Here's a tantalizing passage from an amazing ARC called Eulogy for Erin Ernest:
" ... surrounding my grave stood my parents with tears coursing down their faces. My classmates, solemn and frightened, huddled in tiny groups whispering amongst themselves. And there-racing across the uneven turf-came my boyfriend. Breathless, shocked, white-faced, Gunnar dropped to his knees as the mortuary attendents intercepted him and refused to allow him any closer.
Gunnar wasn't welcome here. But only I knew why.
And I wasn't in any position to tell, or was I? ..."
Eulogy for Erin Ernest
Emo Press: April 1, 2012
999 pages
;D
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Monday, October 3, 2011
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Review: Here There Be Monsters
For Review: Here There Be Monsters, pub. 2010
Author: Meljean Brook
Source: Burning Up (anthology)
Publisher: The Berkley Publishing Group, Berkley Sensation
ISBN 978-0-425-23595-9
Genre(s): Steampunk, Paranormal Romance
From the back cover: "Meljean Brook launches a bold new steampunk series with Here There Be Monsters, as a desperate woman strikes a provocative - and terrifying - bargain to gain overseas passage"
Additional works/authors included in Burning Up:
Whisper of Sin by Nalini Singh
Blood and Roses by Angela Knight
Shifting Sea by Virginia Kantra
Has the brutal Horde returned to London?
After two terrible centuries of nightmarish suffering under the paralyzing devices of a faction known as the Horde - pirate captain Rhys Trahaearn succeeded in destroying the tower once used to control the nanoagents infecting every person in London.
Now, seven years later, beautiful, Blacksmith surgeon's assistant Ivy is awakened by strangers searching throughout her cheap boardinghouse, moving from room to room. Her quarters invaded, her thin body prodded and evaluated for purposes unknown. It is when Ivy discovers empty beds in rooms previously filled that she suspects the worst. For theirs, and her, only value had been that of workers, as slaves to the Horde.
Fearing an end to the freedom she has but recently known, Ivy has no option except to escape the gaslit streets of London, to put a sea's distance between herself and those who would wish to control her once again.
Enter an unlikely rescuer - Mad Machen, captain of the ship, Vesuvious and one-time member of Trahaearn's crew. Machen: gruff, intimidating, broad of chest. Dangerously handsome with overgrown dark hair and a thick scar around his neck.
What price must Ivy pay to secure safe passage on Vesuvious? Are her skills in the fashioning of mechanical flesh enough, or will Mad Machen demand that gift which a woman may give only once in a lifetime - her maidenhead?
*****
My two cents: Must-Read.
Admittedly, I'm not a die-hard Steampunk reader. What little I'd previously read I could either take it or leave it.
However.
I could quite easily become a die-hard Steampunk fan if there were more works of this high a calibre [hopefully there are, and I've merely yet to discover them!].
Meljean Brook immediately pulled me into her story with vivid images of spider rickshaws scurrying on the cobblestones, yellow fog-smothered docks, and fanciful automata such as egg-crackers, jumping frogs, singing birds and the fat squatting man 'money chest'.
Besides an engaging knack for description, Ms. Brook presents us with a cast of 3-dimensional characters. No matter how small their part, or large, we are left with the sense of having been in the company of living, breathing personalities:
Lady Yasmeen Corsair - Airship captain, a green eyed mercenary with a reputation for killing anyone who questioned her. Usually.
Mad Machen/Soft-hearted Eben - Which was the man he wanted to be? And did he have the luxury of choice?
Ivy - Once plagued by poverty and slavery, the only thing she'd ever truly owned was her heart. Was she about to lose that, too?
In conclusion, I want to say that I thoroughly enjoyed Here There Be Monsters! I think I rather envied Ivy just a wee bit, minus fjords teeming with armor-plated megalodons, that is.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Zombie Attack at Trailer Park PART II
So's to continue with the events o' that turrible nite when haf the trailer park done got ate up by evil gizzard gobbling zombies ...
First strange thing I knowed wuz I heard moaning all soft and low comin' from the row of trailers nearest to the cemeterie, but I didn't pay it no mind at first cos I wuz thinkin' it might be coming from Miz Candi Bandy's trailer and since she's a single gal it weren't none o' my business cos I say live n' let live even tho haf the other gals in the park can't stand Miz Candi and spread awful mean rumors 'bout her reputation, but most o' them rumors ain't true especially the one about Miz Candi and that midget from the carnival who gave her all them free rides on the Tilt O' Whirl.
That wuz the summer Fat Freddie got stuck on the Ferris Wheel for four hours an' they had to call the amblance for the jaws o' life to cut him outta that seat like a 8oz. sardine wedged in a 6oz. can an' Fats threatened to sue haf the dang city.
Sorry if I digress much ... so's while Fats is in the trailer hiding the empty beer cans under his bed where his momma cain't reach to hoover up, I hears this moaning and they gets to be more of it, lots more, like Candi and the whole dang circus or carnival or such, an' I sez Ted do you hear that what I be hearing? An' I could hear t'other noises too it sounded like a bunch of drunks sounds when they come stumbling out of a bar at closing time. Shuffle shuffle lurch, it were. And I swear on my genuine Jeff Gordon autographed photo-graph that the very hair on my neck, shoulders and back stood up like Fats' momma at a prayer meetin'.
Ted don't say nuthing as he is passed out under Fats' Ford with his skinny trousers stickin' out - that is how he got ate up, them zombies seen his legs sticking out like drumsticks on a yard bird, but I don't like to recall him thatta way, I jes picture Ted all peaceful n' smiling n' dead-drunk instead o' dead-dead with his knees gnawed clean off and that one boot with the hole in it where he liked to air out his bad toe where foot fungus had gotten hold, an' them crazy zombies jes tossed that one boot with poor Ted's yellow toe still inside over onto the big cordaroy recliner that Fats' momma set out a month ago by the gravel curb an' the trashman keeps ignoring like he cain't see a big ol' rain soaked recliner sitting there plain as the nose on my face.
First strange thing I knowed wuz I heard moaning all soft and low comin' from the row of trailers nearest to the cemeterie, but I didn't pay it no mind at first cos I wuz thinkin' it might be coming from Miz Candi Bandy's trailer and since she's a single gal it weren't none o' my business cos I say live n' let live even tho haf the other gals in the park can't stand Miz Candi and spread awful mean rumors 'bout her reputation, but most o' them rumors ain't true especially the one about Miz Candi and that midget from the carnival who gave her all them free rides on the Tilt O' Whirl.
That wuz the summer Fat Freddie got stuck on the Ferris Wheel for four hours an' they had to call the amblance for the jaws o' life to cut him outta that seat like a 8oz. sardine wedged in a 6oz. can an' Fats threatened to sue haf the dang city.
Sorry if I digress much ... so's while Fats is in the trailer hiding the empty beer cans under his bed where his momma cain't reach to hoover up, I hears this moaning and they gets to be more of it, lots more, like Candi and the whole dang circus or carnival or such, an' I sez Ted do you hear that what I be hearing? An' I could hear t'other noises too it sounded like a bunch of drunks sounds when they come stumbling out of a bar at closing time. Shuffle shuffle lurch, it were. And I swear on my genuine Jeff Gordon autographed photo-graph that the very hair on my neck, shoulders and back stood up like Fats' momma at a prayer meetin'.
Ted don't say nuthing as he is passed out under Fats' Ford with his skinny trousers stickin' out - that is how he got ate up, them zombies seen his legs sticking out like drumsticks on a yard bird, but I don't like to recall him thatta way, I jes picture Ted all peaceful n' smiling n' dead-drunk instead o' dead-dead with his knees gnawed clean off and that one boot with the hole in it where he liked to air out his bad toe where foot fungus had gotten hold, an' them crazy zombies jes tossed that one boot with poor Ted's yellow toe still inside over onto the big cordaroy recliner that Fats' momma set out a month ago by the gravel curb an' the trashman keeps ignoring like he cain't see a big ol' rain soaked recliner sitting there plain as the nose on my face.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Zombie Attack at Trailer Park
Nobody outside Pitfalls, Illinois, gonna believe this but it be true. Ted, Fat Freddie and me seen it happen.
'Course, Ted's dead.
But me and Fats survived and we think everybody gotta know 'cos it could happen again. Folks gotta be warned n' such, somehow, even if them uppity newspeople won't talk to us. I think they's trying to keep it hushed like.
Sees, I gotta theory 'bout the whole bizness. I think somebody is building these here trailer parks smack dab next door to cemeterys for a reason, and it ain't a purty one. I think certain folks know they's gonna come a real honest-to-goodness zombie apopcalypse and they figure what's a few trailer parks, more or less. We're like the front line boys ... expendable like, if you get my drift. Like the canary in a coal mine.
But about that whole ugly bizness 'bout what happened t'other nite. It were awful I tell you but here it be:
Me and Ted had spent all afternoon working on Fat's truck, the big old red Ford he keeps parked behind the Dairy Queen when he's up there messin' around with Miz Candi Bandy and trying to sweet talk her out of an extra dilly bar or two. Well, that old Ford (I'm a Chevy man myself and plan to stay thatta way) had done thrown a rod and Fats was fit to be tied as how was he gonna get no ice cream with his truck all buggered up and no govermint check comin' till the first o' next month?
They don't call Freddie 'Fats' for nuthin.
But me and Ted sed we'd pitch in, take that old red bugger apart and switch out engines, if'n Fats would supply the beer, knowing full well he always has a couple o' cases coolin' out in the shed where his momma cant' find it 'cos she believes mighty strong in meetin' up with Jesus one day and she aims for her boy to do the same. (Fats feels reel bad that the zombies ate his momma but he's glad she's with Jesus now, or at least the parts of her they couldn't digest. Praise the Lord them zombies left his pet iguana alone. That would'uv broke Fat's faith in the Almighty, he told me later.)
So where wuz I? Oh, yeah. We boys been working on that fool truck all day, till bout sundown come and there weren't no more light left to see by, and anyways half the street lights are busted in the park so no help there. Call it a day, boys, Fats sed. And right smart thinkin' too, as we'd had enough beer that Ted couldn't tell a Phillips from a flathead, not that it matterd after all 'cos betwixt you n' me that truck had seen the last of it's glory days and one more rod thru the engine was jes another nail in the coffin, so's to speak.
Anyway, it were just another early evening with the sunset gleaming all purty off the sheet metal and the cats comin' out of hiding. Jes like always and nobody suspected that in another hour they was gonna be dead people stumblin' around gobbling up brains like bratwurst.
'Course, Ted's dead.
But me and Fats survived and we think everybody gotta know 'cos it could happen again. Folks gotta be warned n' such, somehow, even if them uppity newspeople won't talk to us. I think they's trying to keep it hushed like.
Sees, I gotta theory 'bout the whole bizness. I think somebody is building these here trailer parks smack dab next door to cemeterys for a reason, and it ain't a purty one. I think certain folks know they's gonna come a real honest-to-goodness zombie apopcalypse and they figure what's a few trailer parks, more or less. We're like the front line boys ... expendable like, if you get my drift. Like the canary in a coal mine.
But about that whole ugly bizness 'bout what happened t'other nite. It were awful I tell you but here it be:
Me and Ted had spent all afternoon working on Fat's truck, the big old red Ford he keeps parked behind the Dairy Queen when he's up there messin' around with Miz Candi Bandy and trying to sweet talk her out of an extra dilly bar or two. Well, that old Ford (I'm a Chevy man myself and plan to stay thatta way) had done thrown a rod and Fats was fit to be tied as how was he gonna get no ice cream with his truck all buggered up and no govermint check comin' till the first o' next month?
They don't call Freddie 'Fats' for nuthin.
But me and Ted sed we'd pitch in, take that old red bugger apart and switch out engines, if'n Fats would supply the beer, knowing full well he always has a couple o' cases coolin' out in the shed where his momma cant' find it 'cos she believes mighty strong in meetin' up with Jesus one day and she aims for her boy to do the same. (Fats feels reel bad that the zombies ate his momma but he's glad she's with Jesus now, or at least the parts of her they couldn't digest. Praise the Lord them zombies left his pet iguana alone. That would'uv broke Fat's faith in the Almighty, he told me later.)
So where wuz I? Oh, yeah. We boys been working on that fool truck all day, till bout sundown come and there weren't no more light left to see by, and anyways half the street lights are busted in the park so no help there. Call it a day, boys, Fats sed. And right smart thinkin' too, as we'd had enough beer that Ted couldn't tell a Phillips from a flathead, not that it matterd after all 'cos betwixt you n' me that truck had seen the last of it's glory days and one more rod thru the engine was jes another nail in the coffin, so's to speak.
Anyway, it were just another early evening with the sunset gleaming all purty off the sheet metal and the cats comin' out of hiding. Jes like always and nobody suspected that in another hour they was gonna be dead people stumblin' around gobbling up brains like bratwurst.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Haute Stuff - YA Story
05/27/09
Dear Dia Ree,
I knew better, but today I wore my new skinny jeans even though I'm not anywhere near skinny. My tee kept riding up over my huge roll of belly fat, and I had to yank my shirt down like a million times. It was totally lame, I looked like a fat frat and hated everyone who looked at me. What possessed me to buy them, anyway?
Sigh. I just wanted the delicious new guy, Bane, to notice me. Well, he did. But not the way I wanted him to. It was during second period lunch. Ginger was being her theatrical self and waving her arms around madly, like a red-headed top. I was too busy trying to keep my stomach sucked in to pay her any attention, but apparently I got distracted and made the mistake of exhaling. That's when I caught Bane staring at the roll around my waist sticking out over the top of my jeans like it was some disgusting alien gut-muffin. It was not a stellar moment.
On top of that, I think I failed the final exam in Ms. Boneur's class. Why did I ever think I could handle calculus? So there goes my GPA. With only a week left before school's out, I can't exactly make it up :(
When I finally dragged az home, I stretched out on my bed and cried for like ever. For a girl in the top ten percent of her class, my social life is pure suxage.
I hate being overweight. I hate Ms. Boneur (everyone calls her Ms. Boner). I hate my other fat friends. And I hate Bane. And I especially hate Candi Khorne (can you actually believe that is a real person's name?!), and her stupid pink pom-poms. She makes me want to freakin' hurl all over her sparkly spandex ho-fit. I think she looks like a poster child for Lisa Frank addiction. She's about as intelligent as a doorknob and twice as interesting.
Worse yet, I think Bane might be into her.
Bang, how unexpected...
So like I said, I came home and cried my guts out.
I don't really hate anybody, you know. I just hate not being pretty and popular. I want to be slim and gorgeous and mysterious, to look like my movie star idol, Hedy Lamarr.
But most of all, I want Bane to be into me.
So that's when I decided to do something about all these things that are bugging me. I'm going to show every body at school a new Olive. I am going to shine so bright Bane'll need shades just to talk to me. Watch out, world - I'm through soaking my pillow with tears.
And this time, I really mean it! In one week summer vacation starts, and I have an incredible plan: This is THE summer I am going to become the Olive I want to be, and I think I know just how to do it. By the time school starts, I am going to be the hottest junior at Medici High!!! Bane will pop one just looking at me ;)
That is why 30 minutes ago I sold my soul to the Devil.
05/28/09
Dear Dia Ree,
Bang. I was almost late getting to school on time. Just as I was about to duck out the front door, Dad popped out of his study still half-asleep, but sharp enough to give me the fatherly evil eye.
"I wondered what I was smelling out here. Thought it was rotten eggs" Dad grimaced. "You got on some new kind of perfume, Olivia?"
"umm... sorta", I said. I am not good at prevaricating.
Dad pointedly gave the space around me a good, long sniff, his aristocratic nostrils delicately quivering. "I'd demand my money back", he snarked. Then, with a whirl of his cape, Dad blew me a kiss and vanished back into his study. I should maybe mention here that my Dad is a famous stage magician (well, not really famous but he almost was when he was younger). Since he pratices or performs at night, he usually gets to bed about the time I'm leaving for school. Most times I don't see him in the a.m., but I wasn't so lucky today. I love my Dad, but he doesn't understand what I'm going through, and he thinks my movie star magazines are a waste of money. For a guy who spends his cash on magic tricks, he's one to talk.
So anyway, I had to haul az back upstairs to eradicate what must have been the lingering smell of sulphur and brimstone clinging to my soon-ta-be haute hot self. No sense in giving my hand away this early in the game. September can't get here soon enough.
05/29/09
Dear Dia Ree,
Ginger can be such a drag! For someone so esoteric, so into everything mystical and zen, she can really put a bang on things :(
Tonight was Friday. Me, Ginger and Berry were all laid out in Ginger's basement bedroom (2 kewl, btw ... I'd love to have an entire floor to myself!). I waited until we'd finished admiring each other's hairdos copied from the pages of our old movie magazines before springing my plan on my friends.
No sooner had I paused for breath before Ginger clambered to her feet, shaking her newly waved hair all to shreds. She turned red in the face and pointed an accusing finger at me like I had just suggested we rob an orphanage or something. Berry almost choked on her Fresca when I gave her my patented look of innocence, hoping for some support her corner. Bang again.
"Do you", demanded Ginger, "have any idea what you've done"? The fat freckled finger of fate twitched like a spastic Circus Peanut two inches from my nose.
"What's the big deal?" I said, getting annoyed. I had kinda expected more enthusiasm out of Ginger, since she was the paranormal 'expert' in the group. "It's not like she really wanted our souls, anyway..."
Mouths gaping, both girls practically screamed in unison, "SHE?!?"
Okay, I have to admit at this point I started to feel a tiny bit smug. My old confidence was returning and I decided to play it casual. "Hey, keep the sound down. We don't need parents snooping around our cave." I didn't say anything more but turned my back and studied my chipped fingernails like they were the most fascinating thing in the universe. I could like actually feel the nano-seconds ticking away.
Suddenly I was engulfed in a hailstorm of Cheetos. With affected dignified, I dusted off the blazing orange crumbs and climbed up onto Ginger's huge Hollywood Regency bed. I motioned for my friends to join me. I, of course, claimed headboard status.
"She was actually very nice..." I began. "Super pretty, too," I added. Then I told them the entire story of what happened two nights ago. We talked until almost midnight. By the time I left for home, Ginger had calmed down and become very thoughtful, business like. She was busy dragging large, dusty books out from her library under the stairwell when Berry and I said goodnight.
When I dropped Berry off in front of her mom's rented duplex, she confessed she was a little scared, but still excited and that she couldn't wait to get started. Berry, we'd all decided, was to be in charge of researching our idols to find the exact moment in history we were planning to duplicate.
And my job, Dia Ree, is to play laison with Satan, or Shatan as she prefers to be called.
Snap that!
Dear Dia Ree,
I knew better, but today I wore my new skinny jeans even though I'm not anywhere near skinny. My tee kept riding up over my huge roll of belly fat, and I had to yank my shirt down like a million times. It was totally lame, I looked like a fat frat and hated everyone who looked at me. What possessed me to buy them, anyway?
Sigh. I just wanted the delicious new guy, Bane, to notice me. Well, he did. But not the way I wanted him to. It was during second period lunch. Ginger was being her theatrical self and waving her arms around madly, like a red-headed top. I was too busy trying to keep my stomach sucked in to pay her any attention, but apparently I got distracted and made the mistake of exhaling. That's when I caught Bane staring at the roll around my waist sticking out over the top of my jeans like it was some disgusting alien gut-muffin. It was not a stellar moment.
On top of that, I think I failed the final exam in Ms. Boneur's class. Why did I ever think I could handle calculus? So there goes my GPA. With only a week left before school's out, I can't exactly make it up :(
When I finally dragged az home, I stretched out on my bed and cried for like ever. For a girl in the top ten percent of her class, my social life is pure suxage.
I hate being overweight. I hate Ms. Boneur (everyone calls her Ms. Boner). I hate my other fat friends. And I hate Bane. And I especially hate Candi Khorne (can you actually believe that is a real person's name?!), and her stupid pink pom-poms. She makes me want to freakin' hurl all over her sparkly spandex ho-fit. I think she looks like a poster child for Lisa Frank addiction. She's about as intelligent as a doorknob and twice as interesting.
Worse yet, I think Bane might be into her.
Bang, how unexpected...
So like I said, I came home and cried my guts out.
I don't really hate anybody, you know. I just hate not being pretty and popular. I want to be slim and gorgeous and mysterious, to look like my movie star idol, Hedy Lamarr.
But most of all, I want Bane to be into me.
So that's when I decided to do something about all these things that are bugging me. I'm going to show every body at school a new Olive. I am going to shine so bright Bane'll need shades just to talk to me. Watch out, world - I'm through soaking my pillow with tears.
And this time, I really mean it! In one week summer vacation starts, and I have an incredible plan: This is THE summer I am going to become the Olive I want to be, and I think I know just how to do it. By the time school starts, I am going to be the hottest junior at Medici High!!! Bane will pop one just looking at me ;)
That is why 30 minutes ago I sold my soul to the Devil.
05/28/09
Dear Dia Ree,
Bang. I was almost late getting to school on time. Just as I was about to duck out the front door, Dad popped out of his study still half-asleep, but sharp enough to give me the fatherly evil eye.
"I wondered what I was smelling out here. Thought it was rotten eggs" Dad grimaced. "You got on some new kind of perfume, Olivia?"
"umm... sorta", I said. I am not good at prevaricating.
Dad pointedly gave the space around me a good, long sniff, his aristocratic nostrils delicately quivering. "I'd demand my money back", he snarked. Then, with a whirl of his cape, Dad blew me a kiss and vanished back into his study. I should maybe mention here that my Dad is a famous stage magician (well, not really famous but he almost was when he was younger). Since he pratices or performs at night, he usually gets to bed about the time I'm leaving for school. Most times I don't see him in the a.m., but I wasn't so lucky today. I love my Dad, but he doesn't understand what I'm going through, and he thinks my movie star magazines are a waste of money. For a guy who spends his cash on magic tricks, he's one to talk.
So anyway, I had to haul az back upstairs to eradicate what must have been the lingering smell of sulphur and brimstone clinging to my soon-ta-be haute hot self. No sense in giving my hand away this early in the game. September can't get here soon enough.
05/29/09
Dear Dia Ree,
Ginger can be such a drag! For someone so esoteric, so into everything mystical and zen, she can really put a bang on things :(
Tonight was Friday. Me, Ginger and Berry were all laid out in Ginger's basement bedroom (2 kewl, btw ... I'd love to have an entire floor to myself!). I waited until we'd finished admiring each other's hairdos copied from the pages of our old movie magazines before springing my plan on my friends.
No sooner had I paused for breath before Ginger clambered to her feet, shaking her newly waved hair all to shreds. She turned red in the face and pointed an accusing finger at me like I had just suggested we rob an orphanage or something. Berry almost choked on her Fresca when I gave her my patented look of innocence, hoping for some support her corner. Bang again.
"Do you", demanded Ginger, "have any idea what you've done"? The fat freckled finger of fate twitched like a spastic Circus Peanut two inches from my nose.
"What's the big deal?" I said, getting annoyed. I had kinda expected more enthusiasm out of Ginger, since she was the paranormal 'expert' in the group. "It's not like she really wanted our souls, anyway..."
Mouths gaping, both girls practically screamed in unison, "SHE?!?"
Okay, I have to admit at this point I started to feel a tiny bit smug. My old confidence was returning and I decided to play it casual. "Hey, keep the sound down. We don't need parents snooping around our cave." I didn't say anything more but turned my back and studied my chipped fingernails like they were the most fascinating thing in the universe. I could like actually feel the nano-seconds ticking away.
Suddenly I was engulfed in a hailstorm of Cheetos. With affected dignified, I dusted off the blazing orange crumbs and climbed up onto Ginger's huge Hollywood Regency bed. I motioned for my friends to join me. I, of course, claimed headboard status.
"She was actually very nice..." I began. "Super pretty, too," I added. Then I told them the entire story of what happened two nights ago. We talked until almost midnight. By the time I left for home, Ginger had calmed down and become very thoughtful, business like. She was busy dragging large, dusty books out from her library under the stairwell when Berry and I said goodnight.
When I dropped Berry off in front of her mom's rented duplex, she confessed she was a little scared, but still excited and that she couldn't wait to get started. Berry, we'd all decided, was to be in charge of researching our idols to find the exact moment in history we were planning to duplicate.
And my job, Dia Ree, is to play laison with Satan, or Shatan as she prefers to be called.
Snap that!
Saturday, October 3, 2009
The Best Part of Waking UP
You know it's not going to be a 'good day' when you wake up inside a coffin.
My first clue comes when I go to stretch, and my arm is stopped short by a hard, unforgiving surface just inches from my face. That is when I panic.
You cannot imagine what the panic is like, the desperate gasps for air, the squirming, the struggle for freedom ...
Little by little, as slow realization overcomes your sleep-drugged senses, you first scratch, then claw, your whimpers turn to screams.
And there is no one to hear.
No one to release you from your satin prison.
Insanity wars with resignation, resignation resigns itself to cold, clear-headed logic, ... only for the cycle to repeat itself endlessly.
I hate it.
See, this is the dirty little secret of vampires everywhere. The secret no one likes to talk about. The one nasty little ugly we keep quiet from the living. Our little place in Hell we rarely mention, but must visit every sundown.
We forget. For just a few moments (and, trust me ... those few moments are an eternity unlike any other) ... we FORGET all that has preceded us, and must begin again. For just a little while. Until our undead consciousness finds its place once more.
See, and though I never paid that much attention in school, it seems that the body consciousness (the brain - for all your dimwitted mortals) dies along with the body. The brain, of course, is where memory once resided. Yet, and this so sux, with the brain ... how shall I say this? ... no longer the captain of this undead ship, we vampires don't have access to yesterday's events in the same way that YOU have. We have to wait suffer linger until our soul consciousness kicks in.
And that can feel like a mighty long wait.
This lapse is what truly makes us vulnerable to you silly, stupid mortals. Otherwise we'd tear your lily white throats to shreds when you dared to disturb our slumber.
Once in a while, the fear is so great, I will actually wet myself. And you haven't lived, my peeps, until you've peed blood. Literally. Think they'll be making Depends for that one anytime soon?!
So forgive me if I'm a little bad tempered today. I woke up on the wrong side of the wood. TODAY took me a little longer than usual to remember who I was and where I was.
Forgive me for lunging at your throat.
But I'm usually better tempered once I've had breakfast. Nothing like a McMortal to start the day, I always say.
My first clue comes when I go to stretch, and my arm is stopped short by a hard, unforgiving surface just inches from my face. That is when I panic.
You cannot imagine what the panic is like, the desperate gasps for air, the squirming, the struggle for freedom ...
Little by little, as slow realization overcomes your sleep-drugged senses, you first scratch, then claw, your whimpers turn to screams.
And there is no one to hear.
No one to release you from your satin prison.
Insanity wars with resignation, resignation resigns itself to cold, clear-headed logic, ... only for the cycle to repeat itself endlessly.
I hate it.
See, this is the dirty little secret of vampires everywhere. The secret no one likes to talk about. The one nasty little ugly we keep quiet from the living. Our little place in Hell we rarely mention, but must visit every sundown.
We forget. For just a few moments (and, trust me ... those few moments are an eternity unlike any other) ... we FORGET all that has preceded us, and must begin again. For just a little while. Until our undead consciousness finds its place once more.
See, and though I never paid that much attention in school, it seems that the body consciousness (the brain - for all your dimwitted mortals) dies along with the body. The brain, of course, is where memory once resided. Yet, and this so sux, with the brain ... how shall I say this? ... no longer the captain of this undead ship, we vampires don't have access to yesterday's events in the same way that YOU have. We have to wait suffer linger until our soul consciousness kicks in.
And that can feel like a mighty long wait.
This lapse is what truly makes us vulnerable to you silly, stupid mortals. Otherwise we'd tear your lily white throats to shreds when you dared to disturb our slumber.
Once in a while, the fear is so great, I will actually wet myself. And you haven't lived, my peeps, until you've peed blood. Literally. Think they'll be making Depends for that one anytime soon?!
So forgive me if I'm a little bad tempered today. I woke up on the wrong side of the wood. TODAY took me a little longer than usual to remember who I was and where I was.
Forgive me for lunging at your throat.
But I'm usually better tempered once I've had breakfast. Nothing like a McMortal to start the day, I always say.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Mary Ann DeBorde - New Digs
There Ghost the Neighborhood - A Halloween Tale
"It's pleased I am to meet you. I heard tell they's a new kid on the block. Reckon it's time we got around to sayin' our how do's. I hope you like it here. I do. Me and the Missus been here a long time, though it don't seem such. Time has a way of getting on, you'll see what I mean after a spell.
"I always thought this a purty place to take up. A good neighborhood, one of them fancy 'gated communities', even if it is a might on the rundown side of things. As long as they keep out the riff-raff, them wild 'uns, I 'spect it'll stay nice enough.
"I'll introduce you to folk first thing sundown when we all gets together. We're a fair sociable bunch, some a little too sociable like the Widder Brown, if you hark my meanin'. I don't take no truck with shenanigans and neither do the Missus. We been here a long time and a might set in our ways, I'm proud to say.
"Now, downhill yonder ... see that scrawny old birch what looks like a snake sheddin' its skin? They's where the Blackwells put down, the whole clan o' them. They's Ma and Pa Blackwell then they's some of the kids, and their kids, and I think mebbe a few blocks back behind they's cousins scattered 'bouts. Most all them Blackwells be okay, but ol' Pa Blackwell, he don't get up much once the weather turns cold-like. Rheumatism in the bones, Ma says.
"Okay. Now see over left yonder of your place, they's the Reverend Oliver George. He don't stand on no ceremony, so most of the folk call him Ollie. I still calls him Reverend and so do the Missus. We been here a long time and believe in showing respect where respect's due, by gum.
"Next door Reverend, they's the twins, Laverne and Leona. They like things all neat and tidy, grass all trimmed proper n' such with big fancy statues come all the way over from Italy. Nice enough gals but a might uppity for me and the Missus.
"Them lights? Oh no, they's a strange bunch backup yonder close by the old bridge. I ain't a tellin' you what is your business or none, just showin' you whichaway the wind's blowin', that's all. I'd keep my distance, boy. Even the Widder don't truck with that bunch.
"See, years back that area were let go and empty like, 'til this bunch took up by the old bridge - like carpetbaggers or such. They just moved right in and kinda took over the place without so much as a by-your-leave. A noisy lot of 'em ... always screamin' and a hollerin 'when good folks is trying to take a rest.
"Well, I guess they's about it. Sun be a comin' up before too long and these old bones tire out easy-like. I hope you get settled in right soon enough. That there coffin o' yours looks mighty comfortable, kinda flashy with all that red satin going on. But die and let die, I always says.
"You got any questions, just you ask me and the Missus. Oh, and I hope you're not a groaner or a moaner. Me and the Missus been here a long time and we don't take no truck with spooks makin' too much noise. We like things quiet in our part o' the cemetery, hope you remember that".
"It's pleased I am to meet you. I heard tell they's a new kid on the block. Reckon it's time we got around to sayin' our how do's. I hope you like it here. I do. Me and the Missus been here a long time, though it don't seem such. Time has a way of getting on, you'll see what I mean after a spell.
"I always thought this a purty place to take up. A good neighborhood, one of them fancy 'gated communities', even if it is a might on the rundown side of things. As long as they keep out the riff-raff, them wild 'uns, I 'spect it'll stay nice enough.
"I'll introduce you to folk first thing sundown when we all gets together. We're a fair sociable bunch, some a little too sociable like the Widder Brown, if you hark my meanin'. I don't take no truck with shenanigans and neither do the Missus. We been here a long time and a might set in our ways, I'm proud to say.
"Now, downhill yonder ... see that scrawny old birch what looks like a snake sheddin' its skin? They's where the Blackwells put down, the whole clan o' them. They's Ma and Pa Blackwell then they's some of the kids, and their kids, and I think mebbe a few blocks back behind they's cousins scattered 'bouts. Most all them Blackwells be okay, but ol' Pa Blackwell, he don't get up much once the weather turns cold-like. Rheumatism in the bones, Ma says.
"Okay. Now see over left yonder of your place, they's the Reverend Oliver George. He don't stand on no ceremony, so most of the folk call him Ollie. I still calls him Reverend and so do the Missus. We been here a long time and believe in showing respect where respect's due, by gum.
"Next door Reverend, they's the twins, Laverne and Leona. They like things all neat and tidy, grass all trimmed proper n' such with big fancy statues come all the way over from Italy. Nice enough gals but a might uppity for me and the Missus.
"Them lights? Oh no, they's a strange bunch backup yonder close by the old bridge. I ain't a tellin' you what is your business or none, just showin' you whichaway the wind's blowin', that's all. I'd keep my distance, boy. Even the Widder don't truck with that bunch.
"See, years back that area were let go and empty like, 'til this bunch took up by the old bridge - like carpetbaggers or such. They just moved right in and kinda took over the place without so much as a by-your-leave. A noisy lot of 'em ... always screamin' and a hollerin 'when good folks is trying to take a rest.
"Well, I guess they's about it. Sun be a comin' up before too long and these old bones tire out easy-like. I hope you get settled in right soon enough. That there coffin o' yours looks mighty comfortable, kinda flashy with all that red satin going on. But die and let die, I always says.
"You got any questions, just you ask me and the Missus. Oh, and I hope you're not a groaner or a moaner. Me and the Missus been here a long time and we don't take no truck with spooks makin' too much noise. We like things quiet in our part o' the cemetery, hope you remember that".
Mary Ann DeBorde - A Slice of Wry 2
Not to be melodramatic, folks - but I think I am dying. Everyone says it's seasonal allergies, but I think they are lying. Based on personal experience, I'd have to guess it's some kind of medieval plague, like the Black Death, or even possibly an ancient Mayan curse unleashed by careless archaeologists on the heads of all mankind. I bet some twit built another shopping mall on top of one of those Indian burial grounds we're always tripping over in Illinois. They really should mark those things.
It hurts to breathe. It also hurts to stand, lay, sit, swallow and blink. My ears are full of some disgusting mucus-type substance that makes me dizzy, hard of hearing, and if it doesn't stop I am going to go smack dab nuts and do a Van Gogh on myself (although I'm not sure it's legal these days to mail ears to unrequited lovers. I could prop it up on the mantelpiece, but the last thing I need is one more stupid knick-knack cluttering up this stupid house).
Sigh. Even my hair hurts. It feels like I am combing razor blades across my scalp.
I want my mommy.
But I'm not the only one. A bunch of us at work are sick this week. You don't know ugly until you're stuck working around a slew of sinus-infested zombies who cough so hard they clog up the Xerox machine with bits of lung tissue. One feverish co-worker is especially talented at projectile sneezing - (which is a lot like paintball but messier, and you need a strong stomach to participate). Anyway, I do some of my best work hiding under the computer desk in the store room.
Sadly, the cure is worse than being sick. Don't you love how pharmaceuticals give nasty medicine those cutesy flavors that are supposed to render the drug more palatable, but instead make you want to hurl? This morning I took a slug of a viscous, purple cough syrup that claimed to be grape flavored, but in bitter actuality tasted more like some sicko ran Barney through the blender a few times too many.
As gross as that sounds, it was way better than another cold medicine I tried, the one that's a tablet you drop into a glass of water where it fizzes like Chernobyl going down, and leaves this minty-death-camp after taste in the mouth. My cat yaks up nicer stuff.
Sorry. It's hard to be witty when you're being sucked down a tunnel and beckoned towards the light. I can't tell if that's my grandpa waving at me from the Beyond, or just some hairy kid on his bike outside the living room window because I'm too weak to put on my glasses. I'm scared if I am really, truly dying, they'll just hand me a time card when I stumble into the Great Hereafter, cos God knows all I ever do is work, work, work anyway.
But... TAH DAH ... according to those marvelous medics at (you guessed it!) The International House of Disease Control & Pancakes, the only known cure for the Black Death and similar plagues is to listen to the same 70's Disco hit for about 8,000 times, thereby encouraging the cold germ to flee its surroundings and, out of sheer desperation, attaching itself to another host body, preferably one with better taste in music.
Are you tired of work? For the modest sum of only $99.99, I can show you how to retire by getting lots of innocent strangers to mail you checks for $99.99, barring legal complications, of course. This offer is good until the Aliens land on the White House lawn bearing gifts of advanced technology and wondrous cures for heinous diseases such as cancer, heart disease and polyester. (just kidding)(God. I've still gotta get that stupid laundry done...)
It hurts to breathe. It also hurts to stand, lay, sit, swallow and blink. My ears are full of some disgusting mucus-type substance that makes me dizzy, hard of hearing, and if it doesn't stop I am going to go smack dab nuts and do a Van Gogh on myself (although I'm not sure it's legal these days to mail ears to unrequited lovers. I could prop it up on the mantelpiece, but the last thing I need is one more stupid knick-knack cluttering up this stupid house).
Sigh. Even my hair hurts. It feels like I am combing razor blades across my scalp.
I want my mommy.
But I'm not the only one. A bunch of us at work are sick this week. You don't know ugly until you're stuck working around a slew of sinus-infested zombies who cough so hard they clog up the Xerox machine with bits of lung tissue. One feverish co-worker is especially talented at projectile sneezing - (which is a lot like paintball but messier, and you need a strong stomach to participate). Anyway, I do some of my best work hiding under the computer desk in the store room.
Sadly, the cure is worse than being sick. Don't you love how pharmaceuticals give nasty medicine those cutesy flavors that are supposed to render the drug more palatable, but instead make you want to hurl? This morning I took a slug of a viscous, purple cough syrup that claimed to be grape flavored, but in bitter actuality tasted more like some sicko ran Barney through the blender a few times too many.
As gross as that sounds, it was way better than another cold medicine I tried, the one that's a tablet you drop into a glass of water where it fizzes like Chernobyl going down, and leaves this minty-death-camp after taste in the mouth. My cat yaks up nicer stuff.
Sorry. It's hard to be witty when you're being sucked down a tunnel and beckoned towards the light. I can't tell if that's my grandpa waving at me from the Beyond, or just some hairy kid on his bike outside the living room window because I'm too weak to put on my glasses. I'm scared if I am really, truly dying, they'll just hand me a time card when I stumble into the Great Hereafter, cos God knows all I ever do is work, work, work anyway.
But... TAH DAH ... according to those marvelous medics at (you guessed it!) The International House of Disease Control & Pancakes, the only known cure for the Black Death and similar plagues is to listen to the same 70's Disco hit for about 8,000 times, thereby encouraging the cold germ to flee its surroundings and, out of sheer desperation, attaching itself to another host body, preferably one with better taste in music.
Are you tired of work? For the modest sum of only $99.99, I can show you how to retire by getting lots of innocent strangers to mail you checks for $99.99, barring legal complications, of course. This offer is good until the Aliens land on the White House lawn bearing gifts of advanced technology and wondrous cures for heinous diseases such as cancer, heart disease and polyester. (just kidding)(God. I've still gotta get that stupid laundry done...)
Mary Ann DeBorde - I WON AN AWARD
OH MY GOD...
I GOT AN AWARD!!!!!!!!!
Just minutes ago (I am still quivering with excitement) I received notice from myself that I have just awarded me the MARY ANN DEBORDE AWARD for consuming the most caffeine within a 30 minute period while typing a new post! Can you believe it? (this could explain the quivering)
I never ever in a million zillion kabillion years would have thought myself a potential candidate for the uber prestigious albeit little known MARY ANN DEBORDE AWARD. Oh Em Gee. This award, or so I've informed myself, is a pinnacle of artificial achievement in the field of amateur bloggers everywhere (or at least within my living room).
Furthermore, I'd like to thank all the little people who have made this possible, namely my two cats and the stupid fruit fly that's been bugging me all day. Also, I want to assure my readers that I will continue to uphold the stupendous standards I have set for me, which mostly consists of writing whatever the heck I feel like, when I feel like, and trying to remember to use Spell Check occasionally.
Still furthermore, as an honorable recipient of the MARY ANN DEBORDE AWARD, comes the additional responsibility of someday getting around to actually drawing and uploading a bunch of goofy graphics, mainly because people like pictures (often of cute animals, or animals being cute, or cute beings dressed up like animals).
SOME day I promise, by all that is HOLEY, to learn to use Photo Shop, Adobe, Acrobat, Dingbat, Deadbeat, etc etc ... unless there is a new episode of The Office on T.V.
So in conclusion, thank you self, for blah blah blah, I am touched, humbled blah blah blah and now I need to get off this stupid computer and do some real work for a change, like the laundry. God, I hate laundry. There's a load of whites in the washer (no lie) that's been in there four days now. So of course I've gotta wash it all over again (there goes my Green award. Sigh.). Now I'll have to chip the clothes out of the laundry tub with an ice pick. I just hate laundry that much. I mean, the washing part isn't so bad, it's the stupid drying and folding and sorting and hanging and all that crapola. But since I'm the one with the uterus, it's my job to have to do. Right. Like the other morons in this family can't spin the dial and pour in a cupful of soap. They hate the drying part as much as I do. That's why we have lint the size of small wildlife dangling out the dryer vent. I suppose I get to vacuum that up, as well. No one around here ever vacuums, except maybe during a total solar eclipse. Then, when I do cave in and drag out the ol' Hoover, the family gripes about the noise. They can't hear the T.V. (insert sound of major, life transporting artery bursting in brain). Well gosh. I'd hate to drown out the sound of the latest Burger Barn commercial. I KNOW! Next time I vacuum, I'll rev that baby up like a '65 Harley and see what happens. Don't mess with the menopausal, is my motive here, folks.
Seriously, I've got so much I need to do today, and here I sit, amusing myself on the pc. I (YAY!) uncovered last night a stash of funny stuff I wrote a few years back, and I'm trying to get some of it posted. Why, I don't know. Is anyone reading this? It looks like it, but I don't get much feedback. I feel unloved, unwanted, dejected and alone. Wait. Maybe that's just gas from the vats of caffeine I've drank all morning long. Hard to tell.
Major sigh ;)
I GOT AN AWARD!!!!!!!!!
Just minutes ago (I am still quivering with excitement) I received notice from myself that I have just awarded me the MARY ANN DEBORDE AWARD for consuming the most caffeine within a 30 minute period while typing a new post! Can you believe it? (this could explain the quivering)
I never ever in a million zillion kabillion years would have thought myself a potential candidate for the uber prestigious albeit little known MARY ANN DEBORDE AWARD. Oh Em Gee. This award, or so I've informed myself, is a pinnacle of artificial achievement in the field of amateur bloggers everywhere (or at least within my living room).
Furthermore, I'd like to thank all the little people who have made this possible, namely my two cats and the stupid fruit fly that's been bugging me all day. Also, I want to assure my readers that I will continue to uphold the stupendous standards I have set for me, which mostly consists of writing whatever the heck I feel like, when I feel like, and trying to remember to use Spell Check occasionally.
Still furthermore, as an honorable recipient of the MARY ANN DEBORDE AWARD, comes the additional responsibility of someday getting around to actually drawing and uploading a bunch of goofy graphics, mainly because people like pictures (often of cute animals, or animals being cute, or cute beings dressed up like animals).
SOME day I promise, by all that is HOLEY, to learn to use Photo Shop, Adobe, Acrobat, Dingbat, Deadbeat, etc etc ... unless there is a new episode of The Office on T.V.
So in conclusion, thank you self, for blah blah blah, I am touched, humbled blah blah blah and now I need to get off this stupid computer and do some real work for a change, like the laundry. God, I hate laundry. There's a load of whites in the washer (no lie) that's been in there four days now. So of course I've gotta wash it all over again (there goes my Green award. Sigh.). Now I'll have to chip the clothes out of the laundry tub with an ice pick. I just hate laundry that much. I mean, the washing part isn't so bad, it's the stupid drying and folding and sorting and hanging and all that crapola. But since I'm the one with the uterus, it's my job to have to do. Right. Like the other morons in this family can't spin the dial and pour in a cupful of soap. They hate the drying part as much as I do. That's why we have lint the size of small wildlife dangling out the dryer vent. I suppose I get to vacuum that up, as well. No one around here ever vacuums, except maybe during a total solar eclipse. Then, when I do cave in and drag out the ol' Hoover, the family gripes about the noise. They can't hear the T.V. (insert sound of major, life transporting artery bursting in brain). Well gosh. I'd hate to drown out the sound of the latest Burger Barn commercial. I KNOW! Next time I vacuum, I'll rev that baby up like a '65 Harley and see what happens. Don't mess with the menopausal, is my motive here, folks.
Seriously, I've got so much I need to do today, and here I sit, amusing myself on the pc. I (YAY!) uncovered last night a stash of funny stuff I wrote a few years back, and I'm trying to get some of it posted. Why, I don't know. Is anyone reading this? It looks like it, but I don't get much feedback. I feel unloved, unwanted, dejected and alone. Wait. Maybe that's just gas from the vats of caffeine I've drank all morning long. Hard to tell.
Major sigh ;)
Mary Ann DeBorde - A Slice of Wry
I love fall? Don't you love fall? I know it's already here because I just saw my first woolly worm of the season. It was jet black with an eerie glow and sported a tattoo on its back that read 'DOOM'. Chee. I didn't know they made tattoo needles that small.
So now we've got the cooler temps and great sleeping weather. My feet got cold this week and I had to put on my fuzzy socks with the pink pompoms. Cats (we have two) love pompoms. I didn't have those socks on five minutes before Polly turned into some kind of Naruto-crazed Ninja and began attacking my feet like they were mice dipped in catnip. By the way, nothing ... and I mean nothing, cleans up bloodstains off the linoleum like good ol' Pine-Sol.
Yup. Autumn is just around the corner and by golly, we females love this time of year. Spring may be the time of year when a young man's fancy turns to thoughts of love, but fall is when a woman's estrogen levels reach heights exceeded only, perhaps, by the national debt.
Fall is when we women start nesting and cleaning like we are expecting the Queen Mother to drop in for a spot of tea and fat-free crumpets. After I'd scrubbed the house this weekend to the point you could've hosted an in-home heart transplant, I set out pumpkin candles and one of those cinnamon broom thingies to make things all cozy and autumn-ish. Now my house smells like the Mrs. Smith's pie factory exploded in my living room, which is fine unless the Queen Mother is a diabetic with allergies.
Anyway, this is such a terrific time of year. Fall. Before too long the leaves will kaleidoscope into brilliant shades of scarlet, maize and orange to turn our lawns into a patchwork quilt of autumn beauty. I feel like baking, too, so I tore out a couple of recipes from the October issue of Martha-Can-Afford-To-Live-In-Her-Own-Vineyard magazine, that I 'borrowed' from the library.
Speaking of magazine, did you happen to see in this month's Popular-Science-And-Pocket-Protectors the amazing article on how to turn kitty litter clumps into valuable mammoth diamonds using ordinary household ingredients such as vinegar and ... !!! WE ARE INTERRUPTING THIS POST TO BRING YOU A LATE BREAKING NEWS FLASH !!! Entomologists** report the discovery of unusually large yellow jacket nests uncovered in southern Alabama and parts of Georgia. While large wasp nests are common to fall, those nests being found are of such a size and magnitude as to puzzle experts. These 'supernests', are being found in undisturbed, remote locations locations including abandoned barns and cars. One such 'supernest' was verified to have filled the entire interior of a 1955 Chevrolet. Another supernest, found in a barn, was so large it had to be removed in sections. The cause of these supernests has not been determined. Speculations range from drought to global warming to harem battles between multiple insect queens! ... vinegar and ... and ... omg. What is this? Some kind of real life Fear Factor? First it was giant rats invading southern Florida, then intelligent mice in the labs, then the bedbug Olympics where the little stinkers are impervious to everything but flamethrowers, now I've got to worry about wasp nests the size of small planets turning up in the my garage or something. Where's that Hazmat suit when you need one?
Researchers are puzzled, my Aunt Fanny. I'll tell you why the yellow jackets are building huge nests and super duper colonies. Because they CAN, that's why. I may be wrong, but for some reason I don't think wasps feel the need to justify their actions, is why. Criminy.
Okay, so what we need here, and quickly, before it's too late, what we need here is some kind of protective, full body cover to protect us primates from the sick, twisted depravity of a Mother Nature who is also warped enough to create hissing, flying cockroaches and maggots (Joke: what is the difference between dead maggots and the cheap rice in your pantry? Answer: you only think there's a difference. Both swell when wet) along with gargantuan rats and bedbugs spelunking around at night inside your ear canal - probably with tiny flashlights equipped with batteries that keep going and going and going.
No. Seriously. I'm gonna barf. If I ever open my car door to find the inside of the entire vehicle engulfed in a wasp nest, I am going to softly shut the door, pretend I didn't see a thing, and keep walking in the opposite direction in a straight line until either a) I hopefully fall off the edge of this fubar planet or b) the sun explodes. Whichever.
So like I was saying. What we need here is some kind of nature-proof covering, like the kind recommended by the friendly folk at the International House of Stinging Pests and Pancakes. They suggest some kind of adhesive, waterproof substance, ideally cut into strips, with which to fully encase the human body until Mother Nature is done getting her jollies. Gosh, if only we had something like that available ...
INTRODUCING the adhesive, waterproof substance that you can cut into strips with which to fully encase the human body!!! For only 4-easy cheesy payments of $29.99, I will personally send you a roll of what looks suspiciously like duct-tape, but probably isn't.
Cheaper than a Hazmat, and a lot more flexible than a Plexiglas bubble, this anti-nature tape is just the thing you need to keep the primate in and the lower forms of disgusting life the heck away from your flesh. Yes. All you need is a roll of our no-money-back-guaranteed-anti-nature tape, an Exacto knife, and a very, very, very close friend who, after painstakingly binding your body like a big gray mummy with our miracle anti-nature tape, will carefully (make sure this is a TRUE friend instead of the sleeze bags you typically hang out with) use the Exacto knife to cut precise, crucial openings for you to see and breathe and all other necessary bodily functions that we are too mature to mention (right) here.
OR, if you are too cowardly and cheap to take advantage of this special offer, then YOU can spend the rest of your life curled up in a fetal position within the safety of your home, which is a lousy way to enjoy Fall, if you ask me.
Frankly, you get what you pay for.
To order the new, miracle Anti-Nature tape, please send $29.99 X4 to M.A.D.s Gullibility Research Project, c/0 M.A.D.s Super Secret Swiss Bank account. Please allow all of eternity for checks to clear. Thank you.
** Entomologists: people who don't scream like a big baby when a bug lands in their hair.
So now we've got the cooler temps and great sleeping weather. My feet got cold this week and I had to put on my fuzzy socks with the pink pompoms. Cats (we have two) love pompoms. I didn't have those socks on five minutes before Polly turned into some kind of Naruto-crazed Ninja and began attacking my feet like they were mice dipped in catnip. By the way, nothing ... and I mean nothing, cleans up bloodstains off the linoleum like good ol' Pine-Sol.
Yup. Autumn is just around the corner and by golly, we females love this time of year. Spring may be the time of year when a young man's fancy turns to thoughts of love, but fall is when a woman's estrogen levels reach heights exceeded only, perhaps, by the national debt.
Fall is when we women start nesting and cleaning like we are expecting the Queen Mother to drop in for a spot of tea and fat-free crumpets. After I'd scrubbed the house this weekend to the point you could've hosted an in-home heart transplant, I set out pumpkin candles and one of those cinnamon broom thingies to make things all cozy and autumn-ish. Now my house smells like the Mrs. Smith's pie factory exploded in my living room, which is fine unless the Queen Mother is a diabetic with allergies.
Anyway, this is such a terrific time of year. Fall. Before too long the leaves will kaleidoscope into brilliant shades of scarlet, maize and orange to turn our lawns into a patchwork quilt of autumn beauty. I feel like baking, too, so I tore out a couple of recipes from the October issue of Martha-Can-Afford-To-Live-In-Her-Own-Vineyard magazine, that I 'borrowed' from the library.
Speaking of magazine, did you happen to see in this month's Popular-Science-And-Pocket-Protectors the amazing article on how to turn kitty litter clumps into valuable mammoth diamonds using ordinary household ingredients such as vinegar and ... !!! WE ARE INTERRUPTING THIS POST TO BRING YOU A LATE BREAKING NEWS FLASH !!! Entomologists** report the discovery of unusually large yellow jacket nests uncovered in southern Alabama and parts of Georgia. While large wasp nests are common to fall, those nests being found are of such a size and magnitude as to puzzle experts. These 'supernests', are being found in undisturbed, remote locations locations including abandoned barns and cars. One such 'supernest' was verified to have filled the entire interior of a 1955 Chevrolet. Another supernest, found in a barn, was so large it had to be removed in sections. The cause of these supernests has not been determined. Speculations range from drought to global warming to harem battles between multiple insect queens! ... vinegar and ... and ... omg. What is this? Some kind of real life Fear Factor? First it was giant rats invading southern Florida, then intelligent mice in the labs, then the bedbug Olympics where the little stinkers are impervious to everything but flamethrowers, now I've got to worry about wasp nests the size of small planets turning up in the my garage or something. Where's that Hazmat suit when you need one?
Researchers are puzzled, my Aunt Fanny. I'll tell you why the yellow jackets are building huge nests and super duper colonies. Because they CAN, that's why. I may be wrong, but for some reason I don't think wasps feel the need to justify their actions, is why. Criminy.
Okay, so what we need here, and quickly, before it's too late, what we need here is some kind of protective, full body cover to protect us primates from the sick, twisted depravity of a Mother Nature who is also warped enough to create hissing, flying cockroaches and maggots (Joke: what is the difference between dead maggots and the cheap rice in your pantry? Answer: you only think there's a difference. Both swell when wet) along with gargantuan rats and bedbugs spelunking around at night inside your ear canal - probably with tiny flashlights equipped with batteries that keep going and going and going.
No. Seriously. I'm gonna barf. If I ever open my car door to find the inside of the entire vehicle engulfed in a wasp nest, I am going to softly shut the door, pretend I didn't see a thing, and keep walking in the opposite direction in a straight line until either a) I hopefully fall off the edge of this fubar planet or b) the sun explodes. Whichever.
So like I was saying. What we need here is some kind of nature-proof covering, like the kind recommended by the friendly folk at the International House of Stinging Pests and Pancakes. They suggest some kind of adhesive, waterproof substance, ideally cut into strips, with which to fully encase the human body until Mother Nature is done getting her jollies. Gosh, if only we had something like that available ...
INTRODUCING the adhesive, waterproof substance that you can cut into strips with which to fully encase the human body!!! For only 4-easy cheesy payments of $29.99, I will personally send you a roll of what looks suspiciously like duct-tape, but probably isn't.
Cheaper than a Hazmat, and a lot more flexible than a Plexiglas bubble, this anti-nature tape is just the thing you need to keep the primate in and the lower forms of disgusting life the heck away from your flesh. Yes. All you need is a roll of our no-money-back-guaranteed-anti-nature tape, an Exacto knife, and a very, very, very close friend who, after painstakingly binding your body like a big gray mummy with our miracle anti-nature tape, will carefully (make sure this is a TRUE friend instead of the sleeze bags you typically hang out with) use the Exacto knife to cut precise, crucial openings for you to see and breathe and all other necessary bodily functions that we are too mature to mention (right) here.
OR, if you are too cowardly and cheap to take advantage of this special offer, then YOU can spend the rest of your life curled up in a fetal position within the safety of your home, which is a lousy way to enjoy Fall, if you ask me.
Frankly, you get what you pay for.
To order the new, miracle Anti-Nature tape, please send $29.99 X4 to M.A.D.s Gullibility Research Project, c/0 M.A.D.s Super Secret Swiss Bank account. Please allow all of eternity for checks to clear. Thank you.
** Entomologists: people who don't scream like a big baby when a bug lands in their hair.
Monday, September 21, 2009
The Shattering of Primal Glass
I have a secret I may share with no one; a secret so uncanny it’s revelation would seal my doom. And that is in this world. God knows what would happen to me in that other place.
In this world, my waking world of cause and effect, Earth’s world of sane and gentle reason, I am certain I would be cast in Bedlam. Declared mad and locked away in some forgotten hovel with others like myself who dared to tell their secrets. They would plant me in their sour garden with other shattered flowers like myself, feed me their thin and noxious gruel, and water my precious mind with opiates in my tea.
However, in that other place, I might welcome Bedlam.
Were I to betray the Others, were I to reveal all that I have seen and done, should I tell the world of mice and men what lies beyond the beckoning arms of Morpheous, then it might well be that a madhouse would seem a paradise. The mere thought causes me to tremble, I haven't the courage.
And now…sigh…NOW the clock sounds its call to arms. Or rather, it is sounding a reminder to me that the hour is nigh. It is time for my surrender to sleep, for the others grow impatient.
They are awaiting my return.
It is cold. So very very cold. I am sitting with a most curious device upon my lap. My mind translates the object into a large silver bowl brimming with ice. It is crucial to what is about to take place. I am fearful as well as cold. Someone I cannot see sits beside my right. He or She reassures me all will be well. I am so afraid of becoming ‘stuck’… STUCK? In what?
Then I am both in and I am out. The ice has turned to vapor, a glowing lighted mist. I find myself passing through the gates of a station, a depot perhaps, where beings like myself flow past as water. So many. How are there so many? Upon a wall posts a schedule and I take a glance. There I go and how I go I do not know. My guide has disappeared. I turn towards my right and proceed in that direction.
The realization hits that this is one of several way stations, and others, like myself and some far different, are being ‘herded’ to our intended destinations. There are so many many others. I am only mildly confused this time, and thankful to be no longer cold. I keep walking to my right.
* * *
There is too much sun upon the morning, or so it seems. My eyes are screwed into a squint as I glance upwards toward Half Clocken Tower and I see that I am right. Not yet seven o’clock and my stomache thinks it’s ten. I am ghastly tired and my eyes stream a pus like fluid; however, I shove the folded egg and flattened bread between my teeth and ravish my food to death. It’s a 5-credit feast and a luxury at that, so I slow my stomache while hurrying my feet else I will miss the second hour at my work.
I wish that I’d been born with aesthetics, and then my placement might be more tolerable. And leisurely, or so it has been rumored. But I am wise enough to appreciate being spared a brawny girth. The thought of a lifetime of physical labor is exhausting simply to imagine, and I rejoice in my slight and fragile frame. Mental energy does not come cheap. I suspect I am left as worn as my stronger yet intellectually lighter compatriots. How delightful it must be to spend one’s days in State sanctioned artistic leisure, or so I had decided these weeks of late.
In this world, my waking world of cause and effect, Earth’s world of sane and gentle reason, I am certain I would be cast in Bedlam. Declared mad and locked away in some forgotten hovel with others like myself who dared to tell their secrets. They would plant me in their sour garden with other shattered flowers like myself, feed me their thin and noxious gruel, and water my precious mind with opiates in my tea.
However, in that other place, I might welcome Bedlam.
Were I to betray the Others, were I to reveal all that I have seen and done, should I tell the world of mice and men what lies beyond the beckoning arms of Morpheous, then it might well be that a madhouse would seem a paradise. The mere thought causes me to tremble, I haven't the courage.
And now…sigh…NOW the clock sounds its call to arms. Or rather, it is sounding a reminder to me that the hour is nigh. It is time for my surrender to sleep, for the others grow impatient.
They are awaiting my return.
It is cold. So very very cold. I am sitting with a most curious device upon my lap. My mind translates the object into a large silver bowl brimming with ice. It is crucial to what is about to take place. I am fearful as well as cold. Someone I cannot see sits beside my right. He or She reassures me all will be well. I am so afraid of becoming ‘stuck’… STUCK? In what?
Then I am both in and I am out. The ice has turned to vapor, a glowing lighted mist. I find myself passing through the gates of a station, a depot perhaps, where beings like myself flow past as water. So many. How are there so many? Upon a wall posts a schedule and I take a glance. There I go and how I go I do not know. My guide has disappeared. I turn towards my right and proceed in that direction.
The realization hits that this is one of several way stations, and others, like myself and some far different, are being ‘herded’ to our intended destinations. There are so many many others. I am only mildly confused this time, and thankful to be no longer cold. I keep walking to my right.
* * *
There is too much sun upon the morning, or so it seems. My eyes are screwed into a squint as I glance upwards toward Half Clocken Tower and I see that I am right. Not yet seven o’clock and my stomache thinks it’s ten. I am ghastly tired and my eyes stream a pus like fluid; however, I shove the folded egg and flattened bread between my teeth and ravish my food to death. It’s a 5-credit feast and a luxury at that, so I slow my stomache while hurrying my feet else I will miss the second hour at my work.
I wish that I’d been born with aesthetics, and then my placement might be more tolerable. And leisurely, or so it has been rumored. But I am wise enough to appreciate being spared a brawny girth. The thought of a lifetime of physical labor is exhausting simply to imagine, and I rejoice in my slight and fragile frame. Mental energy does not come cheap. I suspect I am left as worn as my stronger yet intellectually lighter compatriots. How delightful it must be to spend one’s days in State sanctioned artistic leisure, or so I had decided these weeks of late.
I am getting old. My mind wears out. I worry about the recycling nexus, though logic insists I've successfully recycled numerous times before.
What race did the State borrow the recycling nexus from, and where is their location? I cannot imagine. That lack, of imagination, is the weakness of my species. Ah, I think too much and only in circles.
Just another old man with worry on his plate. Enough here.
Too much bitterness and my egg will curdle in its juices. It is better I save my energies for the numbers I know are ready in their place and awaiting me. So I hurry my steps further, wipe my streaming eyes and placed a mild curse upon the sun for it’s early morning cruelty. Today's bitterness tastes the same as yesterday's, and tomorrow's will be no different.
Though credits run short, regret is in endless supply.
On my way through the front alleys to Calculations Incorporated, Clocken Tower rises grimly over all, and the reflection of the morning sun on its glassy face paints the humble streets and dwellings an ominous shade of red. The ever present dust, disturbed by my passage, re-settles itself into minor copper hillocks reminescent of Mars point 10. I acknowledge the resemblence with a loud, curdled egg belch.
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