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The fluoresent sign hasn’t been ignited for years. It hangs unlit and spiritless over the desolate back street. The fire escape that we’d made our front door has gone unscaled since that youthful summer so long ago. At the time we hadn’t realized how powerful that time would become, how it would shape us and influence our futures, we were just living our lives, the only way we knew how.
Int he beginning our homely little alley had been nothing more than a dark corner in the underbelly of an unforgiving city. It didn’t take long for it to transform into the epicenter of the cities artistically vibrant, culturally devoid yet characteristically rich underground scene. The vulgarity and madness of our young bodies fueled creativity and expressionism of our blossoming minds.
The endless nights we spent off our heads in the brightly lit, bustling market of our generation spoiled us for the nights we now spend alone, in the dark.
We thrust ourselves onward through the thick undergrowth, machetes swinging violently ahead of us. It had been 4 days since we’d left camp and rations were beginning to run low. The humidity was dampening our ever tiring souls and the swarms of veracious insects were enough to drive a man to lunacy.
Already one of our group of 4 had been wounded severly and was weakening with every step, his twisted swollen ankle was drainging him of all strength and desire to go on. Each of us with still enough strength to be of use, did all we could to aid him through the more trecherous terrain, but our own strength was dwindling with the lack of substacial food and water. According to our maps and calculations we should’ve made a loop to the river and back to our camp within a day of departure, and yet we seem to be delving deeper and deeper in to the unknown of the barbaric jungle.
Late into our fourth day of bush whacking and backtracking we noted something suspicious. We had come across a partially concealed trail through the thick foliage, it looked as if it had been deliberately created and hidden with intelligence. Perhaps we’ve crossed paths with another team of archaeologists, we all agreed it was the most likely possibility and decided to follow the path which would hopefully lead us to the strangers camp, where we could get our barings.
As we continued along the narrow track we noticed some bizarre remains scattered about the bare foot prints that followed the path as well. I stopped to catch my breath and stooped down to tighten the laces on my boots, while i was crouched so near to the ground I noticed that the bones had been broken and scraped excessively, I picked up what appeared to be a rib bone and was shocked to see the apparent teeth marks in it. I know human anatomy well enough to recognize a mans ribcage when I see it, and this battered rib was definatly that of a man.
Not wanting to worry my companions, I didn’t confess my suspicions of foul play, and thought it best to continue in the direction we were headed, hopefully we would come to the river before we coming to harm. Although it wasn’t long past what should be dinner time, but the forests conopy was allowing very little light to reach its dank underbelly. The cold crept out of the shadows consuming our tired, shivering bodies. We couldnt’ stop to rest for fear of not being able to get back on our feet, and the trail was becoming increasingly difficult to follow in the dark, but we trudged along, machetes poised and ready to swing.
Gates, our wounded friend, was barely grasping conciousness now, we tried to drag his limp body between two of us, however this proved to be impossibly impractical. To my greatest regret, we were forced to part ways, going from a united team of four, to two pairs. Mr. Aristle agreed to stay with Gates while Smithers and I went on ahead, in desperate search of hope.
carnival, canope, caravan, cantalope, creeped, candy
Emily stood at the edge of the field sucking at a slice of cantaloupe through the gap where her two front teeth should be. Her sun dress fluttered around her scraped knees and her curly hair whisped across her sun kissed face. She watched as the field in front of her quickly transformed from an empty meadow to a bustling, temporary, town.
The caravan of colorful trailers, tents, animals, and performers of all shapes and sizes was spilling across the field, leaving a puddle of carnival games and circus rings in it’s wake. People hurried about, erecting tents and lining up popcorn and candy stands. In the distance Emily could see an exceptionally small person leading an exceptionally large elephant on a leash, and what appeared to be a lady, grooming her facial hair in an ornate mirror. There was a man covered from head to toe with wilted, greenish tattoos enjoying a cigarette with man who was missing both arms and legs. Vans and trailers continued to pour into the field and the noise grew steadily.
As she gazed about in curious wonderment, Emily noticed someone gazing back at her, a man. He was tall and lean, his mustache was curled at the tips and he was sporting a fine top hat. Their eyes connected for an awkward second and he threw her a beckoning hand gesture, she shivered and complied. Dropping the melon rind on the grass she walked slowly across the clearing to the edge of the commotion, where the man in the top hat was waiting. As she got closer a strange smile crept across his face and in a theatrical voice he announced to her, that his name was Mr.K, and he would be delighted if she were to allow him her grace and accompaniment during tonight’s opening show. Emily stood in front of Mr.K and innocently looked up into his expressionless eyes and nodded. The man reached down and took her soft little hand in his, and guided her into the commotion that now occupied the breezy field.
The unusual pair delved deeper and deeper into the chaotic flood, hand in hand, without a word. Until they came to a particular booth, where they stopped. “I’d like to introduce you to someone,” said Mr.K in a kind, but mischievous voice. Emily look up at the man behind the counter. He was surrounded by sticks of cotton candy, boxes of popcorn and peanuts, giant colorful lollipops and many other fanciful carnival treats. The man himself, was no treat to look at, he was missing his most of his teeth, his saggy head lacked a substancial amount of hair and on his chin sat a huge, throbbing, wart. “This is Eddie.” explained Mr. K. “He’ll let you have any treats you want, you’re our special guest, pick something.”
Emily had never had such an exceptional offer of suger and sweets presented to her, she was overwhelmed. Both of the strange men looked down at her patiently, waiting for her to distinguish her preference. She could feel their eyes combing over her and it made her nervous. Awkwardly she lifted a pale, dainty hand and as casually as her nerves would allow, she pointed to the nearest display of delicasies. “Ah,” Eddie the vendor responded with a great toothless smile, “an apple. We have candied ones and caramel ones, I think you will enjoy the caremel one, it’s nearly as sweet as you are.” Eddie bent over the counter and gave her the apple, Emily whispered a shy thankyou and looked up at Mr. K for approval.
“Excellent!” exclaimed Mr. K, his mustache twitched and his eyes darted about, “those are my favorite, eat up.” Emily looked from Mr. K to the apple, to Eddie and then back to the apple. She examined the thick layer of gooey caramel, oozing down the stick in sugary globs. She turned it around in her hand, viewing it from every angle, it looked delicious. Finally she sunk her teeth into the gooey, juicey fruit. The apple was tart and crisp, the caremal was warm and sticky, the combination was fantastical.
Mr.K’s sly smile crept across his face as he sighed a satisfactory sigh. Then he reached down and took Emily’s limp little hand in his own, and lead her deeper into the dusky feild of colorful lights and strange characters. Slowly Emily was beginning to feel very stange, the world was swaying back and forth around her, lights were swooping across her vision in brillient waves. The sounds of shreiking laughter and carnival rides screeching to life filled Emily’s ears making her dizzy.
A woman with glittery make-up and a great bobbing adams apple paused from adjusting her wig to watch Emily and Mr.K pass her. And a quaint looking family, all of whom seemed to have lobster claws for hands were standing outside of a striped tent and they too hushed and watched closely as Emily walked slowly past them. The lights and sounds were blurring Emily’s senses. Mr.K lead her towards the carousel and pointed out all the different animals going around and around, up and down, swaying in a blurry fog of surreality. Emily watched he animals fly past her one after another, the horse, the lion,…the pheonix, the….
Nothing.
An aching pain throbbed throughout her entire body. Her clothes had been removed and she shivered violently in the darkness.
Emily opened her swollen eyes to examine her surroundings. She seemed to be in some sort of wooden cell, there was some dusty straw in one corner and a door at one end. She imagined that there was huge padlock securing it from the other side. At the other end of the cell, near the ceiling, was a tiny barred window where a splatter of sunlight was peeking through. Her lip began to quiver and tears started welling up in her eyes.
Suddenly the tiny cell was dark, something was blocking the light. Emily looked up to see what it was and her eyes met with the deep, sullen eyes of Mr.K.
“Are we ready to go my lovely?” asked Mr.K, and without waiting for a reply he was gone again. The sunlight crept back into the Emily’s little prison just as it lurched to life and began rolling, along with all the other trucks and trailors that had rolled into the feild the night before.
Onwards! For five the shores of glory await us. We’ve got little to do and much time to do it. We’ll find solice in ourselves and peace on our plates. The darkness and the day light blend together on our sticky skin like a microfilm of incoherent images, recording our proudest moments and most dubious failures. Like apen with no ink we try hard to leave our mark, leave our scratch. The fountain of youth now the fountain of hope is now lost in the blankness of our canvas and the paints are too dry to create any masterpiece of expression or cause of creation. The voice of reason drones on above us, asphixiating our minds beneather a sea of desire. Endlessly we search but the engines run on empty, our scapegoats have escaped. Our tails grow directly between our shaking legs. The life we couldn’t wait to start has all but ended by the hand of out destructive ideals. We blame everyone but the culprit. Even your common housecat is morbidly obese and late for an appoinment. Always late and never on the way. The cowboy gang of the 100 wing round up the weakerthans and slap their sunburnt slabs of fastfood dinner roles. Then throw them back to the shark tank of distressed adolesence. And you’ll never know when you’re going to need caremel sauce.
There once was a manic Hispanic,
A firm believer in organics.
He thought of the world,
How it’s so far unfurled
And was thrown into violent panic.
Well I haven’t really proves any of my idea exist yet so I suppose to should throw a couple out there…
The Extra Ordinary Plaid
And I said, “Sister, once you’ve reached a place where casual use of plaid is not only possible, but applauded, you’ve ascended to a higher than fashionable platform of style.” Silence. “Seriously, you can now painlessly defy all laws of color, pattern, texture and gravity.” I said. Silence. “Plaid is in a league all on its own, apart from pinstripes, polkadots and piano key neckties. It’s a gift from the garmet gods, presented only to those daring enough to experiment with it, while remaining respectful to the wonder that is, in it’s most simplified yet glorified form, plaid.”
Oh What a Feeling
Upon arrival home from a few weeks abroad, I did whatever weary wanderer of this peculiar world would do, and readied myself for a good brisk bathe.
I was overwhelmed to joy at the prospect of a real shower, after having to put up with a silly foreign one for the past few weeks. You see, unfortunately for me, a coinsurer of fine bathing practices, the shower in our little London flat did not meet my high, but reasonable standards.
In fact it was just ridiculous. Its gleaming head advertised the many settings of water patterns and pressures that any modern shower does, and yet it lacked the ability to adapt to and display any of one. And I’m sorry to say, it was locked on one of my absolute least favorite settings of all shower settings.
“Spit Mist,” I like to call it. It’s like being continuously spat on by a crowd of dastardly little angel brats from above. It’s the setting where only the outer most water holes on the shower head are utilized, and only spout a fine, dainty stream of mildly warm water. Every morning I would retreat from the shower cursing the blasted thing.
I spent the entire trip just waiting and waiting and waiting for that oh so rewarding premier shower experience upon my return home. So I could finally get real good clean, not drizzly, sticky, spit clean.
And good clean I did get, squeaky, squawky good and clean fresh from the home style body washer of my preference. I remembered expertly all the vital steps to complete before called a shower a successful one. First the bath mat must be removed from the side of the tub and placed snuggly next to the tub, on the floor. Then the shower curtain has to be untangled from the various bottles of scented gooey scrubber stuff. I remembered to turn the hot water 11 rotations to the right for maximum scalding potential, and the cold water a quarter rotation to the left to avoid actual scalding. Finally, I pull up the lever on the faucet, redirecting the water upwards towards the shower head.
Getting all excited, like a min-pin smelling bacon, I hopped on in, and then immediately recoiled in fiery pain. As the water burst fourth from the antique, grubby shower head and scalded my skin, which had grown fragile in my overseas excursions, I thought to myself, “Oh its good to be home.”
It’s as if someone’s drilled into the very center of the earth and directed the unforgiving, molten hot magma through the world’s endless grid of pipe ways, to my very own shower. It’s like being pressure washed by a violent stream of the sun. The sun! The initial sensation of being stabbed with jets of fire soon subsides as my body grows accustomed to the temperature and the intensity of the water. I lather up my hair and the shampoo is blasted off my head, just as the smell of human is scorched from my body. This is the only way to feel truly clean.
I push the lever back down and turn off the taps before retreating from my steamy oasis, all pink and squeaky like. The bathroom is foggy with the damp mist of these impatiently awaited moments of satisfactory bliss.
Monday: “I’ll heat it up for you!”
Tuesday: “You never know when you’re going to need caremel sauce!”
Wednesday: “Oh its crunchy” “It’s to moist.”
Thursday: “I play with my chest a lot.”
Friday: “Silly gypsy, hac is for Zac”
Verb: She jumped up and ran out the door.
Noun: The glass was full of marbles and candy canes.
Pronoun: Mary went spearfishing with her cats in Milwaukee last June.
Adjective: The big, brown mouse sat quietly in the dark corner.
Adverb: The clouds slowly whisped their way across the sky.
Preposition: The cat sat on the table.
Conjunction: The cat jumped of the table because it was hungry.
Interjection: Oh crap, I lost my car keys again.
This is supposed to be the greatest day of my life! How could this be happening to me? Everything has gone all wrong and I may as well just go home! First of all, the dress doesn’t even fit. It’s because of that bagel I had last Wednesday for brunch, I knew it was a horrible idea, but I was just so hungry. Speaking of hungry…
Ooooh would ya look at those flowers, all icing and sugar, boy do they look good. Maybe if I could just get a whole one, no one would notice. I’ll take it from the back even. How did they make icing in to flowers anway?
Shit shit. Okay I’ll just aim straight into that vase and no one will notice. Except for the smell, vomit and flowers do have a distinctly different smell. Oh god I have to piss. I can’t, I’ll be late for the greatest day of her life. The greatest day of my life would not involve this suit, its itchy on the thighs, that’s gonna be awkward up there in front of the rents and the rest.
How lovely, the whole family is here, and they brought the rest of the city too. I can’t believe these people, they must know its not going to last. Well it’s not up to me to point out the obvious, just photograph it, so they have something to tare up in a couple months.
This cannot be happening. I can’t walk out there with a rip in my dress! Oh my gosh, where’s my mother? She should be here sewing me up, telling me how proud she is! She’s probably chatting up the best man or dipping into the champagne already.
I got it! Mmm that’s yummy. No wonder it’s so big, auntie will want a big piece of her cake and the rest of us will only get a little bit, like always. Good thing I got some first! And no one even saw me. Maybe they wouldn’t see me if I took another flower. Or maybe I could get some of the cake if I just made a little hole…
Great. This is the rest of the rest of my life, standing up here alone, and waiting for her to make herself “presentable” while I make up excuses for her slowness. What the hell is she doing? She’s the one who wanted to do this so early; she could at least be on time! The music is starting and I can’t even see her, she better not have pulled a runner. What’s that kid doing back there?
Oh that would be a great shot; the groom standing all alone, clearly hung over, impatiently waiting for his blushing bride. She will be blushing when she sees the pictures I just got of her, sobbing while some old aunt stitched up her side! And then, her trying to bend over to answer her cell phone. Oh there’s that familiar old organ music, I better go find a good place to document the ceremony from.
Uh oh! I think the new guy saw me. Okay, I’ll just put this one back on the cake, then no one can blame me cause there’s nothing wrong. Oh what is that bad music? It is bad! Maybe it means something; it must have some purpose, why would anyone want to listen to it just ‘cause?
Aaaah the music! I have to find my shoes! Everyone is already out here and I’m not even ready! I’m the most important person here and I’m going to ruin it for everyone! He’s probably asking himself why he’s here, getting ready to run off with some tart from the catering company! Why do I always do this, I just want to have one wedding in my life that goes well!
Roudy Partay:
The host, who is trying to minimalize damage
The guest, who is throwing up in a vase
The guest who is having a mental breakdown
The neighbors complaing about the noise
The police who are called to the house
A wedding:
Bride, the happiest day of her, and its all giong wrong
Groom, hungover from the stag party the night before
The photographer doing her best to get embarrassing shots of people
The kid who keeps sticking his finger in the cake before its cut
Hospital wating rom:
receptionist distracted by facebook
athlete in for his 7th concusion
old woman with a hangnail
little kid with a sore tummy
two nurses discussing weekend plans
angry dad who thinks he’s been waiting to long
