*****
Dear…
It has been 4 years since the abandoning. I live alone on a small plot of live land on a dead planet. As far as I know I am the only one left. When I say dead planet, I mean dead. If you walk off my land the world is gone. No people, no buildings, no trees, no plants, no air, no sky, no water, no memories; only death. It is like one of those photos of the Moon or Mars, a crater of dead rock suspended in space with no purpose. Accept for my small plot of land.
Is this purgatory or paradise, paradise lost or paradise found? I have not discovered that answer yet. Why was I spared from the abandoning? I do not know. I am the last of humankind, all extinct but me enveloped in silence, the last to speak or to use language.
Why publish these letters if nobody is left to read them?
The abandoning left me with this land, one working computer and an internet connection. A single solar panel on the house powers the computer and there must be a satellite left up in space that I can get an internet connect from. This is all just a guess. I have no explanation for this and have stopped trying to find one a long time a go.
The internet is filled up with the wisdom of my ancestors; I will have no descendants to tell my stories to. The Abandoning left me this vessel for communication. It must mean something, and this is why I write these letters.
Searching for life,
~MH
*****
Dear…
Up at 6:30am, I must be a creator of breading, I say to myself out loud. No coffee but black tea and raw almonds provided by the land. This will do. Twelve raw almonds I must eat every morning before I start my day. I have no inkling why it has to be twelve, but twelve it must be. OCD in purgatory or paradise.
Day 1,468 I sit in the kitchen as my parents did. Starting out the same bay window, with the same smoke yellowed curtains with a blue dove pattern. From this window I can see the only other sign of life left on the planet and it’s actually a sign. A real sign; a billboard. A billboard that sits on the very edge of my land and a death planet, separated by advertising.
This billboard is not the typical roadside billboard that you’re used to seeing, it’s enormous. Think of the Las Vegas strip on steroids. This black and white structure stands 50ft high by 100 feet long and it reads…
Searching for life,
~MH
*****
Dear…
Yes, it was maddening. The world is gone. I awoke to nothing. No violence, no war, no rapture, no explanation, nothing. Writing this I am not sure if I am sane or insane. This is no dream. The land and the billboard told me so. Not in a voice or a feeling but their existence gives me reason to believe.
My land is perfect. It is everything I need to sustain my life; hell it has everything I need to grow old and fat. Freshwater stream with fish, an orchard of fruit trees, rows and rows of vegetable gardens, birds in the sky, squirrels and chipmunks on the ground. I live on the perfect farm; a land of perennial bounty with none of the work.
Traveling this land I now know so well I feel guilty if a have to kill any animal for food since now these animals with the land are my community…my people. My only predator is time.
I have to go now. The sun is setting and I’m losing power.
Searching for life,
~MH
*****
Dear…
I play guitar, a 67 Martian acoustic. This instrument holds memories of the life I was living before the abandoning. I played too well not to be a professional musician but not well enough to be noticed in my profession. Now I sit at the edge of my land under the shade of the billboard and play for the audience that I wish was listening.
Reminiscent sounds of clapping in the distance...could it be?
Two walking shadows at the foot of the billboard move towards me. I cannot understand nor believe it. I run towards the billboard.
“Hello Maxwell.” Says the man.
“Why...how...who are?” I ask dumbfounded
“You say that every time we meet Maxwell.” He says with a strange, knowing look on his face. "This is my wife Eve and I am Adam."
Dear…
Mr. & Mrs. House; that’s my parents and they love coffee and not much else. They have 7 kids and I am the 7th. Max, that’s me. Coffee that is their life actually was their life.
Mr. & Mrs. House up at 6:30am, by 6:35 they are sitting at a small kitchen table built for two. Yellow formica table top with four rusted steel legs two chairs that are permanently wrapped in a thick plastic with faded pink flowers imprinted on the cushions.
My Mom makes the coffee like a sacred ritual. She opens the big blue can, takes a deep breath of the grounds and then four large scoops into a stainless steel coffee pot that was given to them as a wedding gift. They sit at that table and wait the 4 minutes and 32 seconds for life to begin, again. After the 1st cup is drank my father pours the 2nd cup for the both of them and then looks at his wife and says, “Don’t say I never do anything for you.” He says this everyday and not much else to her. My Mom just smiles and reads yesterday’s newspaper.
This is what I wake up to; the smell of coffee, and two fat parents in a small kitchen who could care less about me. To be fair, at least they treat me like all their others kids. The siblings seven: the two oldest in jail for drugs, next set got the hell out of here over ten years ago. I don’t see either of them very often but they do send me books and music at Christmas and on my birthday. That leaves the two siblings that I should be close with, my brother & sister. I am not for no particular reason. We do not fight or have different views; we are simply distant from one another. It’s like when you see a cousin every other year at a family event. Sure there is a family resemblance and polite conversation, nonetheless he is a stranger to you. That’s us as siblings; strangers who are polite.
As for me being born as lucky number 7, well that is not clear to me yet. To say that my arrival into this world was a surprise would be an understatement. If the New York Giants did not win the Super Bowl in 1987 there is a good chance that I would not of been born. But here I am at this computer telling you my stories and hoping somebody out there is reading them. They say that you choose your parents before you’re born in the great Hall of Bluff in Heaven. I have no idea what I was thinking up there in the after life or the before life or whatever you want to call it. All I know is that I must have been up for a challenge choosing Mr. & Mrs. House.
Nine months and 12 days after the Giants won the Super Bowl my parents finally got around to giving me a name. There was no debate or thought as to what to name me; they just didn’t get around to it.
On day 12 of life they decided on a name for me. At 6:39am one minute before the coffee would be ready. Mrs. House holds ups her beloved blue can of coffee and looks at Mr. House and says “How about Maxwell?” So, Mr. & Mrs. House named their 7th child after their true love. That must mean something, right?
Searching for life,
~MH
*****
Dear…
It has been 4 years since the abandoning. I live alone on a small plot of live land on a dead planet. As far as I know I am the only one left. When I say dead planet, I mean dead. If you walk off my land the world is gone. No people, no buildings, no trees, no plants, no air, no sky, no water, no memories; only death. It is like one of those photos of the Moon or Mars, a crater of dead rock suspended in space with no purpose. Accept for my small plot of land.
Is this purgatory or paradise, paradise lost or paradise found? I have not discovered that answer yet. Why was I spared from the abandoning? I do not know. I am the last of humankind, all extinct but me enveloped in silence, the last to speak or to use language.
Why publish these letters if nobody is left to read them?
The abandoning left me with this land, one working computer and an internet connection. A single solar panel on the house powers the computer and there must be a satellite left up in space that I can get an internet connect from. This is all just a guess. I have no explanation for this and have stopped trying to find one a long time a go.
The internet is filled up with the wisdom of my ancestors; I will have no descendants to tell my stories to. The Abandoning left me this vessel for communication. It must mean something, and this is why I write these letters.
Searching for life,
~MH
*****
Dear…
Up at 6:30am, I must be a creator of breading, I say to myself out loud. No coffee but black tea and raw almonds provided by the land. This will do. Twelve raw almonds I must eat every morning before I start my day. I have no inkling why it has to be twelve, but twelve it must be. OCD in purgatory or paradise.
Day 1,468 I sit in the kitchen as my parents did. Starting out the same bay window, with the same smoke yellowed curtains with a blue dove pattern. From this window I can see the only other sign of life left on the planet and it’s actually a sign. A real sign; a billboard. A billboard that sits on the very edge of my land and a death planet, separated by advertising.
This billboard is not the typical roadside billboard that you’re used to seeing, it’s enormous. Think of the Las Vegas strip on steroids. This black and white structure stands 50ft high by 100 feet long and it reads…
Ye are all GODS
and it’s about time
you start getting good at it
and it’s about time
you start getting good at it
Searching for life,
~MH
*****
Dear…
Yes, it was maddening. The world is gone. I awoke to nothing. No violence, no war, no rapture, no explanation, nothing. Writing this I am not sure if I am sane or insane. This is no dream. The land and the billboard told me so. Not in a voice or a feeling but their existence gives me reason to believe.
My land is perfect. It is everything I need to sustain my life; hell it has everything I need to grow old and fat. Freshwater stream with fish, an orchard of fruit trees, rows and rows of vegetable gardens, birds in the sky, squirrels and chipmunks on the ground. I live on the perfect farm; a land of perennial bounty with none of the work.
Traveling this land I now know so well I feel guilty if a have to kill any animal for food since now these animals with the land are my community…my people. My only predator is time.
I have to go now. The sun is setting and I’m losing power.
Searching for life,
~MH
*****
Dear…
I play guitar, a 67 Martian acoustic. This instrument holds memories of the life I was living before the abandoning. I played too well not to be a professional musician but not well enough to be noticed in my profession. Now I sit at the edge of my land under the shade of the billboard and play for the audience that I wish was listening.
Reminiscent sounds of clapping in the distance...could it be?
Two walking shadows at the foot of the billboard move towards me. I cannot understand nor believe it. I run towards the billboard.
“Hello Maxwell.” Says the man.
“Why...how...who are?” I ask dumbfounded
“You say that every time we meet Maxwell.” He says with a strange, knowing look on his face. "This is my wife Eve and I am Adam."
The Abandoning ~ Short Story
The Abandoning ~ Short Story
Dear…
Mr. & Mrs. House; that’s my parents and they love coffee and not much else. They have 7 kids and I am the 7th. Max, that’s me. Coffee that is their life actually was their life.
Mr. & Mrs. House up at 6:30am, by 6:35 they are sitting at a small kitchen table built for two. Yellow formica table top with four rusted steel legs two chairs that are permanently wrapped in a thick plastic with faded pink flowers imprinted on the cushions.
My Mom makes the coffee like a sacred ritual. She opens the big blue can, takes a deep breath of the grounds and then four large scoops into a stainless steel coffee pot that was given to them as a wedding gift. They sit at that table and wait the 4 minutes and 32 seconds for life to begin, again. After the 1st cup is drank my father pours the 2nd cup for the both of them and then looks at his wife and says, “Don’t say I never do anything for you.” He says this everyday and not much else to her. My Mom just smiles and reads yesterday’s newspaper.
This is what I wake up to; the smell of coffee, and two fat parents in a small kitchen who could care less about me. To be fair, at least they treat me like all their others kids. The siblings seven: the two oldest in jail for drugs, next set got the hell out of here over ten years ago. I don’t see either of them very often but they do send me books and music at Christmas and on my birthday. That leaves the two siblings that I should be close with, my brother & sister. I am not for no particular reason. We do not fight or have different views; we are simply distant from one another. It’s like when you see a cousin every other year at a family event. Sure there is a family resemblance and polite conversation, nonetheless he is a stranger to you. That’s us as siblings; strangers who are polite.
As for me being born as lucky number 7, well that is not clear to me yet. To say that my arrival into this world was a surprise would be an understatement. If the New York Giants did not win the Super Bowl in 1987 there is a good chance that I would not of been born. But here I am at this computer telling you my stories and hoping somebody out there is reading them. They say that you choose your parents before you’re born in the great Hall of Bluff in Heaven. I have no idea what I was thinking up there in the after life or the before life or whatever you want to call it. All I know is that I must have been up for a challenge choosing Mr. & Mrs. House.
Nine months and 12 days after the Giants won the Super Bowl my parents finally got around to giving me a name. There was no debate or thought as to what to name me; they just didn’t get around to it.
On day 12 of life they decided on a name for me. At 6:39am one minute before the coffee would be ready. Mrs. House holds ups her beloved blue can of coffee and looks at Mr. House and says “How about Maxwell?” So, Mr. & Mrs. House named their 7th child after their true love. That must mean something, right?
Searching for life,
~MH
*****
Dear…
It has been 4 years since the abandoning. I live alone on a small plot of live land on a dead planet. As far as I know I am the only one left. When I say dead planet, I mean dead. If you walk off my land the world is gone. No people, no buildings, no trees, no plants, no air, no sky, no water, no memories; only death. It is like one of those photos of the Moon or Mars, a crater of dead rock suspended in space with no purpose. Accept for my small plot of land.
Is this purgatory or paradise, paradise lost or paradise found? I have not discovered that answer yet. Why was I spared from the abandoning? I do not know. I am the last of humankind, all extinct but me enveloped in silence, the last to speak or to use language.
Why publish these letters if nobody is left to read them?
The abandoning left me with this land, one working computer and an internet connection. A single solar panel on the house powers the computer and there must be a satellite left up in space that I can get an internet connect from. This is all just a guess. I have no explanation for this and have stopped trying to find one a long time a go.
The internet is filled up with the wisdom of my ancestors; I will have no descendants to tell my stories to. The Abandoning left me this vessel for communication. It must mean something, and this is why I write these letters.
Searching for life,
~MH
*****
Dear…
Up at 6:30am, I must be a creator of breading, I say to myself out loud. No coffee but black tea and raw almonds provided by the land. This will do. Twelve raw almonds I must eat every morning before I start my day. I have no inkling why it has to be twelve, but twelve it must be. OCD in purgatory or paradise.
Day 1,468 I sit in the kitchen as my parents did. Starting out the same bay window, with the same smoke yellowed curtains with a blue dove pattern. From this window I can see the only other sign of life left on the planet and it’s actually a sign. A real sign; a billboard. A billboard that sits on the very edge of my land and a death planet, separated by advertising.
This billboard is not the typical roadside billboard that you’re used to seeing, it’s enormous. Think of the Las Vegas strip on steroids. This black and white structure stands 50ft high by 100 feet long and it reads…
Searching for life,
~MH
*****
Dear…
Yes, it was maddening. The world is gone. I awoke to nothing. No violence, no war, no rapture, no explanation, nothing. Writing this I am not sure if I am sane or insane. This is no dream. The land and the billboard told me so. Not in a voice or a feeling but their existence gives me reason to believe.
My land is perfect. It is everything I need to sustain my life; hell it has everything I need to grow old and fat. Freshwater stream with fish, an orchard of fruit trees, rows and rows of vegetable gardens, birds in the sky, squirrels and chipmunks on the ground. I live on the perfect farm; a land of perennial bounty with none of the work.
Traveling this land I now know so well I feel guilty if a have to kill any animal for food since now these animals with the land are my community…my people. My only predator is time.
I have to go now. The sun is setting and I’m losing power.
Searching for life,
~MH
*****
Dear…
I play guitar, a 67 Martian acoustic. This instrument holds memories of the life I was living before the abandoning. I played too well not to be a professional musician but not well enough to be noticed in my profession. Now I sit at the edge of my land under the shade of the billboard and play for the audience that I wish was listening.
Reminiscent sounds of clapping in the distance...could it be?
Two walking shadows at the foot of the billboard move towards me. I cannot understand nor believe it. I run towards the billboard.
“Hello Maxwell.” Says the man.
“Why...how...who are?” I ask dumbfounded
“You say that every time we meet Maxwell.” He says with a strange, knowing look on his face. "This is my wife Eve and I am Adam."
Dear…
Mr. & Mrs. House; that’s my parents and they love coffee and not much else. They have 7 kids and I am the 7th. Max, that’s me. Coffee that is their life actually was their life.
Mr. & Mrs. House up at 6:30am, by 6:35 they are sitting at a small kitchen table built for two. Yellow formica table top with four rusted steel legs two chairs that are permanently wrapped in a thick plastic with faded pink flowers imprinted on the cushions.
My Mom makes the coffee like a sacred ritual. She opens the big blue can, takes a deep breath of the grounds and then four large scoops into a stainless steel coffee pot that was given to them as a wedding gift. They sit at that table and wait the 4 minutes and 32 seconds for life to begin, again. After the 1st cup is drank my father pours the 2nd cup for the both of them and then looks at his wife and says, “Don’t say I never do anything for you.” He says this everyday and not much else to her. My Mom just smiles and reads yesterday’s newspaper.
This is what I wake up to; the smell of coffee, and two fat parents in a small kitchen who could care less about me. To be fair, at least they treat me like all their others kids. The siblings seven: the two oldest in jail for drugs, next set got the hell out of here over ten years ago. I don’t see either of them very often but they do send me books and music at Christmas and on my birthday. That leaves the two siblings that I should be close with, my brother & sister. I am not for no particular reason. We do not fight or have different views; we are simply distant from one another. It’s like when you see a cousin every other year at a family event. Sure there is a family resemblance and polite conversation, nonetheless he is a stranger to you. That’s us as siblings; strangers who are polite.
As for me being born as lucky number 7, well that is not clear to me yet. To say that my arrival into this world was a surprise would be an understatement. If the New York Giants did not win the Super Bowl in 1987 there is a good chance that I would not of been born. But here I am at this computer telling you my stories and hoping somebody out there is reading them. They say that you choose your parents before you’re born in the great Hall of Bluff in Heaven. I have no idea what I was thinking up there in the after life or the before life or whatever you want to call it. All I know is that I must have been up for a challenge choosing Mr. & Mrs. House.
Nine months and 12 days after the Giants won the Super Bowl my parents finally got around to giving me a name. There was no debate or thought as to what to name me; they just didn’t get around to it.
On day 12 of life they decided on a name for me. At 6:39am one minute before the coffee would be ready. Mrs. House holds ups her beloved blue can of coffee and looks at Mr. House and says “How about Maxwell?” So, Mr. & Mrs. House named their 7th child after their true love. That must mean something, right?
Searching for life,
~MH
*****
Dear…
It has been 4 years since the abandoning. I live alone on a small plot of live land on a dead planet. As far as I know I am the only one left. When I say dead planet, I mean dead. If you walk off my land the world is gone. No people, no buildings, no trees, no plants, no air, no sky, no water, no memories; only death. It is like one of those photos of the Moon or Mars, a crater of dead rock suspended in space with no purpose. Accept for my small plot of land.
Is this purgatory or paradise, paradise lost or paradise found? I have not discovered that answer yet. Why was I spared from the abandoning? I do not know. I am the last of humankind, all extinct but me enveloped in silence, the last to speak or to use language.
Why publish these letters if nobody is left to read them?
The abandoning left me with this land, one working computer and an internet connection. A single solar panel on the house powers the computer and there must be a satellite left up in space that I can get an internet connect from. This is all just a guess. I have no explanation for this and have stopped trying to find one a long time a go.
The internet is filled up with the wisdom of my ancestors; I will have no descendants to tell my stories to. The Abandoning left me this vessel for communication. It must mean something, and this is why I write these letters.
Searching for life,
~MH
*****
Dear…
Up at 6:30am, I must be a creator of breading, I say to myself out loud. No coffee but black tea and raw almonds provided by the land. This will do. Twelve raw almonds I must eat every morning before I start my day. I have no inkling why it has to be twelve, but twelve it must be. OCD in purgatory or paradise.
Day 1,468 I sit in the kitchen as my parents did. Starting out the same bay window, with the same smoke yellowed curtains with a blue dove pattern. From this window I can see the only other sign of life left on the planet and it’s actually a sign. A real sign; a billboard. A billboard that sits on the very edge of my land and a death planet, separated by advertising.
This billboard is not the typical roadside billboard that you’re used to seeing, it’s enormous. Think of the Las Vegas strip on steroids. This black and white structure stands 50ft high by 100 feet long and it reads…
Ye are all GODS
and it’s about time
you start getting good at it
and it’s about time
you start getting good at it
Searching for life,
~MH
*****
Dear…
Yes, it was maddening. The world is gone. I awoke to nothing. No violence, no war, no rapture, no explanation, nothing. Writing this I am not sure if I am sane or insane. This is no dream. The land and the billboard told me so. Not in a voice or a feeling but their existence gives me reason to believe.
My land is perfect. It is everything I need to sustain my life; hell it has everything I need to grow old and fat. Freshwater stream with fish, an orchard of fruit trees, rows and rows of vegetable gardens, birds in the sky, squirrels and chipmunks on the ground. I live on the perfect farm; a land of perennial bounty with none of the work.
Traveling this land I now know so well I feel guilty if a have to kill any animal for food since now these animals with the land are my community…my people. My only predator is time.
I have to go now. The sun is setting and I’m losing power.
Searching for life,
~MH
*****
Dear…
I play guitar, a 67 Martian acoustic. This instrument holds memories of the life I was living before the abandoning. I played too well not to be a professional musician but not well enough to be noticed in my profession. Now I sit at the edge of my land under the shade of the billboard and play for the audience that I wish was listening.
Reminiscent sounds of clapping in the distance...could it be?
Two walking shadows at the foot of the billboard move towards me. I cannot understand nor believe it. I run towards the billboard.
“Hello Maxwell.” Says the man.
“Why...how...who are?” I ask dumbfounded
“You say that every time we meet Maxwell.” He says with a strange, knowing look on his face. "This is my wife Eve and I am Adam."
Short Stories
I have been wanting to write short stories as of late, nothing new to share, yet. Re-living my personal greatest hits.
No Demons
Rainbow in a ghost town
I Dream of Heaven
The Shepherd & Alpaca
I never thought the afterlife would look like this
Rooftop Sanctuary
Joe the Ugly Art Critic
But, I think my next story will have something to do with this quote “Ye are all GODS…and it’s about time you start getting good at it.” & a single billboard left to stand on a dead plant.
No Demons
Rainbow in a ghost town
I Dream of Heaven
The Shepherd & Alpaca
I never thought the afterlife would look like this
Rooftop Sanctuary
Joe the Ugly Art Critic
But, I think my next story will have something to do with this quote “Ye are all GODS…and it’s about time you start getting good at it.” & a single billboard left to stand on a dead plant.
Short Stories
I have been wanting to write short stories as of late, nothing new to share, yet. Re-living my personal greatest hits.
No Demons
Rainbow in a ghost town
I Dream of Heaven
The Shepherd & Alpaca
I never thought the afterlife would look like this
Rooftop Sanctuary
Joe the Ugly Art Critic
But, I think my next story will have something to do with this quote “Ye are all GODS…and it’s about time you start getting good at it.” & a single billboard left to stand on a dead plant.
No Demons
Rainbow in a ghost town
I Dream of Heaven
The Shepherd & Alpaca
I never thought the afterlife would look like this
Rooftop Sanctuary
Joe the Ugly Art Critic
But, I think my next story will have something to do with this quote “Ye are all GODS…and it’s about time you start getting good at it.” & a single billboard left to stand on a dead plant.
I Live With a Demon - Short Story
I live with a demon.
Not an unkind demon, nonetheless a demon. Not a shadow, not a reflection, not a subconscious problem…it’s a demon. I have a dreadfully bona fide, in the flesh, ever-present demon that walks side by side with me through my life.
When I awake there is the demon sitting on the edge of my bed reading through my journal. When I brush my teeth the demon is sitting on the toilet watching me. When I am exercising there the demon is in the lotus pose in the corner of the room observing me. Across the breakfast table from me is a demon. On a train, in an elevator, at the coffee shop there is this omnipresent demon. As I write this the demon sits next to me.
The demon never speaks nor shows emotion. Simply observes me. I question if this is the demon’s Hell. Watching, studying me, never getting to be more than a silhouette. This could be the demon’s penance for past sins. Observing my life could be the demon’s purgatory. This demon might be putting in his time before reincarnation or salvation or whatever happens in a demon’s life, or un-life for the matter.
For years this demon has been by my side. A purposeless demon condemned to monitor, never to interact. This demon must be more depressed than me. I have scotch, red wine, books, and music all as my escape and company. The demon only has the all-pervading task of keeping an eye on me. The demon only has his omni-ever-present damned existence to keep himself occupied.
I am not sure if the demon is a he or she.
I have tried exorcism, taken pills, seen doctors, acupuncturists, chiropractors, vitamins, sweat lodges, prayer, meditation, walking in the woods, scream therapy, dropped acid, all efforts to rid myself of this demon to no avail.
The demon came into my life on my 40th birthday. That must mean something but after all these years that have past I have never figured it out.
My 40th birthday was a completely boring day. Just as everyday before that day, I got up at 6am, yoga, swimming then laid back on the sofa for two more hours of sleep before starting my day. I had a breakfast of fruit, pancakes and coffee then out the door. In my car I was listening to “The Best of George Harrison”, it was gift from a co-worker. At work that day filling my required eight hours was hellishly dull. Internet access to all non-related sites was prohibited and the coffee pot was broken. The only perk of my job is free coffee and hi-speed internet suffering all day long. For lunch that day I had to get out of the office and into a more crowded and noisy place, the local pub. After downing three beers and a tuna fish sandwich I headed back to work. Nobody cares if you have a couple of drinks at lunch, sometimes it even makes me think better. I am a Taming Complexity Designer. I create simplicity for everyday problems. We live in a world that is tech tired and I help to figure out how to take complexity and turn it into common sense.
Then it happened…
An electrical shock-like sensation started happening in my middle back, randomly and spontaneously. Imagine a mini-taser attached to your spine sending electrical zaps from the center of your backbone out towards your skin.
I blackout, actually I whited-out in a blaze of blinding white light. Wrecked my car. I blamed it on the alcohol. Lucky nobody was hurt, not even me. As I sit on the side of the road with the paramedic my mind’s clarity came back into focus and so did the demon sitting next me.
It appears that I am dead now, I say out loud. The paramedic assures me that I am alive and tells me to take it easy for the rest of the day. I go home with this ubiquitous demon by my side.
For the next sixty years I would live with a demon by my side. Because of this I would become a public celebrity, a public joke and a profit to some. People would mock me, others would ask for my autograph and some would pray at my feet thinking I could stave off the power of evil. I would make a fortune from the notoriety and become a hermit to the life.
All this time the world constantly encountered the demon standing next to me. The demon could not see the world around him. I was his existence.
Of the range of questions that would be asked of me over the sixty years only one ever gave me the answer of why. Why this demon is with me?
Question asked to me was…Did anything stranger than this ever happen to you? My answer…Yes. They even wrote a book about it many years ago. You may have read it in your Sunday Schools…. “The Story of Job”.
Not an unkind demon, nonetheless a demon. Not a shadow, not a reflection, not a subconscious problem…it’s a demon. I have a dreadfully bona fide, in the flesh, ever-present demon that walks side by side with me through my life.
When I awake there is the demon sitting on the edge of my bed reading through my journal. When I brush my teeth the demon is sitting on the toilet watching me. When I am exercising there the demon is in the lotus pose in the corner of the room observing me. Across the breakfast table from me is a demon. On a train, in an elevator, at the coffee shop there is this omnipresent demon. As I write this the demon sits next to me.
The demon never speaks nor shows emotion. Simply observes me. I question if this is the demon’s Hell. Watching, studying me, never getting to be more than a silhouette. This could be the demon’s penance for past sins. Observing my life could be the demon’s purgatory. This demon might be putting in his time before reincarnation or salvation or whatever happens in a demon’s life, or un-life for the matter.
For years this demon has been by my side. A purposeless demon condemned to monitor, never to interact. This demon must be more depressed than me. I have scotch, red wine, books, and music all as my escape and company. The demon only has the all-pervading task of keeping an eye on me. The demon only has his omni-ever-present damned existence to keep himself occupied.
I am not sure if the demon is a he or she.
I have tried exorcism, taken pills, seen doctors, acupuncturists, chiropractors, vitamins, sweat lodges, prayer, meditation, walking in the woods, scream therapy, dropped acid, all efforts to rid myself of this demon to no avail.
The demon came into my life on my 40th birthday. That must mean something but after all these years that have past I have never figured it out.
My 40th birthday was a completely boring day. Just as everyday before that day, I got up at 6am, yoga, swimming then laid back on the sofa for two more hours of sleep before starting my day. I had a breakfast of fruit, pancakes and coffee then out the door. In my car I was listening to “The Best of George Harrison”, it was gift from a co-worker. At work that day filling my required eight hours was hellishly dull. Internet access to all non-related sites was prohibited and the coffee pot was broken. The only perk of my job is free coffee and hi-speed internet suffering all day long. For lunch that day I had to get out of the office and into a more crowded and noisy place, the local pub. After downing three beers and a tuna fish sandwich I headed back to work. Nobody cares if you have a couple of drinks at lunch, sometimes it even makes me think better. I am a Taming Complexity Designer. I create simplicity for everyday problems. We live in a world that is tech tired and I help to figure out how to take complexity and turn it into common sense.
Then it happened…
An electrical shock-like sensation started happening in my middle back, randomly and spontaneously. Imagine a mini-taser attached to your spine sending electrical zaps from the center of your backbone out towards your skin.
I blackout, actually I whited-out in a blaze of blinding white light. Wrecked my car. I blamed it on the alcohol. Lucky nobody was hurt, not even me. As I sit on the side of the road with the paramedic my mind’s clarity came back into focus and so did the demon sitting next me.
It appears that I am dead now, I say out loud. The paramedic assures me that I am alive and tells me to take it easy for the rest of the day. I go home with this ubiquitous demon by my side.
For the next sixty years I would live with a demon by my side. Because of this I would become a public celebrity, a public joke and a profit to some. People would mock me, others would ask for my autograph and some would pray at my feet thinking I could stave off the power of evil. I would make a fortune from the notoriety and become a hermit to the life.
All this time the world constantly encountered the demon standing next to me. The demon could not see the world around him. I was his existence.
Of the range of questions that would be asked of me over the sixty years only one ever gave me the answer of why. Why this demon is with me?
Question asked to me was…Did anything stranger than this ever happen to you? My answer…Yes. They even wrote a book about it many years ago. You may have read it in your Sunday Schools…. “The Story of Job”.
I Live With a Demon - Short Story
I live with a demon.
Not an unkind demon, nonetheless a demon. Not a shadow, not a reflection, not a subconscious problem…it’s a demon. I have a dreadfully bona fide, in the flesh, ever-present demon that walks side by side with me through my life.
When I awake there is the demon sitting on the edge of my bed reading through my journal. When I brush my teeth the demon is sitting on the toilet watching me. When I am exercising there the demon is in the lotus pose in the corner of the room observing me. Across the breakfast table from me is a demon. On a train, in an elevator, at the coffee shop there is this omnipresent demon. As I write this the demon sits next to me.
The demon never speaks nor shows emotion. Simply observes me. I question if this is the demon’s Hell. Watching, studying me, never getting to be more than a silhouette. This could be the demon’s penance for past sins. Observing my life could be the demon’s purgatory. This demon might be putting in his time before reincarnation or salvation or whatever happens in a demon’s life, or un-life for the matter.
For years this demon has been by my side. A purposeless demon condemned to monitor, never to interact. This demon must be more depressed than me. I have scotch, red wine, books, and music all as my escape and company. The demon only has the all-pervading task of keeping an eye on me. The demon only has his omni-ever-present damned existence to keep himself occupied.
I am not sure if the demon is a he or she.
I have tried exorcism, taken pills, seen doctors, acupuncturists, chiropractors, vitamins, sweat lodges, prayer, meditation, walking in the woods, scream therapy, dropped acid, all efforts to rid myself of this demon to no avail.
The demon came into my life on my 40th birthday. That must mean something but after all these years that have past I have never figured it out.
My 40th birthday was a completely boring day. Just as everyday before that day, I got up at 6am, yoga, swimming then laid back on the sofa for two more hours of sleep before starting my day. I had a breakfast of fruit, pancakes and coffee then out the door. In my car I was listening to “The Best of George Harrison”, it was gift from a co-worker. At work that day filling my required eight hours was hellishly dull. Internet access to all non-related sites was prohibited and the coffee pot was broken. The only perk of my job is free coffee and hi-speed internet suffering all day long. For lunch that day I had to get out of the office and into a more crowded and noisy place, the local pub. After downing three beers and a tuna fish sandwich I headed back to work. Nobody cares if you have a couple of drinks at lunch, sometimes it even makes me think better. I am a Taming Complexity Designer. I create simplicity for everyday problems. We live in a world that is tech tired and I help to figure out how to take complexity and turn it into common sense.
Then it happened…
An electrical shock-like sensation started happening in my middle back, randomly and spontaneously. Imagine a mini-taser attached to your spine sending electrical zaps from the center of your backbone out towards your skin.
I blackout, actually I whited-out in a blaze of blinding white light. Wrecked my car. I blamed it on the alcohol. Lucky nobody was hurt, not even me. As I sit on the side of the road with the paramedic my mind’s clarity came back into focus and so did the demon sitting next me.
It appears that I am dead now, I say out loud. The paramedic assures me that I am alive and tells me to take it easy for the rest of the day. I go home with this ubiquitous demon by my side.
For the next sixty years I would live with a demon by my side. Because of this I would become a public celebrity, a public joke and a profit to some. People would mock me, others would ask for my autograph and some would pray at my feet thinking I could stave off the power of evil. I would make a fortune from the notoriety and become a hermit to the life.
All this time the world constantly encountered the demon standing next to me. The demon could not see the world around him. I was his existence.
Of the range of questions that would be asked of me over the sixty years only one ever gave me the answer of why. Why this demon is with me?
Question asked to me was…Did anything stranger than this ever happen to you? My answer…Yes. They even wrote a book about it many years ago. You may have read it in your Sunday Schools…. “The Story of Job”.
Not an unkind demon, nonetheless a demon. Not a shadow, not a reflection, not a subconscious problem…it’s a demon. I have a dreadfully bona fide, in the flesh, ever-present demon that walks side by side with me through my life.
When I awake there is the demon sitting on the edge of my bed reading through my journal. When I brush my teeth the demon is sitting on the toilet watching me. When I am exercising there the demon is in the lotus pose in the corner of the room observing me. Across the breakfast table from me is a demon. On a train, in an elevator, at the coffee shop there is this omnipresent demon. As I write this the demon sits next to me.
The demon never speaks nor shows emotion. Simply observes me. I question if this is the demon’s Hell. Watching, studying me, never getting to be more than a silhouette. This could be the demon’s penance for past sins. Observing my life could be the demon’s purgatory. This demon might be putting in his time before reincarnation or salvation or whatever happens in a demon’s life, or un-life for the matter.
For years this demon has been by my side. A purposeless demon condemned to monitor, never to interact. This demon must be more depressed than me. I have scotch, red wine, books, and music all as my escape and company. The demon only has the all-pervading task of keeping an eye on me. The demon only has his omni-ever-present damned existence to keep himself occupied.
I am not sure if the demon is a he or she.
I have tried exorcism, taken pills, seen doctors, acupuncturists, chiropractors, vitamins, sweat lodges, prayer, meditation, walking in the woods, scream therapy, dropped acid, all efforts to rid myself of this demon to no avail.
The demon came into my life on my 40th birthday. That must mean something but after all these years that have past I have never figured it out.
My 40th birthday was a completely boring day. Just as everyday before that day, I got up at 6am, yoga, swimming then laid back on the sofa for two more hours of sleep before starting my day. I had a breakfast of fruit, pancakes and coffee then out the door. In my car I was listening to “The Best of George Harrison”, it was gift from a co-worker. At work that day filling my required eight hours was hellishly dull. Internet access to all non-related sites was prohibited and the coffee pot was broken. The only perk of my job is free coffee and hi-speed internet suffering all day long. For lunch that day I had to get out of the office and into a more crowded and noisy place, the local pub. After downing three beers and a tuna fish sandwich I headed back to work. Nobody cares if you have a couple of drinks at lunch, sometimes it even makes me think better. I am a Taming Complexity Designer. I create simplicity for everyday problems. We live in a world that is tech tired and I help to figure out how to take complexity and turn it into common sense.
Then it happened…
An electrical shock-like sensation started happening in my middle back, randomly and spontaneously. Imagine a mini-taser attached to your spine sending electrical zaps from the center of your backbone out towards your skin.
I blackout, actually I whited-out in a blaze of blinding white light. Wrecked my car. I blamed it on the alcohol. Lucky nobody was hurt, not even me. As I sit on the side of the road with the paramedic my mind’s clarity came back into focus and so did the demon sitting next me.
It appears that I am dead now, I say out loud. The paramedic assures me that I am alive and tells me to take it easy for the rest of the day. I go home with this ubiquitous demon by my side.
For the next sixty years I would live with a demon by my side. Because of this I would become a public celebrity, a public joke and a profit to some. People would mock me, others would ask for my autograph and some would pray at my feet thinking I could stave off the power of evil. I would make a fortune from the notoriety and become a hermit to the life.
All this time the world constantly encountered the demon standing next to me. The demon could not see the world around him. I was his existence.
Of the range of questions that would be asked of me over the sixty years only one ever gave me the answer of why. Why this demon is with me?
Question asked to me was…Did anything stranger than this ever happen to you? My answer…Yes. They even wrote a book about it many years ago. You may have read it in your Sunday Schools…. “The Story of Job”.
Anonymous Society - Short Story
September 10, 2001, one day before the world would change forever. I am sitting in a pub in Pittsburgh International Airport drinking a beer, watching a lounge act and waiting to board my flight to Boston which has been delayed for two hours.
The music is odd, comical, and upbeat; one singer and one guitar player: The lead singer has a trash-Vegas look going on. Wearing a tiger-stripped velvet jacket, Jim Morrison red leather pants, swigging vodka from a hillbilly-jug and he keeps pointing to this girl at the table in front of him, “Kitty this one for you”. Running his hand through his shinny black hair, which is most likely a wig?
The guitarist is a cross between Paco De Lucia and a Seinfeld character. He is wearing a white puffy shirt made famous on that sitcom. He comes across as a real existential asshole. He is sitting on a stool playing his guitar all the while looking at an open book that he has placed next to his chair on a small table. I am betting the book is some kind of eco-save-something-type of book. Additionally on his side table is a martini glass filled with almonds, a small lighted candle, and a Buddha statue. Of course he is not wearing shoes and has a scruffy beard. Yep – he is an extensional asshole.
I ask the bartender for a shot of Jack and a beer chaser. He gives me a “your gonna need it if you plan on spending the next two hours listening to these guys performer” look.
The music stops abruptly and the lead singer walks to center stage and stands quiet, prayerfully for a minute and then says “I am Dak Davis. To my right is Johnny Ravioli on guitar and we are Anonymous Society”. For our next set we will perform the greatest hits from the collected works of Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra.” Just then both he and Johnny Ravioli make the sign of the cross after saying the names of Dean and Frank aloud.
Bartender looks at me, “They do that every time they speak those names, what a couple of a-holes.”
They start playing the “Girl from Ipanema”. It’s good. Next they move into Dino’s “Ain’t That a Kick in the Head”, also good. Maybe an extensional asshole and a man trapped in the Rat-Pack can entertain me.
For the next forty-five-sound-filled-minutes I listened to Frank and Dean with shots of Jack Daniels easing my mind. Anonymous Society – rock, in a flamenco-impromptu-mascots-entertainment-experience, sort of way.
Dak Davis exhales into the microphone, “Kitty lets get fresh vodka”. He walks off stage and grabs the hand of a Peg Bundy looking women. Big hair, low cut tiger striped dress, small red purse, giant black Jackie-O sunglasses, (let me remind you that we are indoors) and a pair of the highest heels known to man or woman. Dak lights her cigarette. I am amazed that her hair didn’t go up in flames.
Johnny Ravioli turns to his miniature statue of Buddha and bows three times. Closes his book, Integral Ecology (I was so right... eco-save-something-type of book…he is an extensional asshole). He places his guitar back into its case and covers it with a Frank Sinatra blanket, proceeds to make the sign of the cross, blows out his candle and walks over to the bar and sit by me.
“Johnny Ravioli, flamenco guitarist of Anonymous Society”. “Nice to meet you”, I say. We shake hands, he doesn’t ask my name. “What are you doing playing music in an airport” I ask. “It’s the only place where a new audience comes to you every night, no traveling required”.
“There’s Las Vegas” I say to him. “We’re not that good. Plus I hate the heat and Dak has to attend the same Catholic Church every morning at 8am, St Andrew’s Cathedral over in Bellevue. He hasn’t missed a mass in thirty two years. He says it’s something about his penance for being such a terrible altar boy in his youth. Then there is also the strip club down in McKees Rocks that he goes to every night at 8pm. Dak always says the a.m. is for Jesus and the p.m. is for the Devil”. I ask “Does Dak have a thirty two year run at the strip club?” “No, just twelve…he met Kitty there eleven years ago”.
Laughing, I offer to buy Johnny a drink. “Thanks”, he said, “I’ll have a scotch with milk on the rocks. It’s what monks drink for longer meditation sessions. Protein for the body and transcendence for the soul on ice, not a bad drink you should try one”. No thanks.
“Johnny let me ask you why “Anonymous Society” for a band’s name?” Johnny answers “It’s a homage to the Rat-Pack and plus the name Mafia was already taken by an authentic Italian harpsichord and violin group over in Oakland”. That’s too bad. “True’that, True’that”, Johnny said then finishes off his drink.
Johnny thanks me for the drinks and hands me a copy of an Anonymous Society CD. “That’s for the drink, enjoy. I gotta get ready for the next set”.
On my third Jack Daniels with a beer chaser I stare at the CD cover artwork. It’s a blank white album cover, very original, I laugh to myself, homage to Frank and Dean (I make the sign of the cross being a lapsed Catholic it didn’t feel disrespectful) and rip off the Beatles most successful album cover. At the bottom of the cover in small print it read: Low End Spirituality as performed by Anonymous Society. Above the word Society was a small silhouette photo of Dak and Johnny on stage exactly as they are tonight.
Flip the CD over to read the song list:
My Sadistic Cat,
Ego is a WE,
My Reptilian Brain Stem Hurts,
Narcissism Sandwich,
I am Awakening to Reality and then Going Back to Sleep,
FOCUSout
Masquerading Mystic…
What no Frank or Dean cover tunes? I say out load, the bartender stares at me so I order another Jack with a beer chaser.
Johnny Ravioli walks on stage, picks his guitar up out of the case, carefully folding the Frank Sinatra blanket, and makes the sign of cross. He lights the candle, opens his book, eats five almonds, bows three times to the Buddha statue, sits in his chair, tunes his guitar, then stares off.
Dak jumps on stage and runs his fingers through his black shiny hair. Yep, definitely a wig. He shouts out – “one, two, one, two, three, four…”
Then silence. No guitar, no music. Dak looks over at Johnny and yells, “Quit looking at my girl Kitty’s tits and play that damm guitar”. He takes a swig of vodka from his hillbilly-jug.
Johnny yells out from his chair “I am Awakening to Reality and then Going Back to Sleep”. I laugh out loud; track five on the white album.
Over the Airport load speaker…”Flight to Boston is now departing from gate B8.”
I gather my stuff, pay my tab and leave the bartender a generous tip. I smile and wave goodbye to the members of Anonymous Society, think to myself about this brief, entertaining experience and wished that I would’ve ordered some food to go with all the jack and beer that I drank.
Sitting on the plane I pop the CD into my laptop. Double clicking the CD icon to play it, two quotes appear before the music will start.
“I do not care about my obituary; I only care about my spirit and vodka.”
- Dak Davis, lead singer of Anonymous Society
“I play this music to chase out the demons.”
- Johnny Ravioli, flamenco guitarist of Anonymous Society
Eight o’clock in the morning I awake in my hotel room in Boston. Turning on the TV I hear the news of an attack on New York's World Trade Center. I think about demons, innocent spirits, lives lost and that I need vodka…lots of vodka.
Later that day I find out that the plane that I exited that night was the same plane that the terrorists had entered onto to act out their evil. I think how I accidentally left behind that CD entitled Low End Spirituality. What an appropriate title to describe the culture of a terrorist’s thinking.
My Reptilian Brain Stem hurts, as I drink vodka to chase out the demons in my head.
The music is odd, comical, and upbeat; one singer and one guitar player: The lead singer has a trash-Vegas look going on. Wearing a tiger-stripped velvet jacket, Jim Morrison red leather pants, swigging vodka from a hillbilly-jug and he keeps pointing to this girl at the table in front of him, “Kitty this one for you”. Running his hand through his shinny black hair, which is most likely a wig?
The guitarist is a cross between Paco De Lucia and a Seinfeld character. He is wearing a white puffy shirt made famous on that sitcom. He comes across as a real existential asshole. He is sitting on a stool playing his guitar all the while looking at an open book that he has placed next to his chair on a small table. I am betting the book is some kind of eco-save-something-type of book. Additionally on his side table is a martini glass filled with almonds, a small lighted candle, and a Buddha statue. Of course he is not wearing shoes and has a scruffy beard. Yep – he is an extensional asshole.
I ask the bartender for a shot of Jack and a beer chaser. He gives me a “your gonna need it if you plan on spending the next two hours listening to these guys performer” look.
The music stops abruptly and the lead singer walks to center stage and stands quiet, prayerfully for a minute and then says “I am Dak Davis. To my right is Johnny Ravioli on guitar and we are Anonymous Society”. For our next set we will perform the greatest hits from the collected works of Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra.” Just then both he and Johnny Ravioli make the sign of the cross after saying the names of Dean and Frank aloud.
Bartender looks at me, “They do that every time they speak those names, what a couple of a-holes.”
They start playing the “Girl from Ipanema”. It’s good. Next they move into Dino’s “Ain’t That a Kick in the Head”, also good. Maybe an extensional asshole and a man trapped in the Rat-Pack can entertain me.
For the next forty-five-sound-filled-minutes I listened to Frank and Dean with shots of Jack Daniels easing my mind. Anonymous Society – rock, in a flamenco-impromptu-mascots-entertainment-experience, sort of way.
Dak Davis exhales into the microphone, “Kitty lets get fresh vodka”. He walks off stage and grabs the hand of a Peg Bundy looking women. Big hair, low cut tiger striped dress, small red purse, giant black Jackie-O sunglasses, (let me remind you that we are indoors) and a pair of the highest heels known to man or woman. Dak lights her cigarette. I am amazed that her hair didn’t go up in flames.
Johnny Ravioli turns to his miniature statue of Buddha and bows three times. Closes his book, Integral Ecology (I was so right... eco-save-something-type of book…he is an extensional asshole). He places his guitar back into its case and covers it with a Frank Sinatra blanket, proceeds to make the sign of the cross, blows out his candle and walks over to the bar and sit by me.
“Johnny Ravioli, flamenco guitarist of Anonymous Society”. “Nice to meet you”, I say. We shake hands, he doesn’t ask my name. “What are you doing playing music in an airport” I ask. “It’s the only place where a new audience comes to you every night, no traveling required”.
“There’s Las Vegas” I say to him. “We’re not that good. Plus I hate the heat and Dak has to attend the same Catholic Church every morning at 8am, St Andrew’s Cathedral over in Bellevue. He hasn’t missed a mass in thirty two years. He says it’s something about his penance for being such a terrible altar boy in his youth. Then there is also the strip club down in McKees Rocks that he goes to every night at 8pm. Dak always says the a.m. is for Jesus and the p.m. is for the Devil”. I ask “Does Dak have a thirty two year run at the strip club?” “No, just twelve…he met Kitty there eleven years ago”.
Laughing, I offer to buy Johnny a drink. “Thanks”, he said, “I’ll have a scotch with milk on the rocks. It’s what monks drink for longer meditation sessions. Protein for the body and transcendence for the soul on ice, not a bad drink you should try one”. No thanks.
“Johnny let me ask you why “Anonymous Society” for a band’s name?” Johnny answers “It’s a homage to the Rat-Pack and plus the name Mafia was already taken by an authentic Italian harpsichord and violin group over in Oakland”. That’s too bad. “True’that, True’that”, Johnny said then finishes off his drink.
Johnny thanks me for the drinks and hands me a copy of an Anonymous Society CD. “That’s for the drink, enjoy. I gotta get ready for the next set”.
On my third Jack Daniels with a beer chaser I stare at the CD cover artwork. It’s a blank white album cover, very original, I laugh to myself, homage to Frank and Dean (I make the sign of the cross being a lapsed Catholic it didn’t feel disrespectful) and rip off the Beatles most successful album cover. At the bottom of the cover in small print it read: Low End Spirituality as performed by Anonymous Society. Above the word Society was a small silhouette photo of Dak and Johnny on stage exactly as they are tonight.
Flip the CD over to read the song list:
My Sadistic Cat,
Ego is a WE,
My Reptilian Brain Stem Hurts,
Narcissism Sandwich,
I am Awakening to Reality and then Going Back to Sleep,
FOCUSout
Masquerading Mystic…
What no Frank or Dean cover tunes? I say out load, the bartender stares at me so I order another Jack with a beer chaser.
Johnny Ravioli walks on stage, picks his guitar up out of the case, carefully folding the Frank Sinatra blanket, and makes the sign of cross. He lights the candle, opens his book, eats five almonds, bows three times to the Buddha statue, sits in his chair, tunes his guitar, then stares off.
Dak jumps on stage and runs his fingers through his black shiny hair. Yep, definitely a wig. He shouts out – “one, two, one, two, three, four…”
Then silence. No guitar, no music. Dak looks over at Johnny and yells, “Quit looking at my girl Kitty’s tits and play that damm guitar”. He takes a swig of vodka from his hillbilly-jug.
Johnny yells out from his chair “I am Awakening to Reality and then Going Back to Sleep”. I laugh out loud; track five on the white album.
Over the Airport load speaker…”Flight to Boston is now departing from gate B8.”
I gather my stuff, pay my tab and leave the bartender a generous tip. I smile and wave goodbye to the members of Anonymous Society, think to myself about this brief, entertaining experience and wished that I would’ve ordered some food to go with all the jack and beer that I drank.
Sitting on the plane I pop the CD into my laptop. Double clicking the CD icon to play it, two quotes appear before the music will start.
“I do not care about my obituary; I only care about my spirit and vodka.”
- Dak Davis, lead singer of Anonymous Society
“I play this music to chase out the demons.”
- Johnny Ravioli, flamenco guitarist of Anonymous Society
Eight o’clock in the morning I awake in my hotel room in Boston. Turning on the TV I hear the news of an attack on New York's World Trade Center. I think about demons, innocent spirits, lives lost and that I need vodka…lots of vodka.
Later that day I find out that the plane that I exited that night was the same plane that the terrorists had entered onto to act out their evil. I think how I accidentally left behind that CD entitled Low End Spirituality. What an appropriate title to describe the culture of a terrorist’s thinking.
My Reptilian Brain Stem hurts, as I drink vodka to chase out the demons in my head.
Anonymous Society - Short Story
September 10, 2001, one day before the world would change forever. I am sitting in a pub in Pittsburgh International Airport drinking a beer, watching a lounge act and waiting to board my flight to Boston which has been delayed for two hours.
The music is odd, comical, and upbeat; one singer and one guitar player: The lead singer has a trash-Vegas look going on. Wearing a tiger-stripped velvet jacket, Jim Morrison red leather pants, swigging vodka from a hillbilly-jug and he keeps pointing to this girl at the table in front of him, “Kitty this one for you”. Running his hand through his shinny black hair, which is most likely a wig?
The guitarist is a cross between Paco De Lucia and a Seinfeld character. He is wearing a white puffy shirt made famous on that sitcom. He comes across as a real existential asshole. He is sitting on a stool playing his guitar all the while looking at an open book that he has placed next to his chair on a small table. I am betting the book is some kind of eco-save-something-type of book. Additionally on his side table is a martini glass filled with almonds, a small lighted candle, and a Buddha statue. Of course he is not wearing shoes and has a scruffy beard. Yep – he is an extensional asshole.
I ask the bartender for a shot of Jack and a beer chaser. He gives me a “your gonna need it if you plan on spending the next two hours listening to these guys performer” look.
The music stops abruptly and the lead singer walks to center stage and stands quiet, prayerfully for a minute and then says “I am Dak Davis. To my right is Johnny Ravioli on guitar and we are Anonymous Society”. For our next set we will perform the greatest hits from the collected works of Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra.” Just then both he and Johnny Ravioli make the sign of the cross after saying the names of Dean and Frank aloud.
Bartender looks at me, “They do that every time they speak those names, what a couple of a-holes.”
They start playing the “Girl from Ipanema”. It’s good. Next they move into Dino’s “Ain’t That a Kick in the Head”, also good. Maybe an extensional asshole and a man trapped in the Rat-Pack can entertain me.
For the next forty-five-sound-filled-minutes I listened to Frank and Dean with shots of Jack Daniels easing my mind. Anonymous Society – rock, in a flamenco-impromptu-mascots-entertainment-experience, sort of way.
Dak Davis exhales into the microphone, “Kitty lets get fresh vodka”. He walks off stage and grabs the hand of a Peg Bundy looking women. Big hair, low cut tiger striped dress, small red purse, giant black Jackie-O sunglasses, (let me remind you that we are indoors) and a pair of the highest heels known to man or woman. Dak lights her cigarette. I am amazed that her hair didn’t go up in flames.
Johnny Ravioli turns to his miniature statue of Buddha and bows three times. Closes his book, Integral Ecology (I was so right... eco-save-something-type of book…he is an extensional asshole). He places his guitar back into its case and covers it with a Frank Sinatra blanket, proceeds to make the sign of the cross, blows out his candle and walks over to the bar and sit by me.
“Johnny Ravioli, flamenco guitarist of Anonymous Society”. “Nice to meet you”, I say. We shake hands, he doesn’t ask my name. “What are you doing playing music in an airport” I ask. “It’s the only place where a new audience comes to you every night, no traveling required”.
“There’s Las Vegas” I say to him. “We’re not that good. Plus I hate the heat and Dak has to attend the same Catholic Church every morning at 8am, St Andrew’s Cathedral over in Bellevue. He hasn’t missed a mass in thirty two years. He says it’s something about his penance for being such a terrible altar boy in his youth. Then there is also the strip club down in McKees Rocks that he goes to every night at 8pm. Dak always says the a.m. is for Jesus and the p.m. is for the Devil”. I ask “Does Dak have a thirty two year run at the strip club?” “No, just twelve…he met Kitty there eleven years ago”.
Laughing, I offer to buy Johnny a drink. “Thanks”, he said, “I’ll have a scotch with milk on the rocks. It’s what monks drink for longer meditation sessions. Protein for the body and transcendence for the soul on ice, not a bad drink you should try one”. No thanks.
“Johnny let me ask you why “Anonymous Society” for a band’s name?” Johnny answers “It’s a homage to the Rat-Pack and plus the name Mafia was already taken by an authentic Italian harpsichord and violin group over in Oakland”. That’s too bad. “True’that, True’that”, Johnny said then finishes off his drink.
Johnny thanks me for the drinks and hands me a copy of an Anonymous Society CD. “That’s for the drink, enjoy. I gotta get ready for the next set”.
On my third Jack Daniels with a beer chaser I stare at the CD cover artwork. It’s a blank white album cover, very original, I laugh to myself, homage to Frank and Dean (I make the sign of the cross being a lapsed Catholic it didn’t feel disrespectful) and rip off the Beatles most successful album cover. At the bottom of the cover in small print it read: Low End Spirituality as performed by Anonymous Society. Above the word Society was a small silhouette photo of Dak and Johnny on stage exactly as they are tonight.
Flip the CD over to read the song list:
My Sadistic Cat,
Ego is a WE,
My Reptilian Brain Stem Hurts,
Narcissism Sandwich,
I am Awakening to Reality and then Going Back to Sleep,
FOCUSout
Masquerading Mystic…
What no Frank or Dean cover tunes? I say out load, the bartender stares at me so I order another Jack with a beer chaser.
Johnny Ravioli walks on stage, picks his guitar up out of the case, carefully folding the Frank Sinatra blanket, and makes the sign of cross. He lights the candle, opens his book, eats five almonds, bows three times to the Buddha statue, sits in his chair, tunes his guitar, then stares off.
Dak jumps on stage and runs his fingers through his black shiny hair. Yep, definitely a wig. He shouts out – “one, two, one, two, three, four…”
Then silence. No guitar, no music. Dak looks over at Johnny and yells, “Quit looking at my girl Kitty’s tits and play that damm guitar”. He takes a swig of vodka from his hillbilly-jug.
Johnny yells out from his chair “I am Awakening to Reality and then Going Back to Sleep”. I laugh out loud; track five on the white album.
Over the Airport load speaker…”Flight to Boston is now departing from gate B8.”
I gather my stuff, pay my tab and leave the bartender a generous tip. I smile and wave goodbye to the members of Anonymous Society, think to myself about this brief, entertaining experience and wished that I would’ve ordered some food to go with all the jack and beer that I drank.
Sitting on the plane I pop the CD into my laptop. Double clicking the CD icon to play it, two quotes appear before the music will start.
“I do not care about my obituary; I only care about my spirit and vodka.”
- Dak Davis, lead singer of Anonymous Society
“I play this music to chase out the demons.”
- Johnny Ravioli, flamenco guitarist of Anonymous Society
Eight o’clock in the morning I awake in my hotel room in Boston. Turning on the TV I hear the news of an attack on New York's World Trade Center. I think about demons, innocent spirits, lives lost and that I need vodka…lots of vodka.
Later that day I find out that the plane that I exited that night was the same plane that the terrorists had entered onto to act out their evil. I think how I accidentally left behind that CD entitled Low End Spirituality. What an appropriate title to describe the culture of a terrorist’s thinking.
My Reptilian Brain Stem hurts, as I drink vodka to chase out the demons in my head.
The music is odd, comical, and upbeat; one singer and one guitar player: The lead singer has a trash-Vegas look going on. Wearing a tiger-stripped velvet jacket, Jim Morrison red leather pants, swigging vodka from a hillbilly-jug and he keeps pointing to this girl at the table in front of him, “Kitty this one for you”. Running his hand through his shinny black hair, which is most likely a wig?
The guitarist is a cross between Paco De Lucia and a Seinfeld character. He is wearing a white puffy shirt made famous on that sitcom. He comes across as a real existential asshole. He is sitting on a stool playing his guitar all the while looking at an open book that he has placed next to his chair on a small table. I am betting the book is some kind of eco-save-something-type of book. Additionally on his side table is a martini glass filled with almonds, a small lighted candle, and a Buddha statue. Of course he is not wearing shoes and has a scruffy beard. Yep – he is an extensional asshole.
I ask the bartender for a shot of Jack and a beer chaser. He gives me a “your gonna need it if you plan on spending the next two hours listening to these guys performer” look.
The music stops abruptly and the lead singer walks to center stage and stands quiet, prayerfully for a minute and then says “I am Dak Davis. To my right is Johnny Ravioli on guitar and we are Anonymous Society”. For our next set we will perform the greatest hits from the collected works of Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra.” Just then both he and Johnny Ravioli make the sign of the cross after saying the names of Dean and Frank aloud.
Bartender looks at me, “They do that every time they speak those names, what a couple of a-holes.”
They start playing the “Girl from Ipanema”. It’s good. Next they move into Dino’s “Ain’t That a Kick in the Head”, also good. Maybe an extensional asshole and a man trapped in the Rat-Pack can entertain me.
For the next forty-five-sound-filled-minutes I listened to Frank and Dean with shots of Jack Daniels easing my mind. Anonymous Society – rock, in a flamenco-impromptu-mascots-entertainment-experience, sort of way.
Dak Davis exhales into the microphone, “Kitty lets get fresh vodka”. He walks off stage and grabs the hand of a Peg Bundy looking women. Big hair, low cut tiger striped dress, small red purse, giant black Jackie-O sunglasses, (let me remind you that we are indoors) and a pair of the highest heels known to man or woman. Dak lights her cigarette. I am amazed that her hair didn’t go up in flames.
Johnny Ravioli turns to his miniature statue of Buddha and bows three times. Closes his book, Integral Ecology (I was so right... eco-save-something-type of book…he is an extensional asshole). He places his guitar back into its case and covers it with a Frank Sinatra blanket, proceeds to make the sign of the cross, blows out his candle and walks over to the bar and sit by me.
“Johnny Ravioli, flamenco guitarist of Anonymous Society”. “Nice to meet you”, I say. We shake hands, he doesn’t ask my name. “What are you doing playing music in an airport” I ask. “It’s the only place where a new audience comes to you every night, no traveling required”.
“There’s Las Vegas” I say to him. “We’re not that good. Plus I hate the heat and Dak has to attend the same Catholic Church every morning at 8am, St Andrew’s Cathedral over in Bellevue. He hasn’t missed a mass in thirty two years. He says it’s something about his penance for being such a terrible altar boy in his youth. Then there is also the strip club down in McKees Rocks that he goes to every night at 8pm. Dak always says the a.m. is for Jesus and the p.m. is for the Devil”. I ask “Does Dak have a thirty two year run at the strip club?” “No, just twelve…he met Kitty there eleven years ago”.
Laughing, I offer to buy Johnny a drink. “Thanks”, he said, “I’ll have a scotch with milk on the rocks. It’s what monks drink for longer meditation sessions. Protein for the body and transcendence for the soul on ice, not a bad drink you should try one”. No thanks.
“Johnny let me ask you why “Anonymous Society” for a band’s name?” Johnny answers “It’s a homage to the Rat-Pack and plus the name Mafia was already taken by an authentic Italian harpsichord and violin group over in Oakland”. That’s too bad. “True’that, True’that”, Johnny said then finishes off his drink.
Johnny thanks me for the drinks and hands me a copy of an Anonymous Society CD. “That’s for the drink, enjoy. I gotta get ready for the next set”.
On my third Jack Daniels with a beer chaser I stare at the CD cover artwork. It’s a blank white album cover, very original, I laugh to myself, homage to Frank and Dean (I make the sign of the cross being a lapsed Catholic it didn’t feel disrespectful) and rip off the Beatles most successful album cover. At the bottom of the cover in small print it read: Low End Spirituality as performed by Anonymous Society. Above the word Society was a small silhouette photo of Dak and Johnny on stage exactly as they are tonight.
Flip the CD over to read the song list:
My Sadistic Cat,
Ego is a WE,
My Reptilian Brain Stem Hurts,
Narcissism Sandwich,
I am Awakening to Reality and then Going Back to Sleep,
FOCUSout
Masquerading Mystic…
What no Frank or Dean cover tunes? I say out load, the bartender stares at me so I order another Jack with a beer chaser.
Johnny Ravioli walks on stage, picks his guitar up out of the case, carefully folding the Frank Sinatra blanket, and makes the sign of cross. He lights the candle, opens his book, eats five almonds, bows three times to the Buddha statue, sits in his chair, tunes his guitar, then stares off.
Dak jumps on stage and runs his fingers through his black shiny hair. Yep, definitely a wig. He shouts out – “one, two, one, two, three, four…”
Then silence. No guitar, no music. Dak looks over at Johnny and yells, “Quit looking at my girl Kitty’s tits and play that damm guitar”. He takes a swig of vodka from his hillbilly-jug.
Johnny yells out from his chair “I am Awakening to Reality and then Going Back to Sleep”. I laugh out loud; track five on the white album.
Over the Airport load speaker…”Flight to Boston is now departing from gate B8.”
I gather my stuff, pay my tab and leave the bartender a generous tip. I smile and wave goodbye to the members of Anonymous Society, think to myself about this brief, entertaining experience and wished that I would’ve ordered some food to go with all the jack and beer that I drank.
Sitting on the plane I pop the CD into my laptop. Double clicking the CD icon to play it, two quotes appear before the music will start.
“I do not care about my obituary; I only care about my spirit and vodka.”
- Dak Davis, lead singer of Anonymous Society
“I play this music to chase out the demons.”
- Johnny Ravioli, flamenco guitarist of Anonymous Society
Eight o’clock in the morning I awake in my hotel room in Boston. Turning on the TV I hear the news of an attack on New York's World Trade Center. I think about demons, innocent spirits, lives lost and that I need vodka…lots of vodka.
Later that day I find out that the plane that I exited that night was the same plane that the terrorists had entered onto to act out their evil. I think how I accidentally left behind that CD entitled Low End Spirituality. What an appropriate title to describe the culture of a terrorist’s thinking.
My Reptilian Brain Stem hurts, as I drink vodka to chase out the demons in my head.
Short Stories - Your Favorite One
Some of these have been published some of them have been rejected.
What is your favorite one?
No Demons
Rainbow in a ghost town
I Dream of Heaven
The Shepherd & Alpaca
I never thought the afterlife would look like this
Rooftop Sanctuary
Joe the Ugly Art Critic
What is your favorite one?
No Demons
Rainbow in a ghost town
I Dream of Heaven
The Shepherd & Alpaca
I never thought the afterlife would look like this
Rooftop Sanctuary
Joe the Ugly Art Critic
Short Stories - Your Favorite One
Some of these have been published some of them have been rejected.
What is your favorite one?
No Demons
Rainbow in a ghost town
I Dream of Heaven
The Shepherd & Alpaca
I never thought the afterlife would look like this
Rooftop Sanctuary
Joe the Ugly Art Critic
What is your favorite one?
No Demons
Rainbow in a ghost town
I Dream of Heaven
The Shepherd & Alpaca
I never thought the afterlife would look like this
Rooftop Sanctuary
Joe the Ugly Art Critic
Joe the Ugly Art Critic - Short Story
In hindsight it is essential to look back when traveling across the country without a destination.
Its dusk, my motorcycle is hot from the day’s drive. The two water bottles strapped to the back fender are warm but drinkable.
I sit next to my friend who has lost in the DNA game of chance. No redeeming qualities to this man. He lost before his life even began.
My friend’s name is Joe and Joe is ugly. Not in the typical sense of letting-himself-go type of ugly. He is ugly on a skull level and there is nothing you can do to fix that. He is not deformed or structurally damaged, it’s just that he has an odd shaped skull. Joe is a good argument for evolution stopping abruptly and skipping over the few remaining people standing in line.
Why did I ask Joe to travel with me? When you’re ugly people notice, when your job is to criticize people notice. He is an art critic who preaches about the end of modern society. “Nowhere left to go on the ladder of life when your job is to judge creation itself”, that’s his motto. Not a happy person. The essential humanness that ties us all together is void in Joe’s life. I find that interesting.
The song lyrics “I’ve been through the desert on a horse with no name” will not stop running through my head. I hate that song. Joe has insulted 32 of the last 35 people we have met. His motorcycle keeps breaking down.
“Twelve hundred touring sportsters for the traveling motorcyclist! it is the Porsche of the motorcycle world!”, he keeps yelling that at the top of his lungs every time the bike breaks down. That’s what the saleslady told him as he wrote a check of 15,000.00 dollars for this lemon on two wheels. My bike is a loaner from my cousin. I think he paid $750.00 for it eight years ago.
Joe gets off his bike and steps to the edge of the cliff that we have parked our bikes on. He looks at me and says “write this down: God used to live on this Earth. He got tried of everybody picketing outside his window. Observation is fundamental to making sense of this ever present moment of now”. Then he fell back off the cliff, ending his life.
“Hindsight is essential” is all I could to say….goodbye ugly art critic Joe.
Its dusk, my motorcycle is hot from the day’s drive. The two water bottles strapped to the back fender are warm but drinkable.
I sit next to my friend who has lost in the DNA game of chance. No redeeming qualities to this man. He lost before his life even began.
My friend’s name is Joe and Joe is ugly. Not in the typical sense of letting-himself-go type of ugly. He is ugly on a skull level and there is nothing you can do to fix that. He is not deformed or structurally damaged, it’s just that he has an odd shaped skull. Joe is a good argument for evolution stopping abruptly and skipping over the few remaining people standing in line.
Why did I ask Joe to travel with me? When you’re ugly people notice, when your job is to criticize people notice. He is an art critic who preaches about the end of modern society. “Nowhere left to go on the ladder of life when your job is to judge creation itself”, that’s his motto. Not a happy person. The essential humanness that ties us all together is void in Joe’s life. I find that interesting.
The song lyrics “I’ve been through the desert on a horse with no name” will not stop running through my head. I hate that song. Joe has insulted 32 of the last 35 people we have met. His motorcycle keeps breaking down.
“Twelve hundred touring sportsters for the traveling motorcyclist! it is the Porsche of the motorcycle world!”, he keeps yelling that at the top of his lungs every time the bike breaks down. That’s what the saleslady told him as he wrote a check of 15,000.00 dollars for this lemon on two wheels. My bike is a loaner from my cousin. I think he paid $750.00 for it eight years ago.
Joe gets off his bike and steps to the edge of the cliff that we have parked our bikes on. He looks at me and says “write this down: God used to live on this Earth. He got tried of everybody picketing outside his window. Observation is fundamental to making sense of this ever present moment of now”. Then he fell back off the cliff, ending his life.
“Hindsight is essential” is all I could to say….goodbye ugly art critic Joe.
Joe the Ugly Art Critic - Short Story
In hindsight it is essential to look back when traveling across the country without a destination.
Its dusk, my motorcycle is hot from the day’s drive. The two water bottles strapped to the back fender are warm but drinkable.
I sit next to my friend who has lost in the DNA game of chance. No redeeming qualities to this man. He lost before his life even began.
My friend’s name is Joe and Joe is ugly. Not in the typical sense of letting-himself-go type of ugly. He is ugly on a skull level and there is nothing you can do to fix that. He is not deformed or structurally damaged, it’s just that he has an odd shaped skull. Joe is a good argument for evolution stopping abruptly and skipping over the few remaining people standing in line.
Why did I ask Joe to travel with me? When you’re ugly people notice, when your job is to criticize people notice. He is an art critic who preaches about the end of modern society. “Nowhere left to go on the ladder of life when your job is to judge creation itself”, that’s his motto. Not a happy person. The essential humanness that ties us all together is void in Joe’s life. I find that interesting.
The song lyrics “I’ve been through the desert on a horse with no name” will not stop running through my head. I hate that song. Joe has insulted 32 of the last 35 people we have met. His motorcycle keeps breaking down.
“Twelve hundred touring sportsters for the traveling motorcyclist! it is the Porsche of the motorcycle world!”, he keeps yelling that at the top of his lungs every time the bike breaks down. That’s what the saleslady told him as he wrote a check of 15,000.00 dollars for this lemon on two wheels. My bike is a loaner from my cousin. I think he paid $750.00 for it eight years ago.
Joe gets off his bike and steps to the edge of the cliff that we have parked our bikes on. He looks at me and says “write this down: God used to live on this Earth. He got tried of everybody picketing outside his window. Observation is fundamental to making sense of this ever present moment of now”. Then he fell back off the cliff, ending his life.
“Hindsight is essential” is all I could to say….goodbye ugly art critic Joe.
Its dusk, my motorcycle is hot from the day’s drive. The two water bottles strapped to the back fender are warm but drinkable.
I sit next to my friend who has lost in the DNA game of chance. No redeeming qualities to this man. He lost before his life even began.
My friend’s name is Joe and Joe is ugly. Not in the typical sense of letting-himself-go type of ugly. He is ugly on a skull level and there is nothing you can do to fix that. He is not deformed or structurally damaged, it’s just that he has an odd shaped skull. Joe is a good argument for evolution stopping abruptly and skipping over the few remaining people standing in line.
Why did I ask Joe to travel with me? When you’re ugly people notice, when your job is to criticize people notice. He is an art critic who preaches about the end of modern society. “Nowhere left to go on the ladder of life when your job is to judge creation itself”, that’s his motto. Not a happy person. The essential humanness that ties us all together is void in Joe’s life. I find that interesting.
The song lyrics “I’ve been through the desert on a horse with no name” will not stop running through my head. I hate that song. Joe has insulted 32 of the last 35 people we have met. His motorcycle keeps breaking down.
“Twelve hundred touring sportsters for the traveling motorcyclist! it is the Porsche of the motorcycle world!”, he keeps yelling that at the top of his lungs every time the bike breaks down. That’s what the saleslady told him as he wrote a check of 15,000.00 dollars for this lemon on two wheels. My bike is a loaner from my cousin. I think he paid $750.00 for it eight years ago.
Joe gets off his bike and steps to the edge of the cliff that we have parked our bikes on. He looks at me and says “write this down: God used to live on this Earth. He got tried of everybody picketing outside his window. Observation is fundamental to making sense of this ever present moment of now”. Then he fell back off the cliff, ending his life.
“Hindsight is essential” is all I could to say….goodbye ugly art critic Joe.
Rooftop Sanctuary – Short Story
Not again…fighting, screaming, yelling…why can’t they do this when I’m not home?
Crawl out my window onto the fire escape and I go up to my rooftop sanctuary to numb myself from this noise. At the age of 12 I shouldn’t even know what the word sanctuary means, nonetheless need one.
My sanctuary is nice. It sits atop the city skyline that overlooks traffic, Point Park and in the distance I can see the river. A grass rooftop, real grass, real dirt, Mother Nature three stories up in the city sky. I have a Chesapeake chaise lounge chair, again something else I should not know the proper name for but my mother is sure to remind me to refer to the furniture by its correct name. The lounge chair is placed underneath solar panels so there is always good shade for me to relax in. Wind chime, bird feeders and an herb garden; the sustainabley-eco-friendly trifecta of a sanctuary. I even get internet up here.
A glass of lemonade, laptop, ipod, headphones and I can forget about the sounds of my parents’ lives falling apart underneath my feet.
What and why of all of this: My father had an 8-month affair with his sectary. How unoriginal, I like him less for being typical. He blames the affair on my mother’s crazy eyes and her constant neglect of his opinion. Not that bad of an excuse, truth be told.
Two parents with only three things left in common; stuff, how to get more stuff and most importantly how are we going to pay for all this stuff.
The stuff part works out ok for me. I am 12 with a rooftop sanctuary that gets internet. I want for nothing. I ask for everything. As long as I can live with the dysfunction beneath my grassy feet everything will be ok. I hope.
Crawl out my window onto the fire escape and I go up to my rooftop sanctuary to numb myself from this noise. At the age of 12 I shouldn’t even know what the word sanctuary means, nonetheless need one.
My sanctuary is nice. It sits atop the city skyline that overlooks traffic, Point Park and in the distance I can see the river. A grass rooftop, real grass, real dirt, Mother Nature three stories up in the city sky. I have a Chesapeake chaise lounge chair, again something else I should not know the proper name for but my mother is sure to remind me to refer to the furniture by its correct name. The lounge chair is placed underneath solar panels so there is always good shade for me to relax in. Wind chime, bird feeders and an herb garden; the sustainabley-eco-friendly trifecta of a sanctuary. I even get internet up here.
A glass of lemonade, laptop, ipod, headphones and I can forget about the sounds of my parents’ lives falling apart underneath my feet.
What and why of all of this: My father had an 8-month affair with his sectary. How unoriginal, I like him less for being typical. He blames the affair on my mother’s crazy eyes and her constant neglect of his opinion. Not that bad of an excuse, truth be told.
Two parents with only three things left in common; stuff, how to get more stuff and most importantly how are we going to pay for all this stuff.
The stuff part works out ok for me. I am 12 with a rooftop sanctuary that gets internet. I want for nothing. I ask for everything. As long as I can live with the dysfunction beneath my grassy feet everything will be ok. I hope.
Rooftop Sanctuary – Short Story
Not again…fighting, screaming, yelling…why can’t they do this when I’m not home?
Crawl out my window onto the fire escape and I go up to my rooftop sanctuary to numb myself from this noise. At the age of 12 I shouldn’t even know what the word sanctuary means, nonetheless need one.
My sanctuary is nice. It sits atop the city skyline that overlooks traffic, Point Park and in the distance I can see the river. A grass rooftop, real grass, real dirt, Mother Nature three stories up in the city sky. I have a Chesapeake chaise lounge chair, again something else I should not know the proper name for but my mother is sure to remind me to refer to the furniture by its correct name. The lounge chair is placed underneath solar panels so there is always good shade for me to relax in. Wind chime, bird feeders and an herb garden; the sustainabley-eco-friendly trifecta of a sanctuary. I even get internet up here.
A glass of lemonade, laptop, ipod, headphones and I can forget about the sounds of my parents’ lives falling apart underneath my feet.
What and why of all of this: My father had an 8-month affair with his sectary. How unoriginal, I like him less for being typical. He blames the affair on my mother’s crazy eyes and her constant neglect of his opinion. Not that bad of an excuse, truth be told.
Two parents with only three things left in common; stuff, how to get more stuff and most importantly how are we going to pay for all this stuff.
The stuff part works out ok for me. I am 12 with a rooftop sanctuary that gets internet. I want for nothing. I ask for everything. As long as I can live with the dysfunction beneath my grassy feet everything will be ok. I hope.
Crawl out my window onto the fire escape and I go up to my rooftop sanctuary to numb myself from this noise. At the age of 12 I shouldn’t even know what the word sanctuary means, nonetheless need one.
My sanctuary is nice. It sits atop the city skyline that overlooks traffic, Point Park and in the distance I can see the river. A grass rooftop, real grass, real dirt, Mother Nature three stories up in the city sky. I have a Chesapeake chaise lounge chair, again something else I should not know the proper name for but my mother is sure to remind me to refer to the furniture by its correct name. The lounge chair is placed underneath solar panels so there is always good shade for me to relax in. Wind chime, bird feeders and an herb garden; the sustainabley-eco-friendly trifecta of a sanctuary. I even get internet up here.
A glass of lemonade, laptop, ipod, headphones and I can forget about the sounds of my parents’ lives falling apart underneath my feet.
What and why of all of this: My father had an 8-month affair with his sectary. How unoriginal, I like him less for being typical. He blames the affair on my mother’s crazy eyes and her constant neglect of his opinion. Not that bad of an excuse, truth be told.
Two parents with only three things left in common; stuff, how to get more stuff and most importantly how are we going to pay for all this stuff.
The stuff part works out ok for me. I am 12 with a rooftop sanctuary that gets internet. I want for nothing. I ask for everything. As long as I can live with the dysfunction beneath my grassy feet everything will be ok. I hope.
Afterlife would look like this - Short Story
I never thought the afterlife would look like this. Day three of sitting on this terracotta roof with this boy pointing a toy gun at my head. The shingles are pinching at my bum. Sally just peed herself, again. I am staring at three crufixes with four men standing in front of them. One man has a Che Guevara shirt on, that must mean something. The air smells of alpaca dung and will somebody for the love of God turn down that flamingo music?? Why is that boy holding on to cow guts pulled out of a bucket? How did I get this scar?
Pop, pop, pop, a man with a camera walks up to me and says, “You can’t have simplicity until you know confusion. Say cheese”. Pop, pop, pop the flash blinds me for an instant. The cameraman yell outs “bang, bang, my baby shot me down…this is way beyond funny, sonny”, and then he walks away.
I’ve been to Planet Hollywood, have not been to the mountaintop, I should have danced more often. I wish I had updated my style of clothing, as this is what I am going to wear for eternity in the afterlife. My cell phone rings, “Hello?” A woman’s voice speaks, “interdependence, interconnectedness, systemic risk, moral hazard, this used to hurt”, she hangs up…”OK.”, I respond. I turn left and see what?
Four men wearing black facemasks with pom-poms and tassels on top of their heads. The man in the middle is holding onto a chalkboard that has a message scribbled in Spanish: “I feel stupid”. My white stuffed puppy dog from my childhood is on the floor next to my giant silver platform heals from my disco dancing days. I think, “How did the McMafa get my shoes and stuffed puppy dog?”
Pop, pop, pop, the cameramen takes my photo again. “Never thought the afterlife would look like this”, he says to me. “STOP THAT!” I yell at him, the flash is blinding me. “That’s the bright lights of heaven’s gate…and you must wait”, the cameraman says to me.
Pop, pop, pop, a man with a camera walks up to me and says, “You can’t have simplicity until you know confusion. Say cheese”. Pop, pop, pop the flash blinds me for an instant. The cameraman yell outs “bang, bang, my baby shot me down…this is way beyond funny, sonny”, and then he walks away.
I’ve been to Planet Hollywood, have not been to the mountaintop, I should have danced more often. I wish I had updated my style of clothing, as this is what I am going to wear for eternity in the afterlife. My cell phone rings, “Hello?” A woman’s voice speaks, “interdependence, interconnectedness, systemic risk, moral hazard, this used to hurt”, she hangs up…”OK.”, I respond. I turn left and see what?
Four men wearing black facemasks with pom-poms and tassels on top of their heads. The man in the middle is holding onto a chalkboard that has a message scribbled in Spanish: “I feel stupid”. My white stuffed puppy dog from my childhood is on the floor next to my giant silver platform heals from my disco dancing days. I think, “How did the McMafa get my shoes and stuffed puppy dog?”
Pop, pop, pop, the cameramen takes my photo again. “Never thought the afterlife would look like this”, he says to me. “STOP THAT!” I yell at him, the flash is blinding me. “That’s the bright lights of heaven’s gate…and you must wait”, the cameraman says to me.
Afterlife would look like this - Short Story
I never thought the afterlife would look like this. Day three of sitting on this terracotta roof with this boy pointing a toy gun at my head. The shingles are pinching at my bum. Sally just peed herself, again. I am staring at three crufixes with four men standing in front of them. One man has a Che Guevara shirt on, that must mean something. The air smells of alpaca dung and will somebody for the love of God turn down that flamingo music?? Why is that boy holding on to cow guts pulled out of a bucket? How did I get this scar?
Pop, pop, pop, a man with a camera walks up to me and says, “You can’t have simplicity until you know confusion. Say cheese”. Pop, pop, pop the flash blinds me for an instant. The cameraman yell outs “bang, bang, my baby shot me down…this is way beyond funny, sonny”, and then he walks away.
I’ve been to Planet Hollywood, have not been to the mountaintop, I should have danced more often. I wish I had updated my style of clothing, as this is what I am going to wear for eternity in the afterlife. My cell phone rings, “Hello?” A woman’s voice speaks, “interdependence, interconnectedness, systemic risk, moral hazard, this used to hurt”, she hangs up…”OK.”, I respond. I turn left and see what?
Four men wearing black facemasks with pom-poms and tassels on top of their heads. The man in the middle is holding onto a chalkboard that has a message scribbled in Spanish: “I feel stupid”. My white stuffed puppy dog from my childhood is on the floor next to my giant silver platform heals from my disco dancing days. I think, “How did the McMafa get my shoes and stuffed puppy dog?”
Pop, pop, pop, the cameramen takes my photo again. “Never thought the afterlife would look like this”, he says to me. “STOP THAT!” I yell at him, the flash is blinding me. “That’s the bright lights of heaven’s gate…and you must wait”, the cameraman says to me.
Pop, pop, pop, a man with a camera walks up to me and says, “You can’t have simplicity until you know confusion. Say cheese”. Pop, pop, pop the flash blinds me for an instant. The cameraman yell outs “bang, bang, my baby shot me down…this is way beyond funny, sonny”, and then he walks away.
I’ve been to Planet Hollywood, have not been to the mountaintop, I should have danced more often. I wish I had updated my style of clothing, as this is what I am going to wear for eternity in the afterlife. My cell phone rings, “Hello?” A woman’s voice speaks, “interdependence, interconnectedness, systemic risk, moral hazard, this used to hurt”, she hangs up…”OK.”, I respond. I turn left and see what?
Four men wearing black facemasks with pom-poms and tassels on top of their heads. The man in the middle is holding onto a chalkboard that has a message scribbled in Spanish: “I feel stupid”. My white stuffed puppy dog from my childhood is on the floor next to my giant silver platform heals from my disco dancing days. I think, “How did the McMafa get my shoes and stuffed puppy dog?”
Pop, pop, pop, the cameramen takes my photo again. “Never thought the afterlife would look like this”, he says to me. “STOP THAT!” I yell at him, the flash is blinding me. “That’s the bright lights of heaven’s gate…and you must wait”, the cameraman says to me.
I Dream of Heaven - Short Story
Hung on a wall with a nail and black string is a photograph that nobody has looked at. There is no reason for people to walk down this corridor that leads to nowhere, void of light and purpose in the far back corner of a church hallway. Odd place for a photograph, empty space is your audience.
Me, I am a Catholic brother for St. Michael’s church. Life as a Catholic brother means that I have no holy orders, no sacramental blessing to dispose. I’ve taken a vow of living a life of no money, no honey, and I answer to a boss. In my case, my boss is Father Dougherty and let me tell you answering to God is easier than reporting to Father Dougherty. My day is spent counseling parishioners, mopping floors or whatever undertaking that Father Dougherty and the congregation need of me.
I spent the last two years walking by this empty hallway that lead to nowhere. For no particular reason this day I decided to sit down in front of this photograph and give it the viewing that it deserves. Sitting on this cold, slate hallway floor with my Bible and my journal I stare at this photo.
There is no background, no ambient quality to this photograph, only a subject of four people whose story is told by the expression on their faces.
A widowed grandfather, a happy and observant man, quiet most days is seated back center of the composition. The grandfather watches his two daughters playing a game of dominos. The daughter to his left is divorced, keeps herself occupied by reading and taking care of her father. Her father is not in ill health but the company is good for both of them.
His second daughter, Marie, the younger of the two is seated to his right, gazing outwardly, lost in thought. Marie has made bad life choices and lives with her anger, placing blame on no one for her place in this world. The source of her redemptive pride is her daughter, the grandfather’s only grandchild, Ella, stands behind her mother.
The two sisters sit face to face at this small card table playing their game. This time spent is a social responsibility to the family. Obliged by tradition, not of connection. Small amounts of coins, one ashtray clean and unused, a lighter, but no cigarettes, is on the table.
The granddaughter, pretty, twenty-something and well educated stands behind her mother leaning on her left shoulder. She understands the sacrifices that her mother has made for her. Like her mother and her aunt she is accountable for keeping the family together, although she would rather be elsewhere.
Ella stands behind her mother metaphorically and in body pondering her decision.
Carman, stay or go with him? Can Carman remaining faithfully to be after breaking his commitment? Should I leave my family and go away with him. I love him…I think. Will my mother be able to cope without me? Should I ask or tell or just go? Does Carman make me happy? I think so…most days. Independence without obligation, that’s what I want…I know it’s selfish. The gift of sharing my self whose life has ben given to another. If I leave will my family will they want me back? Yes. Look at my Papa…that is my dream.
The grandfather holds a small chalkboard pressed to his chest. In his own handwriting he scribbles “I miss Heaven”. That is what he called his wife…Heaven.
“Carman”, Father Dougherty calls out to me…yes Father, I’m coming.
Me, I am a Catholic brother for St. Michael’s church. Life as a Catholic brother means that I have no holy orders, no sacramental blessing to dispose. I’ve taken a vow of living a life of no money, no honey, and I answer to a boss. In my case, my boss is Father Dougherty and let me tell you answering to God is easier than reporting to Father Dougherty. My day is spent counseling parishioners, mopping floors or whatever undertaking that Father Dougherty and the congregation need of me.
I spent the last two years walking by this empty hallway that lead to nowhere. For no particular reason this day I decided to sit down in front of this photograph and give it the viewing that it deserves. Sitting on this cold, slate hallway floor with my Bible and my journal I stare at this photo.
There is no background, no ambient quality to this photograph, only a subject of four people whose story is told by the expression on their faces.
A widowed grandfather, a happy and observant man, quiet most days is seated back center of the composition. The grandfather watches his two daughters playing a game of dominos. The daughter to his left is divorced, keeps herself occupied by reading and taking care of her father. Her father is not in ill health but the company is good for both of them.
His second daughter, Marie, the younger of the two is seated to his right, gazing outwardly, lost in thought. Marie has made bad life choices and lives with her anger, placing blame on no one for her place in this world. The source of her redemptive pride is her daughter, the grandfather’s only grandchild, Ella, stands behind her mother.
The two sisters sit face to face at this small card table playing their game. This time spent is a social responsibility to the family. Obliged by tradition, not of connection. Small amounts of coins, one ashtray clean and unused, a lighter, but no cigarettes, is on the table.
The granddaughter, pretty, twenty-something and well educated stands behind her mother leaning on her left shoulder. She understands the sacrifices that her mother has made for her. Like her mother and her aunt she is accountable for keeping the family together, although she would rather be elsewhere.
Ella stands behind her mother metaphorically and in body pondering her decision.
Carman, stay or go with him? Can Carman remaining faithfully to be after breaking his commitment? Should I leave my family and go away with him. I love him…I think. Will my mother be able to cope without me? Should I ask or tell or just go? Does Carman make me happy? I think so…most days. Independence without obligation, that’s what I want…I know it’s selfish. The gift of sharing my self whose life has ben given to another. If I leave will my family will they want me back? Yes. Look at my Papa…that is my dream.
The grandfather holds a small chalkboard pressed to his chest. In his own handwriting he scribbles “I miss Heaven”. That is what he called his wife…Heaven.
“Carman”, Father Dougherty calls out to me…yes Father, I’m coming.
I Dream of Heaven - Short Story
Hung on a wall with a nail and black string is a photograph that nobody has looked at. There is no reason for people to walk down this corridor that leads to nowhere, void of light and purpose in the far back corner of a church hallway. Odd place for a photograph, empty space is your audience.
Me, I am a Catholic brother for St. Michael’s church. Life as a Catholic brother means that I have no holy orders, no sacramental blessing to dispose. I’ve taken a vow of living a life of no money, no honey, and I answer to a boss. In my case, my boss is Father Dougherty and let me tell you answering to God is easier than reporting to Father Dougherty. My day is spent counseling parishioners, mopping floors or whatever undertaking that Father Dougherty and the congregation need of me.
I spent the last two years walking by this empty hallway that lead to nowhere. For no particular reason this day I decided to sit down in front of this photograph and give it the viewing that it deserves. Sitting on this cold, slate hallway floor with my Bible and my journal I stare at this photo.
There is no background, no ambient quality to this photograph, only a subject of four people whose story is told by the expression on their faces.
A widowed grandfather, a happy and observant man, quiet most days is seated back center of the composition. The grandfather watches his two daughters playing a game of dominos. The daughter to his left is divorced, keeps herself occupied by reading and taking care of her father. Her father is not in ill health but the company is good for both of them.
His second daughter, Marie, the younger of the two is seated to his right, gazing outwardly, lost in thought. Marie has made bad life choices and lives with her anger, placing blame on no one for her place in this world. The source of her redemptive pride is her daughter, the grandfather’s only grandchild, Ella, stands behind her mother.
The two sisters sit face to face at this small card table playing their game. This time spent is a social responsibility to the family. Obliged by tradition, not of connection. Small amounts of coins, one ashtray clean and unused, a lighter, but no cigarettes, is on the table.
The granddaughter, pretty, twenty-something and well educated stands behind her mother leaning on her left shoulder. She understands the sacrifices that her mother has made for her. Like her mother and her aunt she is accountable for keeping the family together, although she would rather be elsewhere.
Ella stands behind her mother metaphorically and in body pondering her decision.
Carman, stay or go with him? Can Carman remaining faithfully to be after breaking his commitment? Should I leave my family and go away with him. I love him…I think. Will my mother be able to cope without me? Should I ask or tell or just go? Does Carman make me happy? I think so…most days. Independence without obligation, that’s what I want…I know it’s selfish. The gift of sharing my self whose life has ben given to another. If I leave will my family will they want me back? Yes. Look at my Papa…that is my dream.
The grandfather holds a small chalkboard pressed to his chest. In his own handwriting he scribbles “I miss Heaven”. That is what he called his wife…Heaven.
“Carman”, Father Dougherty calls out to me…yes Father, I’m coming.
Me, I am a Catholic brother for St. Michael’s church. Life as a Catholic brother means that I have no holy orders, no sacramental blessing to dispose. I’ve taken a vow of living a life of no money, no honey, and I answer to a boss. In my case, my boss is Father Dougherty and let me tell you answering to God is easier than reporting to Father Dougherty. My day is spent counseling parishioners, mopping floors or whatever undertaking that Father Dougherty and the congregation need of me.
I spent the last two years walking by this empty hallway that lead to nowhere. For no particular reason this day I decided to sit down in front of this photograph and give it the viewing that it deserves. Sitting on this cold, slate hallway floor with my Bible and my journal I stare at this photo.
There is no background, no ambient quality to this photograph, only a subject of four people whose story is told by the expression on their faces.
A widowed grandfather, a happy and observant man, quiet most days is seated back center of the composition. The grandfather watches his two daughters playing a game of dominos. The daughter to his left is divorced, keeps herself occupied by reading and taking care of her father. Her father is not in ill health but the company is good for both of them.
His second daughter, Marie, the younger of the two is seated to his right, gazing outwardly, lost in thought. Marie has made bad life choices and lives with her anger, placing blame on no one for her place in this world. The source of her redemptive pride is her daughter, the grandfather’s only grandchild, Ella, stands behind her mother.
The two sisters sit face to face at this small card table playing their game. This time spent is a social responsibility to the family. Obliged by tradition, not of connection. Small amounts of coins, one ashtray clean and unused, a lighter, but no cigarettes, is on the table.
The granddaughter, pretty, twenty-something and well educated stands behind her mother leaning on her left shoulder. She understands the sacrifices that her mother has made for her. Like her mother and her aunt she is accountable for keeping the family together, although she would rather be elsewhere.
Ella stands behind her mother metaphorically and in body pondering her decision.
Carman, stay or go with him? Can Carman remaining faithfully to be after breaking his commitment? Should I leave my family and go away with him. I love him…I think. Will my mother be able to cope without me? Should I ask or tell or just go? Does Carman make me happy? I think so…most days. Independence without obligation, that’s what I want…I know it’s selfish. The gift of sharing my self whose life has ben given to another. If I leave will my family will they want me back? Yes. Look at my Papa…that is my dream.
The grandfather holds a small chalkboard pressed to his chest. In his own handwriting he scribbles “I miss Heaven”. That is what he called his wife…Heaven.
“Carman”, Father Dougherty calls out to me…yes Father, I’m coming.
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