American Fairy Tales

solitaire

noreply@blogger.com (Dick Barsky) — Thu, 11 Feb 2010 16:49:00 +0000

when a child i never knew the questions to ask
as i grew from barely there toward dreams
the questions came scatter shot
across anyone and anything

the answers elusive have always strayed
yet, i beg and plead for a guiding star
but the clouds of adolescence hang heavy
dark, coal grey and stubborn

i fight myself to move on
to know myself
to know my desires
to steer my destiny

yet the currents are deep
their strength gathered
by the ignorance that surrounds me
and i can not break free

so the questions remain
who?
not am i
for i am me

rather the who of history
and futures yet to come
who to you
who to me

why?
why the who
not the why of me
for i exist for no apparent reason

motivations reactions
to external stimuli
nothing but a fly’s eye
light and shape, shadow and direction

through enlightenment
can i reach buddha?
can i answer that Catepillar?
would Charles accept my answer?

are we nothing more than Alices
forever drugged
and drowned
in dreams of Hearts and Groundhogs

why and who
when always takes care of itself
too soon and too late
the schedule of perpetuity

free will seems a sin
when the waves of life
lift and move you forward
decisions are truly yours

only in the dreams
of the strong and delusional
the weak forever pawns
to the Universal threads

react to actions
never our own
these philosophical pursuits
a distracting game

the never ending game
of solitaire, politics and religion
what is the reason
what is the purpose

that is the pursuit
that we’ve been following
for the whole of history
the illusion the tunnel’s end

when you

noreply@blogger.com (Dick Barsky) — Thu, 11 Feb 2010 16:46:00 +0000

when you left did you know
that you were leaving?
was that always your plan,
to uplift and shine
and when the deed was done
to quietly slip away
to find renewal in another life?

did you want to go
or were you a helpless pawn
in the plans of gods and demons
angels and man?
dragged away
lead away
taken by the hand
and forced to go?

when you knew the end was near
all those years ago
did you ever think to include me
lay bare your plans
let me see the golden path
you saw before your eyes

you built a cube
to cushion your soul
the walls we made
the life we made
bookends to a too short novel
and now we flow the force of tides
moving us forward against our wills

but you look on down
you shine on down
behind my eyes you’re always
what i see before me
as i walk these unfamiliar steps
the broken brick covered with the ash
of your leaving
it stings my eyes
but the tears have never come

except that once
and now it is the small things
that i can never defend against
when you left my wells ran dry
and the dews of days will never refill
a soul that finds itself untethered
unhinged, unsure
certain only of dry dust and desert sands
the fairies and nymphs hold no more

the wonder of youth died with you
the confusion of being nowhere
has overtaken, a grip solid and dear
a devil of deep demons and goblins
inhabiting the deepest corners of light
when you left did you know
that you were leaving?
was that always your plan,
to uplift and shine
and when the deed was done
to quietly slip away
to find renewal in another life?

Untitled

noreply@blogger.com (Dick Barsky) — Thu, 10 Dec 2009 20:37:00 +0000

free floating, tethered to nothing
in came the order to look down
and, so i obeyed like a good soldier
and, far below i saw your golden hair
blue eyes obscured by your mystery

wishing to be one and the same
i hurried down, beneath my faded sky
of steel clouds and bone moon
to stand before your aura,
red-faced and insecure

now you draw me in porcelain white
warm and serene
and here i stand, within the curls of you
the heat dissipating, but growing nonetheless
and i am finally home

i've come full circle to stand
before you with my veils lifted
my weak defenses melting
into your summer sea
of blue white gold

and here i stay my bloodletting done
self loathing bewilderment fades away
and you show me that time carries it all away
but memory will forever serve as my guardian
with you leading the charge

Prince John woos Princess Jen

noreply@blogger.com (Dick Barsky) — Fri, 13 Mar 2009 18:40:00 +0000

There once was a beautiful young woman, named Princess Jen, who grew up before her worshipping subjects. She lived in a very famous kingdom where many of the inhabitants were famous, and yet still more sought their fame and fortune. This kingdom that Princess Jen lived in was known the world over for making dreams come true, or crushing them like so many helpless ants. It depending how well you fared.

For poor Princess Jen, a real princess with a lot of money and nearly as much power, there was one dream that was broken; her happily ever after marriage. You see, while Princess Jen had married a handsome and dashing Prince, the marriage didn’t last long. The Prince, while away on business, had met another beautiful Princess, fallen in love, and ran away with her to numerous exotic locales, all the while inexplicably adopting children at each port they came to.

Our beautiful Princess was left angry, bitter, and lonely. She dated some Princes, as well as some commoners. But none of them ever really made her happy. She was looking for something more. Or, maybe it was something less. She wasn’t sure.

Now, unbeknownst to her, there was another young, dashing Prince, and he would one day, soon, want to be with her. This Prince John grew up in a secluded, but somewhat poor kingdom, and he knew that he would have to work someday to keep his kingdom. At first he was going to become an accountant and maybe marry a nice Jewish girl. But, that dream was changed as one day while out gardening, Prince John was overheard by a master music teacher singing to himself.

“Ah, that boy has the voice of an angel. I wonder if he can play instruments as well as he sings,” the music teacher thought to himself.

That day the master music teacher went to Prince John’s father, the King, and asked if he would be allowed to teach the Prince music, both singing and an instrument. The King, seeing no harm knowing the Prince’s deep desire to go into accounting and marry a nice Jewish girl, agreed. So Prince John was sent away to learn under the tutelage of the Master. It took about 2 years, and by then Prince John was a young man, but Prince John had an angelic voice, and played the guitar like no one before. All the girls swooned when they heard Prince John play, and the Prince liked the attention.

After his training, Prince John came back to his kingdom. In celebration of his return the King threw a ball that night, and Prince John played for all who attended. In attendance was a friend of the master music teacher, a big wig at a record company named Mr. Columbia. Now, Mr. Columbia was always on the lookout for young, handsome singers, and Prince John fit the bill to a ‘T’, as they say. After the Prince’s performance, Mr. Columbia found an excuse to get close to him at the hors d’oeuvre table.

“My good Prince, let me introduce myself. Mr. Columbia at your service. I’m a friend of your music teacher, Mr. Berklee, and am a big wig at a major record company. I like your voice, and your guitar playing is amazing. How would you like to be a rock star?”

“Really? Me? A rock star?” Prince John asked with an ever widening smile and a shrimp pastry between his teeth. “I’d love to be a rock star, though I prefer the blues more. Well, really any genre that gets the girls to swoon. And into bed,” John added with a couple of winks.

With laughter in his voice Mr. Columbia replied, “You’re my kind of guy. With that attitude, you’ll go places and make a ton of money.”

That night Prince John signed the recording contract, packed his most treasured belongings, including his guitar, and took some cash from the Treasury room, and headed West to Hollywood, the realm of Princess Jen.

At first, Prince John made very little money. He played small venues, and at first the audiences were smaller than the holes-in-the-wall he played. But, at least one girl swooned at each show, and another two asked to go back to his place. So, Prince John was quite happy.

Even though his audiences started small it didn’t take very long before word spread about the new singer. Mostly through the female half of the populace. Anyway, as word spread Prince John’s audiences grew, as did the venues, and soon he heard his own songs played on the radio. Prince John thought it odd to hear his own voice on the radio, but whenever a song was played and a girl was around she would swoon. So, he didn’t mind much.

One night during a show in a stadium Prince John looked out into the crowd of mostly women and spied Princess Jen. She was the most radiant, beautiful woman he’d ever seen, and he vowed from that moment on that as soon as he had her he’d stop bedding other women. Until then, well, he had a reputation to maintain.

The next day, though, Prince John couldn’t stop thinking about Princess Jen. Not knowing her name, though, he forced his assistant to find out who she was, which seemed to have required some amount of felony digging through financial statements. But, we won’t get into that, this is a love story, after all.

Once Prince John knew who she was, he found where she lived. As he drove up in his shiny Porsche he noticed a large group of well-armed guards around her stronghold. He thought that maybe they would be nice to him after they found out who he was.

“Hi, I’m Prince John, the really famous singer/songwriter/guitar player. I’d like a word with Princess Jen,” he said in his most princely, authoritative voice.

“No,” came the singular reply from a massive guard. Looking him over Prince John realized that even without the Uzi the guy could kill him easily.

“Well, then, how about you let me sing her a song or two. Right over there, under that window,” the Prince said, pointing to a large arched window in front of an overhanging balcony.

“No,” again came the singular response.

Prince John, at this point in his career not being used to being told “No”, became petulant. “What do you mean, ‘No’? Do you know who I am? I’m Prince John! All the girls love me! I bedded two, at the same time, last night. Nearly 90% of my audience is woman, and half of them swoon in delight when they hear me! Let me in to see Princess Jen or I’ll have your job!”

Unfortunately, to this day, Prince John can not tell you what happened next. In fact, the next two hours after his confrontation with Princess Jen’s guard are still a blank. All he knows is that he ended up back at his castle, undressed, in bed, with a rather large ice pack on his head.

He took the next two days to recover from the body aches and mysterious blow to the head. On the third day he devised a much better, sneakier plan. He would have his agent contact Princess Jen’s agent with a personal invitation to his place for a private performance.

Prince John’s agent did as he requested, and the next night Princess Jen appeared at his door, with the guard from the other day in tow.

“Damnit!” thought Prince John. “How the hell am I supposed to bed her with that ape standing by her all the time?”

Though his plans for later that evening looked ruined, he put on his best smile, bowed before the Princess, kissed her hand (which caused the Princess to flush crimson), and took to his private stage. After a couple of warm up strums, he began to play, all the while staring straight into the Princess’ eyes.

He played his hits, he played new material, and lastly, he made up a song, just for the Princess, right there on the spot. Princess Jen stood transfixed, never taking her eyes from the Prince’s. When the personal concert was over they retired to the dining room for a small meal.

“Guard,” called Princess Jen after dessert, “Please leave. Go back to my castle. I won’t be needing your services this evening.”

With a look of dejection the guard did as he was told, leaving the two lovers to their passions. And, what a passionate night it was. Both the Prince and Princess awoke the next morning sore with pleasure. They ate strawberries in bed, then dressed for a swim, and spent the rest of the day canoodling, frolicking, and doing other things that begin with ‘f’.

As time went on their love for each other grew, as did Prince John’s career. Princess Jen, a renowned actress and business woman, also saw her career grow. Prince John was asked to go on tour, and Princess Jen landed an Oscar-worthy role in a movie to be shot oversees.

With love and the best of intentions, they parted, vowing to remain together over the next six months of separation. And, they did try, really hard. It was made easier on them both as they utilized video chat to its fullest. Not having to type, and not having to hold a phone in one hand, allowed them to fully explore their, um, “conversations”. But, that’s a private matter. Really, really private.

Anyway, when the tours and shooting were over they returned to Hollywood to pick up where they left off. But, Prince John kept thinking back to his time on the road and how much he liked it. And, Princess Jen kept thinking back to her movie shoot and how much she missed being on set.

Lost in reverie they at first stopped speaking, then slowly stopped seeing each other as they continued to pursue new tours and new roles. One day they woke up to realize they were all alone. Princess Jen was in her castle, and Prince John was in his. They hadn’t seen or spoken to each other in weeks.

That afternoon, Princess Jen sent her assistant to Prince John’s castle with a message to meet her later that evening for drinks and dinner at a popular restaurant. Prince John, thinking it was a good thing, got dressed in his best clothes and sprayed his best cologne. He even drove his flashiest car to meet his Princess.

Once inside, though, he knew the evening would not end well. Princess Jen was already seated at the table looking quite glum.

“What’s the matter?” Prince John asked as he walked up to the table and sat down.

“What’s wrong? We haven’t seen each other in weeks, and you ask what’s wrong? Obviously, it’s not working. I want out, it’s over,” Princess Jen spouted hurriedly while staring into her overly-expensive tomato soup.

“Oh, well, um. Yeah, I see your point. But, I think we can make it work. I’ll be better, I’ll prioritize better. You know, balance,” Prince John, beginning falteringly, finished energetically with a smile on his face.

“Um, yeah,” Princess Jen began, now looking up into Prince John’s face. “Yeah, no. I’m sorry, my Prince. It’s not going to work. I’ve been down this road once before, and I won’t do it again. It’s either me or your career. And, frankly, at this point, we both have more money than we’ll ever need.”

“Oh, sure, it’s my career. What about yours?” Prince John retorted, anger seeping into his voice.

“Well, that’s my point. I don’t need the money, so I’ll let it go, too. But, only if you’re willing.” Princess Jen kept her eyes steady on Prince John’s, hope filling the beautiful blue.

Looking down, Prince John took a moment to think. “Hmmm, I’d love to say yes, my Princess, but my career is just starting and I have so much music still in me.” When he looked up all he caught was the back of Princess Jen as she nearly ran out of the restaurant.

Tired, sad, but longing to get back out on the road, Prince John finished his dinner (of very expensive steak, steamed broccoli and tomato soup) and headed back to his castle. He spent the rest of the night writing songs about Princess Jen and his heartache. Over the coming weeks he recorded them as part of a new album, which, when released, was number one on all the charts for months.

To support his new album he went on a 300 city world tour and was gone for two years. While he was gone, Princess Jen tried dating inbetween her acting gigs, but nothing ever really stuck. Although, there was that one giant of a guy, but she just liked certain aspects of his body; the man was dumb as a doornail.

When Prince John’s tour was done he headed back to his home kingdom to check in on his father. Oh, what a yelling at he received. The old King had heard about everything, his meeting Princess Jen, their excited love affair, and the breakup.

“It’s all because of you, you doofus!” the King screamed at his son. “What’s the matter with you? She’s smart, exceptionally wealthy, well loved by her people, powerful. She’s exactly the right girl for you, but you’ve gone and ruined it. How many women did you bed during your tour? How many do you love?” Prince John’s father threw at the young prince.

“Well, if you must know, it was a 300 city tour. So, not nearly as many as Gene Simmons, but close. And, no, I don’t now, nor did I ever, love any of them. But, whew! what a fun time.” With that, the King slapped the Prince upside the head.

“Screw that head of yours on straight, boy! And I don’t mean the one in your pants! Princess Jen is perfect for you, and you know it.”

Reflecting for a minute, Prince John looked at his father, straight in the eyes and declared “You’re absolutely right, father. I’ve been a complete ass. An ass that’s gotten a lot of tail, but an ass nonetheless. I’ll pack my bags, right away. I’m going to Hollywood, and I will win Princess Jen’s hand. I will marry her. Um, someday. Not right away, if that’s alright with you.”

“Certainly, my boy. Just remember, your mother and I aren’t spring chickens, anymore. We want grandkids, and soon.”

Without replying, Prince John bounded up to his room, packed his most treasured belongings, his guitar, and his American Express Black Card. He was soon on a friend’s private plane heading to Hollywood. As soon as he landed at the airport he wound his way through security, the paparazzi and the swooning fans. Once outside he hopped into a waiting limo (supposedly for some starlet, but Prince John was a better client) and headed straight to his Hollywood castle. Once there, he gave his assistant a message to be delivered to the Princess.

It took a couple of days, for Princess Jen was not in Hollywood, but spending some time on a private beach in Hawaii. But, she did receive the note. Once in her hands she read it quickly, then stopped, then started again, this time out loud.

“My dear Princess Jen,
I have been a fool. An ass. Lower than a writer (which we all know are lower than musicians). I have abused you and your love. While I’m certain you no longer believe I deserve you, I beg for your forgiveness. I am on my knees, tears in my eyes, hands clasped, begging. Begging for you to take me back. It is you I desire, I wish to be with. You that make all I’ve done worthwhile.

Yours in love forever,
Prince John

p.s.
Check your email, I’ve sent you a link to some new songs I’ve written, for you only.”

Princess Jen didn’t know what to do, but in actuality being a fan of Prince John, decided to check out the link. While the MP3’s were of low quality (Princess Jen had a discerning ear), they were heavenly to her soul. When the last track had finished playing Princess Jen felt her knees go weak and the room began to spin. Twenty minutes later Princess Jen’s assistant came across her unconscious body, sat her up and splashed cold water in her face.

“Excuse me, Princess, but you seemed to have swooned,” the pretty young girl said.

“Oh, yes, thank you,” the Princess replied, in a soft, almost weak voice. “Help me up, dear, and then have the driver pull around. I have to go see someone.”

The young assistant hurried out of the room and was back almost as quickly.

“The driver will be up front in a minute, Princess.”

“Thank you.”

Checking her makeup, and adjusting her sexiest-without-being-whorish outfit, Princess Jen got into her waiting Rolls Royce and was whisked away to Prince John’s.

Once there she calmly walked up to the gate and asked for the guard to announce her.

“Prince John, Princess Jen is here to see you,” the guard said into a microphone.

“Really? Excellent, please, send her in. And, Anthony, don’t dawdle, I know how you like to make people wait. Princess Jen can not wait,” Prince John directed.

“Yes, sir, right away sir. You may enter, ma’am.”

“Oh, don’t call me ma’am. I hate ma’am. Call me Princess,” the Princess said as she daintily picked up her skirt and walked through the opened gates.

“Yes, Princess,” the guard said wryly.

As Princess Jen approached the castle doors glittering golden in the bright Hollywood sun she spied the Prince hurrying down the stairs through the giant windows surrounding the doors. Just as she placed her foot on the first step the doors flew open, and before her stood Prince John, panting.

“My love, my dearest, my everything! You’ve come!”

“Of course. How could I not? I love you, and I’ve missed you.”

Coming together, they embraced, then kissed, then really kissed. A couple of minutes of heavy fondling later, all nicely captured by the paparazzi, they flew inside, slamming the doors shut behind them.

Now, legend has it that at this meeting of the two love birds sounds of passion never heard before bounced and danced through the foothills of Los Angeles, putting the entire city into a loving mood.

It was two days later that the lovers emerged announcing their engagement. They looked happy, but strangely worn, like they’d been working at something requiring a lot of physical exertion for almost 48 hours straight.

The wedding day was set, but kept secret. Everything about the wedding was kept secret as they tried to avoid the paparazzi. It almost worked, but their guests still had to contend with helicopters flying overhead and paid Peeping Toms in trees.

While Prince John was furious that the wedding plans had leaked out, Princess Jen convinced him that they could use it to their advantage. They would get a world famous photographer to take their wedding photos, guaranteeing intimate, detailed shots, and sell that to the papers and tabloids.

The plan worked wonderfully, and brought them so much money they bought an island in the South Pacific and lived happily ever after. Well, not counting the occasional fight, movie and limited tour, for neither could ever really retire. But, overall, they were happy. More than content, but less than ecstatic. Well, that’s really fully honest. There were moments of ecstasy, but I suppose those were really private moments. Oh, and yes, there were grandkids. Sort of. If you count a couple of cats.

So, I suppose while the Prince and Princess were happy (and, occasionally ecstatic), Prince John’s parents were less than thrilled. You know, about the lack of grandkids.

But, most importantly, in the end everyone got on quite well.

New story coming

noreply@blogger.com (Dick Barsky) — Fri, 13 Mar 2009 18:39:00 +0000

Okayy, so I've got a Friday the 13th gift for you all. A new fairy tale. I'll be posting it up in a few minutes, but it has no pictures. Maybe next week I'll find some good artwork to add. Until then, enjoy, and have a great weekend.

- Dick

Purchase Page Update

noreply@blogger.com (Dick Barsky) — Thu, 05 Mar 2009 21:17:00 +0000

I realized late yesterday, about the time I was putting my head down on the pillow, that I hadn’t provided a preview of the stories available for purchase. For some reason it hadn’t occurred to me that many of you may either not have remembered the stories or even had the opportunity to read them.

Well, I’ve corrected the problem. There are now five links on the Purchase page, the first being a sample image of what the PDF will look like when you receive it, the last four being previews, or snippets, of the Tales for sale. You can also click the thumbnail below to see what the PDF looks like.

Of course, this is all explained on the Purchase page, so please pardon my redundancy.

Anyway, I apologize as I have not yet uploaded a new Tale. This week has been full of the unexpected and I haven’t even had the chance to complete it. Well, to be truthful, I haven’t even gotten beyond the outline stage.

Regardless, I do intend to get the story up, either by tomorrow or early next week. No promises, though. I hate it when I don’t keep my promises.

I leave you now, dear reader. It’s been a busy day and I’m still not showered.

I hope your day is going well, and clean.

Dick

Fairy Tales ready for Purchase

noreply@blogger.com (Dick Barsky) — Tue, 03 Mar 2009 22:30:00 +0000

Okay, while it was a pain to get done, it is done. You can now go to my new Purchase page (in case you missed the link above) and purchase four fairy tales: The Ogre's Tale, The Boy Who Would Be King, Judy, the Lesbian, and Judy and Jessica have a Baby. Each tale is only $1.25 and the purchase is done through Paypal. Be sure that during the checkout process you give me a legit email address, otherwise you're nicely laid out PDF will end up in some sort of digital black hole.

Please note that when tales go up for sale they come down off the blog (they are deleted). Also, the PDFs do not contain any artwork. Sorry about that, but getting this permission and that permission and then working out deals with each artist would have been more work than it's worth.

Well, I look forward to your feedback and hope you enjoy.

- Dick

p.s.

Yes, I am still working on a couple of new stories. Getting this online store up took more time and planning than I had estimated. I was also fiddling a bit with the blog layout. I'm still not entirely thrilled with it, but dealing with the layout seems more like a project for another time than right now.

Working on new stories and a move

noreply@blogger.com (Dick Barsky) — Mon, 02 Mar 2009 18:27:00 +0000

Hey, loyal readers. Wow, it's been almost 2 months since I've put anything up here. I'm really sorry for the silence and (I'll be honest) the sporadic, at best, new story postings since early September.

All I can offer in the way of an explanation is that Life has a way of interfering with what you'd really rather be doing. Unfortunately, while I really wish I could tell you otherwise, I have no idea when Life's going to hand back some semblance of Free Will to me. Right now it's very much "Hang on, it's gonna be a bumpy ride! And don't forget to drop trou; there's gonna be no lube!"

Still, I do have about 2 or 3 stories percolating in my wee brain, even have outlines written (not counting a couple of stories, non-fairy tale, I began almost a year ago, plus a half dozen or so fairy tale story ideas that have been sitting on my hard drive for the last 8 months or so). But, as I am one who likes to always bite off more than he can chew (which works great with anything chocolate, you just let sit in your mouth and melt; the pleasure of it all lasts longer that way) I'm also going to be working on moving the blog over to WordPress. There are some additions and changes I'd like to make and WordPress is a bit more open than Blogger regarding how the site is arranged.

Once I know all the details I will be sure to pass them right on to you. Most likely the changeover will take some time, so please don't worry that I went off and changed the RSS feed and URL and that's why there are no new stories. Trust me, the most likely reason there'll be no new stories posted with anything resembling regularity (eat your Wheaties!) is Life. It seems to hate me, though I don't know what I did to It.

Looking toward to the future and wishing you all the best.

Dick

Adam's Apple

noreply@blogger.com (Dick Barsky) — Thu, 08 Jan 2009 17:38:00 +0000

"Adam, Adam, where are you?"

Silence.

"Adam … Adam, tell me where you are right this instant or I'll smite you!" thundered the disembodied voice.

"Um … here, Lord. Right here, behind the tree," came Adam's quivering reply.

"Which tree?" growled The Lord.

"What do you mean, 'Which tree?' You know, for the One and Only Lord and God, the All Knowing, All Seeing, you sure do miss a lot, don't you?" Adam spit out impertinently as he slipped from behind a large oak tree.

"Go on, keep it up, child. You think you're so smart, just look at yourself." The Lord replied in gentle tones.

"Yeah, uh, right. Naked. Yeah, I noticed that after eating that queer red fruit Eve gave me. But, that's not the oddest, thing, you know."

"I know."

"Oh, right. 'You know' was more of a uh, colloquialism, than anything."

"I know."

"Right, again. Anyway, here's the weird part, I'm leaking."

"Leaking? From your eyes?"

"Here we go again. Honestly, I don't know why I even engage in conversation with You when You already know everything. Although, with all your questioning all the time I'm beginning to wonder if that dirty little snake wasn't right about You," Adam replied peevishly.

"Listen, you little dirt bag, I brought you into this world and I will take you out."

"Oh, I see, 'dirt bag' because you made me from dirt. Ha, ha. Right, right. Dust to dust and all. Sure. Look, You think You're ticked off at me. Think how I feel. Here I am, minding my own business when Eve, who You made from my own rib, mind you, comes to me with some tale of the snake getting this 'apple' from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil and how we should try it. I told her flatly 'No, The Lord has commanded us not to eat from that tree.' But, no, what I can I do? She runs off to find her new legless friend, bringing it some of our best tea, mind You, and I swear to You God, I heard the crunch all the way over here. Then she comes running over to me holding this roundish, red thing with a giant bite mark in its side, all naked. I've never seen her that way before. And that 'apple', oh, the sweet, sweet smell of that 'apple'. Before I know it I'm crunching away on it like it's the Last Supper, though that's a while off. Well, You know the rest."

"Yes, I do. But, I like to hear it from you."

"Of course You do. Part of the whole 'You didn't do as I said, so now I get to humiliate you in front of all the creatures in Eden.' No, no, I get it. You are the Creator, I suppose You can be allowed Your quirks. So, as I was saying, I'm munching along, and all of a sudden I realize I'm naked. I don't even know what 'naked' is, all I know is that I'm freaked out, beyond my wits, so I hid behind that oak tree over there. Right as I slip under some cover I hear Your Voice bounding through the forest, asking where I'm at. Of course, I'm scared witless, and this hose I have between my legs is doing two things at once, which is very, very frightening. First, whenever I think about Eve it gets all hard and points to the sky. Then, when I think about being naked and how freaked out I am about that, and the fact that You know, it starts leaking some yellowish liquid which smells not very nice. There, there it goes again, leaking. I could just die of mortification."

"I know." At this point, God begins laughing in terrible, thunderous peels that ripple through Eden. Adam, never having heard The Lord God laugh, curls on the ground in a fetal position, thumb in mouth, shit coming out of his ass. Realizing that he's now not just leaking but also dropping horrible smelling solids from his backside he looks up at the Lord God, full of anger and wrath.

"What is the meaning of this, now?" Adam yells at the faceless God above him. "First, I've got liquid streaming from this odd little appendage I have in front, now I've got some weird solid stuff shooting out of my backside. You, my dear Lord, either have a very strange sense of humor or our one sadistic fuck!"

Silence fell upon the world as though sound never existed. The Lord stops laughing, the animals of Eden cease making noise. The rivers stand still, even the breeze halts.

"I can honestly say, no one has ever spoken to Me that way. Not even Satan has been that, oh, what's the word, daring? No, no. Impertinent? Hmmm …close, but no. Stupid? Ah, yes, that's the word. Stupid. Look, you little shitter, watch yourself. I'll stuff you back down into the Earth so fast you'll never know you existed. I'm tired, it's been a long 6 days, and all I want to do is take one day off. Is that really too much to ask? Do you know how hard it is to make an entire Universe in only 6 days? Huh, do you? What, you think I'm doing this for my own amusement? Well, yeah, I suppose I am. But, still, it's not like I've got health insurance and a retirement plan. Okay? I'm working my Supreme Being, uh, ass, off here and what do I get? Nothing but a daughter who doesn't listen and an ungrateful son.

"You know what, you're old enough now. I think you and you're little lady over there, should go out on your own, see what life is like without Big Daddy watching over you. Pack you things, I want you out of here by tonight."

"But, but, you can't throw us out. Where are we to go?" Adam pleaded, whining like no one's whined before, because, well, no one had.

"I don't care. Outside of Eden. This is my House and I won't stand to be treated in this manner any longer. You're nothing but a spoiled little brat and it's time you learned to fend for yourself," God replied as an angry mother would to a spoilt child who'd crossed the line one too many times.

"Christ Almighty. Hmm … again, not for a while, huh?

Lord, Father of the Universe, you can't do this. In fact, I don't think you will. I think You're bluffing. After all, Omniscient One, you knew this was coming, so how could you really be angry?" Adam proudly asked, thinking he knew God's Mind and Will.

"It is not for you to ask, my son. It is for you to obey."

"Oh, nice one. Not going to answer that, are You?" Adam retorted, sarcasm seeping into every word. " Oh, no, You're too high and mighty to answer questions from the likes of me. I'm nothing but dirt, a toy You made to be bandied about on some strange, unknowable whim of Yours. Isn't that right?"

"Look, here's how it's going to work. You had everything, I gave you everything with only one teensy, tiny little string, and you decided to step over the line. You, not Me. You have free will, it's a gift I gave you. What I know and don't know is irrelevant. It's what you do."

"Nice little cop-out there. Fine, You want to play that game, I'm outta here and I'm telling everyone!"

"Oh, please, save yourself the trouble. I've had someone in mind to tell all this to from the very beginning. In fact, quite a few will hear the story straight from Me."

Rebuffed and stunned Adam stalked off to grab Eve, find some animals to skin so they could cover themselves, and pack their meager belongings before heading out of Eden.

It was only later that Adam realized he left behind his favorite CD, but God claimed He couldn't find it.

Your Parents Must Hate You

noreply@blogger.com (Dick Barsky) — Sat, 13 Dec 2008 17:45:00 +0000

In a small village outside of New York City lived a family with twins. Two little boys who were always smiling, laughing and playing. Possibly the sweetest little children to be seen for 50 miles in any direction. But, their parents hated them. They must have, for this is their tale.

Many years ago a handsome, rugged, well muscled young man from Australia met a beautiful, feminine yet outdoorsy young woman, the youngest daughter of a prominent farming family. Rapidly they fell in love and were married. With dreams of fame and fortune sparkling in their eyes they ran off to New York City; he to become a playwright, her to become a world famous Broadway star.

But, as is true with so many dreams of success in New York City, they found themselves living in a run down three-flat in Brooklyn. He an English teacher, her a waitress at a greasy spoon. Their love for each other, though, would not be extinguished, and they enjoyed each other’s physical company as much as they enjoyed each other’s mental company. Which, of course, led to the beautiful young woman getting pregnant, with twins.

After much debate, and the doctor declaring the twins to both be boys, the young couple, now slightly less happy than when they had met, decided to name their bundles of joy (and endless need and want) Yuri and Nate. For middle names they decided to show honor to where they had come from. So, they chose Oz and Hoe. Oz to commemorate the father’s homeland of Australia, and Hoe to commemorate the mother’s roots in farming.

As the glorious day of birth approached the couple decided to have birth announcements printed up to be ready the moment their sons came into the world. They read as follows:

Join us for a light brunch and non-alcoholic cocktails as we celebrate the wonderful birth of our twin sons:

Yuri & Nate
Oz Hoe

It is with much love and tenderness that present to you, our children.

The snickers and suppressed guffaws weren’t heard by the couple, though, for everyone they invited were too polite and got the laughter out of their systems long before the twin’s unveiling.

The children grew, and the couple, now a little better off than before, decided to move outside the city to a small town with decent schools and air that better approached EPA standards for clean. Happy little boys, they were always together, side-by-side, nearly inseparable. And, everyday after school their mother’s sweet voice would ring out amongst the neat little houses, “Yuri Nate, time to come in for dinner!” With giggles and laughter and peels of joy, the children would run in to enjoy their fish sticks, spaghetti, or macaroni and cheese.

Of course, these children did what all children do, grow up. One day they found themselves in Middle School with a bunch of kids from neighboring towns. The teasing started immediately. Taunts, ridicule, derision flew at them, together, separate, it didn’t matter. They become known as the “Urinate Twins” and the other children began bringing spray guns to school and would hose them down at crotch level. Day after day Yuri and Nate would be tormented, but their parents believed that it would help build character and kept them in that school.

In High School it got even worse, their middle names became known. Now, it wasn’t just the spray guns (no one seemed to be able to give up that little gag), but anything brown was now flung at their backs, preferably at butt level.

One day a young, new and fresh teacher couldn’t help himself, his curiosity was too great. He held Yuri and Nate after class one warm, sunny, fresh smelling Spring day and asked them, “Do your parents hate you?”

“I don’t understand what you mean,” Yuri said.

“Well, think about all the taunting you’ve received … because of your names …” the teacher said, waiting for one or the other to explain something, even if it were as simple as their parents being complete morons. Instead, the twins looked at each other, shrugged, and went home, chocolate stains prominently displayed on their backsides.

The next day the teacher tried again, but got nowhere with the two children. Having recently outgrown such vulgarity himself, he left the two alone and never mentioned the enormous oddity of their names again, to anyone, except his drinking buddies. That always drew a good round of laughter and a good half hour of conversation down at his favorite watering hole.

The boys, always so close, never fully developed a real appreciation of the opposite sex until they went off to college. Some said they were late bloomers, some said their parents must have been prescient with their middle names. But, the idea of incestuous gay sex between them was too much for any to stomach, so that line of thought quickly remained in the realm of personal thought and quiet whispers over coffee at home.

Once at University, though, the boys’ hormones kicked in, and they were running after girls left and right. Of course, their names soon became known campus wide, and instead of getting the blooming young women to speak to them, they only encountered laughter and poorly covered giggles. It was at that point that the boys, now maturing young men more capable of self reflection, realized the fundamental flaw in their naming.

The conversations that ensued with their parents quickly grew to heated arguments. Holidays were spent locked in their dorm room, not at home. Their parents soon realized, that yes, they did secretly hate their children. If hadn’t been for them they would have realized their dreams of fame and fortune. Instead, one was a High School English teacher and the other was a restaurant manager. No glamour, definitely no fortune, and aside from their small circle of ten friends, no fame.

The children, realizing they would forever be Yuri Nate Oz Hoe found themselves a good psychiatrist who was more than happy to prescribe pharmaceutical treatment options. Thoroughly numbed by Prozac and its friends, Yuri and Nate lived a foggy, numbed existence where their troubles where always a distant problem seen through a thick haze and their libidos ceased to be an issue. Living together in complete bachelorhood, they decided that between the drugs and their unfortunate naming they would never get married or have children of their own. So, they joined the Catholic Church and were considered some of the best priests the Vatican had ever known.

Holy Wordsmithing …

noreply@blogger.com (Dick Barsky) — Thu, 13 Nov 2008 21:32:00 +0000

Yes, dear readers, I am actually working on a new story. When it will be up, I don't know. Soon, maybe. Next month, maybe. The slow, glacial pace of other aspects of my life necessitate the slow, glacial pace of new stories. Well, okay, I'll be more accurate; "the slow, glacial pace of other aspects of my life necessitate the non-existent pace of writing new stories" is a better descriptor.

On the bright side, though, this month saw history made in the US. It's almost like a fairy tale come to life. Except, there doesn't seem to be a wicked step-mother (no, Palin does not count), and we don't know yet about the living happily ever after part. But, hey, at the very least, regardless of your politics, we're actually a part of the story. How cool is that?

Again, my apologies. I promise, I swear to the Universal Being, that I am working on a new story. Until then, hope your Fall is going well, your Halloween was fun and safe, and if I don't put anything up before Thanksgiving (US), I hope you have a filling, bright and warm Holiday of Eating.

And they lived happily ever after??

noreply@blogger.com (Dick Barsky) — Tue, 21 Oct 2008 17:54:00 +0000

Well, sorta, no.

Yep, still alive, still have plans for more stories, but still mired deep in the dragon's cave. Or is it the Troll's dungeon? Can't quite recall, they all smell the same and have that annoying lack of windows.

Anyway, I apologize for no new content for the last month or so. 'Tis the way this man's tale is faring. Too bad this isn't a fairy tale, my happy ending would have arrived already. This is looking to be more like a 19th Century historical-fiction type tale. Without all the wordiness – apparently.

I do want to thank all my readers for your continued patience and support. I'm hoping to have a new story up by Halloween, but regret that I can make no promises. Until then, continue to follow your bliss.

What? No new stories?

noreply@blogger.com (Dick Barsky) — Mon, 15 Sep 2008 21:24:00 +0000

Rest assured, dear reader, I have not run out of ideas. Merely, sometimes life pops up with its ugly, three-horned head, breathing fire and noxious fumes, severely blinding you and bowling you over. Hopefully, your fairy godmother, or that special Prince, will run over and help you up and slay the beast, presenting to the King its tongue as evidence of the kill, and winning your hand in marriage. Unless you, too, are male and live outside California. (But, many States offer civil unions, which are just like marriage, but not really.)

Other times, though, your fairy godmother hasn't yet come back from her Mexican vacation and that Prince is busy dealing with the Chinese on a new trade agreement. And, that appears to be where I'm at for the moment.

I have many ideas banging at the dungeon door to be sent loose and run wild through the forest, to dance with the nymphs and drink of Bacchus' cup. Alas, they will have to remain shut tight for now (but, fed quite well, mind you). I futilely reach for the pen, but the voices of ghosts and demons past, present and future raise they're tyrannical wail and I am left numb.

The Witch Doctor is working on his special Cure-All ale and I am hoping he'll be done soon so I can get back to spinning more tales. Until then, I hope all goes well with you and remember: don't take the shortcut through the woods, careful on whose hair you swing, and don't eat too many humans at one time.

- Dick

The Political Correctness of It

noreply@blogger.com (Dick Barsky) — Tue, 09 Sep 2008 23:08:00 +0000

{"Glen or Glenda necklace" image courtesy of Dadadreams.
Please visit Dadadreams at their blog and Etsy shop.}

Once upon a time, sometime during the early 1990s, there lived a little child who embraced all things Politically Correct. As this child grew they started to develop physical attributes that put them squarely in the “female” category.

Now, this little child hated being classified as such, and railed against anyone who would address her using any gender-specific pronoun. Of course, all the adults found this quite cute, figuring it was some sort of phase. When confronted by the child’s rage at gender specification they would just chuckle and brush her off.

“Oh, ha ha, little girl. You know, being Politically Correct is serious business. Ha ha ha. But, I think you’re taking this a little too far. That’s alright, I’m sure you’ll grow out of it,” was usually the response she would get.

Now, this little girl continued to grow and continued to insist that she never be caller “girl”, “she”, “her”, “female” or even by her first name, Jennifer. She insisted that her schoolmates and teachers refer to her by her last name, or simply as “you”, “it” or “person”.

“I am a person. I am a human. I am not a girl, or female. I belong to the Human species, not a gender. Address me properly or feel my wrath!” Thus, she would ensure those around her would abide by her wishes.

This worked well for a couple of years until one day she was out at the mall, shopping for as much androgynous clothing as could be had. While leaving Gap she bumped into a smartly dressed older gentleman, and she let out a quite girlish squeak.

“Oh, pardon me, sir,” she said, before trying to continue on her way.

“No problem, little girl, these things happen,” the polite gentleman replied.

“Um, what did you call me?” the teenager asked, turning to face the gentleman in the gray suit, voice tinged with anger.

“Huh? What? Oh, ‘little girl’. I’m sorry, yes, you do look a bit older than my youngest granddaughter. So, I suppose you prefer ‘little lady’ then?”

“What?” the now really angry teenager nearly bellowed.

Taken aback, the older gentleman tried again, “You don’t like that one either, do you? Well, then, how should one address you?”

“You may address me as ‘person’. If you insist on degrading me because of my age, you may address me as ‘young person’.”

“Really? Now, that’s a new one on me. Say, let me ask you a question.”

“Shoot.”

“Do you have a penis?” the gentleman asked, quite straight faced.

“Huh, what? That’s stupid. No, I do not have a penis,” the teenager replied indigently.

“Well, then, do you have a hairy chest or face?” the gentleman asked with just a hint of a smile on his lips.

“No,” came the curt reply.

“Well, then, I believe it is safe to conclude that you’re not a boy. Do you have a vagina?” came the question sounding as normal as can be.

“Yes,” came the defiant answer.

“Hmm, and breasts?”

“Yes,” came the somewhat less defiant answer.

“Well, then, I believe it is safe to conlcude that you are biologically a female,” the gentleman proclaimed.

“Yeah, sure. But, again, I am a human first. Therefore, address me properly,” the teenager answered with gritted teeth.

Chuckling to himself the gentleman retorted “Well, my dear, in the English language, which we speak, someone in your situation, and of your age is called ‘girl’ or ‘young lady’. It is a fact of life and language. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must pick up some custom shirts from the tailor. Good day, little lady.” With that the older gentleman walked off leaving the teenager seething, unable to continue to make her case.

{"leap for joy" courtesy of CreativeThursday.
Please visit Creative Thursday at their blog and Etsy shop.}

A few months passed and our teenager with the gender-specific pronoun issues finally hit upon an idea. Collecting all the money she’d earned, she flew off to a third-world country and pays a doctor to remove all traces of gender. At first, the doctor was confused, asking her if she wanted to become a boy why she didn’t want the penis.

She politely explained to the doctor that, no, she did not want to become a boy. Rather, she no longer wanted any gender identity. The girl, seeing the doctor was still confused, handed him another envelope full of cash. Suddenly, the doctor seemed less confused and skillfully performed the operation.

Getting back to the United States, our It finally was able to get others to use the pronouns they wanted when they were being addressed. However, our new It quickly realized that they still had a “female” name and quickly worked to legally change it. Once all the paper work was finalized, our It proclaimed to the world that they were no longer Jennifer Shwartzkivichmanski, they were now Jaime Smith, a Person.

And It lived a long life, never being confused for either gender.

Liquid Man

noreply@blogger.com (Dick Barsky) — Fri, 05 Sep 2008 17:50:00 +0000

[AUTHOR'S NOTE: Okay, here's a new story, sans pictures. Unfortunately, I don't have the time to search and destroy, if you will. I may come back later, though, and add in some good images. In the meantime, enjoy and have a great weekend!]

In the Western mountains, high above the grassy plains, was a small town. Now, the townsfolk were a secluded bunch and regarded outsiders with suspicion. Such was the lot of the man they referred to simply as “The Outsider”, for he was the only one who lived in town, but wasn’t born there. No, our outsider came from New York City, but did his best to be part of his new home.

Whenever he went out, though, everyone gave him funny stares, and some of them would even cross to the other side of the street. Alone and unwelcome he grew angry, sad and frustrated. So, after a few years he started looking for a new job back in New York, but after many, many months of searching, gave up. No one was hiring, and all his old contacts had disappeared. He was stuck in his adopted town, unwelcome and unknown.

Resigning himself to his fate, he once again tried to ingratiate himself with the townsfolk. He made sure to always leave the waitress at the local diner an extra couple of bucks with his morning coffee and donut, and would attend all the town meetings with a good word for everyone, except for who the townsfolk referred to as simply “The Family”.

Now, at the very edge of town, so far out many weren’t even sure if they actually lived within the town borders, was were “The Family” resided. A rather odd family, they were as reclusive as the townsfolk. The rumors and stories spread like wildfire unchecked until they became truth. And it was this “truth” that our outsider knew, and he too disliked and distrusted “The Family”.

Now, what our outcast didn’t realize is that the people he shunned, along with the rest of the townsfolk, were just like him. They too came from far away, and they too tried to fit in with the townsfolk for years. But, shortly after they arrived rumor spread that the family’s matriarch was a Gypsy, running from the law and the angry people she had swindled. With such a dense, dark cloud over their heads, the family, loving the beauty of the mountains and open land, built a smart little house just outside of town, deep in the woods.

The rumors, however, were partially true. The old woman was a Gypsy, and she had no qualms in using her acquired knowledge of old curses, cures and other magic.

While walking down the street one autumn day, the leaves in full Fall fire, our unlucky outcast literally ran into the old Gypsy, knocking her on her ass. Out streamed the apologies, the helpful hands reached out lifting the short, round, colorfully dressed woman back onto her own two feet.

The old woman brushed herself off, admonished our outcast for not looking out for others, then muttered something under her breath as she shuffled down the street.

Our outcast watched the old woman head in the opposite direction his own two feet had been carrying him, wondering what she had muttered. Turning back toward his destination he pulled his jacket just a little closer and pulled his cap down to more firmly sit just above his eyes. If he could, he would have become invisible.

Without further incident he reached the local diner, fully intent on devouring a full half-pound bacon cheeseburger, extra onion, tomato, pickle, mayonnaise, ketchup and mustard. Hold the lettuce, please. Instead, what he ordered was a milkshake. For some reason, which he couldn’t fathom, instead of ordering his usual, out came “Get me a chocolate milkshake, and two glasses of water, please.”

Two glasses of water? With a milkshake? He had no idea why he’d order that, but couldn’t bring himself to cancel that request for his usual. Even the waitress gave him that surprised raised eyebrow look as she penciled his order on her pad.

He devoured the shake and then attacked the water. Somehow, he felt thirsty. Very, very thirsty. The water seemed to help, still he ordered up a V-8, a grape juice and a glass of milk. Having no idea where it would all go, he began drinking, almost as if he had no control over his actions. He had a sudden crazy thought that he somehow was a marionette, and that old woman was pulling the strings. She was making him drink all these crazy things as punishment for knocking her over. He felt he should have broken into a cold sweat from that thought, but wiping his brow he discovered he was dry. Quite dry, he thought.

Licking the last drops of milk he had a strong urge to leave. Not just leave, but run, fast, until he got home. Not waiting for the check he dropped a twenty and took off.

The usual strange looks followed him as he rushed out the door. At least that’s still normal, he thought. Back home, he went straight to the bathroom and took a good look at his face, expecting to see chunks of dry skin flaking off his forehead. Instead he looked quite healthy, a bit flushed from his sprint-walk home, but normal.

Slowly he walked out of the bathroom, made his way back to the front door, shutting and locking it, and finally removed his jacket and hat. Looking into his hat his knees gave way and he had to catch himself, back and free hand against the wall. Sitting in front of his disbelieving eyes was a large chunk of his dark, shiny and healthy hair. He ran his free hand through his head and felt a rather large spot of bare skin, smooth, not a follicle to be felt, on the back of his head.

Trembles rolled through his body as he made an automatic walk to his little kitchen, hat still in one hand, the other hand exploring the new bald spot. Once in front of the refrigerator his gaze never left the ball of hair in the hat as his other hand moved from head to door handle to awaiting beer bottle. Still staring into the hat our outcast popped the bottle cap off and began gulping down the ice cold beverage.

Half way through the bottle he finally sat at his small table, laying the hat on the table in front of him. Wrapping both hands around the ice cold, sweating bottle the outcast began contemplating his day. His mind, shocked into the only mode it felt comfortable with, began deconstructing the day in the most logical manner it could. It was when he hit upon his run-in with the Gypsy woman that his mind stuttered. It was when he realized he’d done nothing but drink liquids after his run-in with the Gypsy that his mind felt like it just stopped.

When morning came our outcast found himself seated at his table, empty beer bottle still clutched in his hands. He couldn’t remember finishing the beer, concluding he must of passed out.

He stood up, stiff and hungry and made his way to his bedroom. Undressing to shower he decided that the previous day’s events were nothing more than the culmination of stress, depression and some unknown, deep-seated fear of the Outcast Family. He laughed at that thought. Funny, I’m afraid of the Outcast Family when I’m the Outcast Man. I should be making friends with them, not avoiding them. That’s it, I’ll eat a good breakfast, skip work, then go over to them, saying “Hi, I’m an outcast like you. So sorry for knocking your grandmother over yesterday and for not coming by sooner. Let’s sit for a while, chat, be friends. Aren’t these townspeople the most closed off you’ve ever met, and I’m from New York? Ha ha ha !” Realizing how ridiculous that sounded, even in his head, he laughed aloud. But, he felt better, hopped in the shower, got dressed and did make his way out to the Outcast Family’s home, without his customary breakfast.

He’d barely knocked when the door opened and before him stood the old woman. Before he could get a word out she laughed, hard, long and loud. To our outcast’s ears it sounded like a cackle, a witch’s cackle, and a chill ran deep into his bones. Not done laughing the old woman slammed the door in his face and called out from the other side, “Get away. Go on, leave before my boys put holes in you, my lovely well.”

“‘Lovely well’, what the hell does that mean?” our outcast asked himself. Still standing in front of the door and about to knock again he saw a large man in the window holding a double-barreled shotgun. Without hesitation he took the old woman’s directive and left, looking back from time to time.

No one followed him.

Arriving back in town our outcast headed once again to the diner. Sitting down he realized he never ate. It completely skipped his mind, which surprised him. The last time he’d forgotten to eat breakfast was way back in college during his senior exams. He was studying for his biology course, the one he wasn’t doing well in, and his nerves were shot. He’d been studying nearly non-stop for a week, living on caffeine and nicotine and bad pizza. That was twenty years ago, and in the meantime he’d never, ever missed a meal, even during the worst of his divorce, or before that, the worst of the worst fights with his ex.

Shrugging, he opened the menu and began salivating over the descriptions of fruit pancakes and hashbrowns, omelets, steak, bacon, sausage and danishes. He made a mental list of all that he would order, but once again when he opened his mouth he ordered nothing but juices; orange and grape and apple and grapefruit, and milk, skim and 2% thank you, and water. He would have ordered another milkshake, but knew full well they didn’t serve that for another two hours. Again, the waitress gave him the surprised raised eyebrow look, jotted down the order and brought him the tray of seven drinks. Each and every glass he picked up didn’t reach the table again until it was emptied.

Perplexed, scared and nearly panicking our outcast once again dropped another twenty and left as fast as he could. This time he didn’t even notice the odd stares, only that he felt like his insides were sloshing around as he half-jogged home.

Once home he felt incredibly thirsty. Glass of water after glass of water passed through his lips, but nothing seemed to quench his desire. So, he dug into his beer stash, finishing off a 24-pack in as many minutes. Realizing he didn’t even have a buzz he hit full on panic. Reaching to dial 911 (not sure what he would tell the person on the other end) he had one simple, nearly coherent, logical thought: Do you realize, you silly bastard, that you haven’t pissed since before running into that old hag? Yep, that’s right. You’ve drunk you’re 24-pack, had how many glasses of water, milk, juice? And, you haven’t taken a leak in nearly 24 hours.

His hand suddenly felt like it wasn’t there. Gone, never existed. The phone receiver fell to the floor with a thud, plastic receiver bouncing twice off the cheap linoleum. He went to turn around, but realized he couldn’t feel his legs or feet. Looking down, he was shocked to see his own ass. Oh my God! This is like some Stephen King story. Wasn’t there a story just like this?

Our poor outcast never did get his answer. Just as that thought sped through his muddled, panic stricken mind, his body gave way, becoming a giant ball of liquid. A mix of milk, ice cream, apple, grapefruit, orange and grape juices, cheap beer and water hit the floor in a loud shplatt. Slowly, the puddle that was once human spread across the linoleum onto the old, ill-maintained wooden floor. Some of it leaked through the floor, eventually dripping through the downstairs tenant’s ceiling onto their floor. The rest wound it’s way to the front door, slipping through the crack and trickling down the age worn stairs, resting in a small, but growing puddle in the muddy vestibule.

Pause

noreply@blogger.com (Dick Barsky) — Tue, 02 Sep 2008 15:04:00 +0000

Taking a break this week, what with Labor Day yesterday and all.

If anything I may post up a new story Friday or so. Otherwise, I'll see you all next week.

- Dick

The Woodcutter

noreply@blogger.com (Dick Barsky) — Fri, 29 Aug 2008 16:24:00 +0000

{Map of US Expansion since 1803 courtesy of the University of Texas Libraries.}

Out West, well, really, the Western end of Pennsylvania, lived a giant of a man named Paul. Now, when I say “giant”, I mean GIII-ANT. The man literally towered o’er ordinary folk. The top o’ his head reached fifteen foot from the dirt, his hands were big enough to wrap ‘round two grown men’s waists completely. When he walked the Earth shook. The whole darn thing. Poor fella couldn’t never go into no fine china shops. Couldn’t even walk past fer fear a breakin’ somethin’.

Now, this giant o’ a man decided ta do somethin’ worthwhile with his size ‘n’ might. Before him a lay a vast country o’ woodland, an’ behind him lay a hungry country lookin’ to grow. So, with the world’s largest axe Paul set out ta clear land fer farmers, towns and railways.

Along the way he sold the wood ta furn’ture makers, sculptors and builders, growin’ wealthy through hardwork, sweat and clear cuttin’. Fer every stride Paul took a new farm appeared, a new town sprung up, the railways crept e’er closer to the Pacific.

Now, as Paul grew wealthy from all his work, he realized he could become e’en richer faster by hirin’ on some help. An’, that’s exactly what he did. Takin’ a break one Summer day he turned back East, took twen’y giant strides and landed in a new town. This town, bein’ new, had plenty of idle men and women just waitin’ fer ‘n employment opportunity. So, Paul scooped them up, literally, gave each’n an axe (regular size, thank goodness) and set them headin’ West.

With all the extr’ hands Paul was able to clear cut hundreds, thousands, nay, millions of acres a month. The Great Plains ‘xpanded e’er West into the forests, and the forests shrank back e’er further West until one day Paul and his crew faced the Rocky Mountains. Now, Paul, e’er bein’ fearless, saw a huge opportunity ahead of him. Mountains of opportunities, to be ‘xact. So, he rallied his crew and began slicin’, choppin’ and cuttin’ down e’ery tree they could get a hold of up them Rockies. But, before headin’ down the other side, Paul, who’d claimed all the Mountains for his company, auctioned off the land ta developers who put up ski lodges and luxury homes.

Standin’ way up there ‘top the world Paul took a minute to look down, back East the way he come. And he smiled. All them trees, all them forests with their dirty ’coons and skunks, and tick carryin’ deer, and birds who shat on your’n head, and the pois’nous insects and bothersome mosquitoes, it was all gone. The land was green from farms, brown ‘n’ gray from towns ‘n’ roads ‘n’ cities. The view was clear ta New Jersey, and he liked it. He danced thar on top o’ the mountains, then looked back West toward the Pacific. In front of him lay a desert ‘n’ then more mountains with more trees. So, he took his crew, cut thar way down ta the desert below, ‘n’ kept walkin’ West.

{"The Indigo Sisters" courtesy of Jessica Doyle.
Please visit Jessica at her blog and Etsy shop.}

‘n’, suddenly, it hit Paul. He’d claim all that land called California. Sell the cooler, more Northern lands ta wineries, ‘n’ ta the South, oh, fer’n the Southern lands he had big dreams. Dreams of a giant city with amazin’ night life, high property values, actors, directors, the whole nine yards. Suddenly, he had ‘nother thought. He’d set up the more Northern areas fer companies ‘n’ free thinkers. Property values thar would also be high, ‘n’ he’d a be the wealthiest man alive.

Ah, it was so glorious in his min’. He set to work, and smiled the whole way.

‘n’, that my friends, is how Paul Bunyan gave the Great Plains ta the farmers ‘n’ California ta the movie studios, hi-tech companies, ‘n’ ex-hippie loons.

Little Red Riding Hood

noreply@blogger.com (Dick Barsky) — Wed, 27 Aug 2008 15:58:00 +0000

{"The Escape" courtesy of scarlettcat. Please visit scarlettcat at her blog and Etsy shop.}

In the suburbs of a great metropolis lived a little girl and her family. Now, far far off in the distance, in the heart of the metropolis, lived her grandmother. A proud old woman, she was content to live in public housing rather than move into her children’s “in-law suite”. She felt to do so would be an undo burden. Besides that, the “in-law-suite” was in the basement and who lives in a basement, even if the full bath has a jacuzzi tub?

The family begged and pleaded for Grandmother to stay with them, but she always refused. Finally, they gave in, accepting Grandmother’s choice, but in protest only visited once a month. For as proud as Grandmother was, though, she was sad that she couldn’t see her granddaughter every day, looking forward to her once-a-month visit like it were her birthday.

Now, the little girl loved her grandmother more than life itself, and hated only visiting her once a month. When she was old enough she would trek down to the inner city every Friday afternoon. And, because she loved red, her grandmother had given her a warm, red fleece hoodie for her last birthday. Living in the North where it was usually cooler (but, not so much anymore due to Global Climate Change) she always wore it on her visits to Grandmother. Oh, how happy her grandmother was to see her little granddaughter every Friday wearing her birthday present.

The little girl would take the bus in order to get to Grandmother’s; her parents believed it safe as there were so many people always riding and the bus stopped right in front of Grandmother’s building. Seeing her every Friday in a red hoodie, the friendly bus drivers nicknamed her Little Red Riding Hood. As Little Red invariably had to ride through the ‘hood on her way to Grandmother’s house this had dual meaning, but at the time she was too young to get the joke.

{"Vintage Shelby GT-350" courtesy of Dawn Hitchcock of drawandquartered.
Please visit Dawn at her website and Etsy shop.}

Well, as all little girls do, Little Red grew up and earned her drivers license. Her parents bought her a nice little red coupe, nothing new, but not too old, and very, very clean. Her parents told her it was “cherry”, which had to be explained to her as meaning “pristine”, but only in “old folk lingo.”

With her “cherry” red coupe Little Red no longer needed to take public transit, instead she drove. And, this is when Little Red got into trouble.

Little Red’s parents allowed her to take her car to Grandmother’s for her usual Friday visits on one condition, she never, ever, ever drove through the bad parts of town, even if it were faster and she knew the way better from all that time on the bus.

Telling her parents she would follow their instructions, Little Red would take her old route anyway. She was young, she was tough, she had a sweet ride. Besides, she was friendly with many of the people she had met on the bus, and didn’t worry that anything bad would happen to her. Did I mention she was young and invulnerable?

Anyway, as Winter was nearing Little Red’s mother gave her some chicken soup, bread, and Grandmother’s favorite wine to take to Grandmother. Again, she was reminded to take only the main roads and highway to Grandmother’s, never to take the shortcut through the ghetto. As usual, Little Red promised she would take only the main roads and highways. Now, it also happened that a store on the way to Grandmother’s was having a big sale, so Little Red stopped off to get new jeans. On her way out of the mall parking lot, though, she took the wrong exit and ended up in a part of town she’d never seen. But, our Little Red was fearless, and figured she’d turn around and be on her way.

{"Ghetto Wolf" courtesy of JohnnyS. Please visit JohnnyS at his Etsy shop.}

Sitting at a red light she saw a giant man, furry from head to foot and dressed in raggedy clothing cross the street. He turned to look at her and Little Red was struck by how dirty, hairy, and disheveled he looked. Suddenly, she felt scared. She tried to pull a U-turn at the light, but the big, hairy scary man stepped right in front of her “cherry” car.

“Hey, miss,” he yelled out, the sound more akin to a growl than human speech. “Hey, missy, cans I’s gets a ride?”

Rolling her window down just a crack, “Um, sorry mister, but no, no. My parents don’t allow me to give rides to anyone, including my friends. Sorry. Now, please step aside, I’ve got to get to Grandma’s.”

And, so, with a glint in his black eyes, and a smile full of yellowed teeth, the giant, hairy scary man stepped aside. Feeling relief, Little Red vowed to herself to always take the route her parents advised, to never go through the bad parts again. It was too easy to get turned around there, and she realized she only knew people along one route. Everyone else was a stranger and scared her.

Now, unbeknownst to our young adventurer, she wasn’t really out of danger. In fact, the man she had run into was a very, very dangerous man; everyone called him Mr. Wolf. He’d as soon help out his fellow criminals as rip them apart and eat them. It really was all dependent on his mood. And, this day, Mr. Wolf found himself in the mood for something young and tasty. So, he used all his knowledge and tricks to keep pace with Little Red as she headed to Grandmother’s.

When Mr. Wolf caught site of Grandmother’s building an idea struck him. So, he picked a lock in the back, snuck up behind the guard checking visitor IDs, twisted the poor man’s head nearly clean off, took the uniform, and was ready and waiting when Little Red stepped into the lobby.

Startled at the site of the guard, who looked suspiciously like the guy she nearly ran over not a half hour before, she jumped just a little, and let out a squeak, but just a little.

“Oh, my, you startled me. You’re not Harold. You’re new,” she said as she approached the bullet-proof glass separator.

Clearing his throat, “Uh, no, miss. Harold called in sick. I’m just here for the day. ID, please?”

Little Red flashed her ID, carefully putting her index finger over her address. She didn’t trust this one. He certainly couldn’t be the same guy, she thought. I drove, like, 20 miles since I ran into him. No one could make that distance so fast.

“Uh, yeah, thanks, little girl. Go on up.”

“Oh. Usually, Harold calls up to my Grandmother so she knows I’m on my way up. Didn’t anyone tell you?”

“Oh, yeah, yeah. Sorry, like I said, I’m just a temp. What’s your Grandmother’s name?”

{"To Catch a Thief" courtesy of Meranda Turbak. Please visit Meranda at her Etsy shop.}

Little Red gave Mr. Wolf Grandmother’s name, and he buzzed her up. Now, Mr. Wolf knew the building well for his drug dealer lived on the top floor. Mr. Wolf also knew that the elevators were quite old and slow. So, leaving the guard booth, he found the back stairs and climbed the 25 flights to Grandmother’s floor. Once there, he gently knocked on the door.

“Who’s there?” Grandmother called.

“It’s me, Grandmother,” Mr. Wolf replied, trying his best to sound like a teenage girl.

“Little Red? My, my, you sound just awful. On minute dear, let me find my glasses.”

As Mr. Wolf was waiting outside Grandmother’s door the elevator let out its ding! Not wanting to be caught by Little Red, he sprinted down to the end of the hall, and hid in the stairwell.

Just as Little Red was walking up to the door and about to knock, Grandmother opened the door.

“Oh, my, Grandmother, you’re quick today.”

“Oh, Little Red, I’m so happy to see you. My, your voice is sounding better. Just a second ago you were sounding like you had the worst cold ever.”

“Really? But, I just came out of the elevator. Quick, Grandmother, inside and lock the door.”

“My child, what’s the matter?” Just as Grandmother finished asking up popped Mr. Wolf behind Little Red, pointing a Glock at both of them.

“Inside, now,” he growled.

As Little Red and Grandmother had no choice, they slowly backed into the apartment. Mr. Wolf followed them in, forgetting to close the door behind him.

“Now, now, who gets it first? Hmm … Grandmother, I think I’ll do you first. Leave the young one here for dessert.”

As Little Red stood quaking in her brand new designer boots, Grandmother calmly stood there with her hands in her robe pockets. Secretly, she was dialing a friends number, someone she knew would always help her.

Now, Mr. Wolf was no dummy. In fact, half the reason he was called Mr. Wolf was that he had senses like a wolf. He smelled fear on Little Red, but Grandmother was strangely calm. Then, he noticed her right hand was moving in her pocket.

Either she hides her fear well, or she’s dialing a number. Mr. Wolf thought. Then it struck him that it was only one finger moving. Damnit, she’s dialing a fuckin’ number!

Well, Mr. Wolf was half right, for Grandmother had actually finished dialing as they were still backing into the apartment. She just kept her hand moving out of impatience. That was why just as Mr. Wolf was about to put a cap in Grandmother’s head someone came up behind him and popped a cap in his head, unavoidably spraying brain bits all over Grandmother and Little Red.

Little Red fainted right away. She was completely out for quite some time. When Little Red awoke she was laying on the couch and saw Grandmother smiling down at her, and a strange man looking oddly serene and pleased.

“Ah, she awakes,” the man said. “Let me introduce myself. They call me the Woodsman, I’m a friend of your grandmother’s. Simply, she bakes me some really great treats and I protect her.”

Little Red looked from one to the other, confused.

“My dear,” Grandmother chimed in, “The Woodsman lives in the building. He looked hungry one day, so I invited him up for some cookies and macaroons. He liked them so much, he kept coming back every day. So, I bake goodies for him, and he vowed he’d never let anything bad happen to me. When Mr. Wolf surprised us, I quickly dialed The Woodsman. And, well, the rest you know.”

“Oh,” was all Little Red could mutter.

“Don’t worry, Little Red,” The Woodsman began, a smooth, lilting quality to his voice. “I’ll make sure this whole mess is cleaned up, like nothing ever happened. You see, Mr. Wolf was quite the bad man. He was known for eating people. Also, he was a terrible junky, but normally paid on time, so I let him be. Or, utilized his services from time to time to, uh, perform some creative marketing to expand my business. Recently, though, he stopped paying and doing his duty. So, when Grandmother called and I saw it was my deadbeat customer, I decided to cut him off.”

“Oh, well, thank you? I guess,” Little Red said, sitting up. “Um, maybe I should go home now.”

“No, my sweetheart. You’ve had a long day, and I know The Woodsman is hungry. He’ll clean up, and you’ll help me in the kitchen. Then, we’ll all have dinner together. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

“Um, yes, I guess,” came Little Red’s meek reply.

And, so, Mr. Wolf was dead and Grandmother and Little Red lived to see each other another Friday. With the watchful eye of The Woodsman, of course.

Forward

noreply@blogger.com (Dick Barsky) — Tue, 26 Aug 2008 17:52:00 +0000

Hello Dear Reader,
I have a new story waiting to go. It needs some editing work and, of course, the proper pictures. So, I will post it tomorrow.

Instead, though, today I declare "Poetry Tuesday." If everyone likes the poetry, I might start intermixing the tales with the poems for some variety. Let me know.

Also, this message originally appeared in my sidebar in the section titled "Messages from a Bottle". Many of you get the stories via your feedreaders, and as far as I can tell, never see these messages. So, I am going to incorporate them into my posts and apologize for the duplication.Eventually, I may just put these types of messages right into the posts and forgo the "Messages" section.

I'll see how it all pans out.

– Dick

**********************************************************************************

Forward we go
Never digging beyond what lays before us
An iced surface
A reflection you refuse to see

A million smiles
never get beyond
your aging lips
My eyes for their laser accuracy
blur the flesh lines

Clearing away the fog
of polite company
I see where we really stand
Your age old desire
Denies what you do not wish

Has this delusion persisted
since the age of youth?
Can you see what you've become?
How you've hurt them all,
turned to your own inner wounds
when they needed you most?

Does it matter who
I allude to?
Is it not all
you've failed
through self-righteous
self-love
self-loathing

Forward we go
through this limitless time
The past so far behind
Yet my every day

Does it matter now?
Do you care now?
Where is it you wish to be
Or have you given up
Hopes and Dreams
for Peace and Tranquility?

The Perfect Marriage

noreply@blogger.com (Dick Barsky) — Thu, 21 Aug 2008 20:21:00 +0000

{"The Nesting Bird" courtesy of Victoria Usova of vusuva.
Visit Victoria at her website and Etsy shop.}

In a big city lived a happily married couple. Oh, how they loved each other, and spent every possible minute together. But, as so often happens nowadays, their jobs eventually began to demand more of their time, and as they climbed the corporate ladder they spent more time with their co-workers than they did each other.

This, however, did not stop them from loving each other, and they found ways to stay in touch or be together. And, so they remained happy and together for quite a number of years.

But, as also happens, before they knew it they saw very little of each other, coming home from very long days and heading almost straight to bed. Then, they started having to travel for work, and therefore didn’t even have the weekends to spend together.

Both the husband and wife grew sad, but didn’t know how to fix the situation. So, they lived like that for some more years, discussing ways to save more money, or how to invest better so that they could retire early.

It was in the middle of one of these week long discussions that the wife was unexpectedly sent overseas for a week. The husband had no idea his wife was gone, his wife didn’t even know she was going to be gone until she stepped in the office. In fact, her boss met her at the door with a plane ticket and a suitcase.

“Um, what’s this?”

“You’re going to Spain for a week. Here’s your ticket and my assistant had some new clothes bought for you and packed. You’re all ready to go, the limo’s waiting. Go on.”

On the way to the airport she tried calling her husband, but couldn’t reach him. She tried leaving voicemail, but her signal kept dropping. So, she made another call and had a present delivered to their home. Something special she thought he’d like. Soon enough they were at the airport and she was whisked away across the sea.

When her husband came home he was shocked to find his present laying on the bed. She was young, beautiful, and completely naked.

“Uh, who are you?” he asked, confused.

“I’m your present. I am here for your pleasure.”

“My present? My … pleasure?”

“Yes, your present, your pleasure. Whatever you want.”

“Ahhh … okay … I think you should get dressed and leave. You’ve obviously got the wrong house.”

“No, no, your wife called, gave me the code to the garage. She said ‘You’re to be my husband’s present while I’m away. Tell him I’ve had to fly to Spain for a week.’”

“Huh? Look, sweetie, who really put you up to this? My brother. I bet it was my brother, right? It doesn’t matter, please, put on your clothes, and go home. If you need a cab, I’ll get you one.”

And, with that, the young woman put on her clothes and left. Shortly after the man’s cell rang, it was his darling wife.

{"Coming in for a landing" courtesy of LasPalmasPhotoworks.
Visit LasPalmasPhotoworks at their Etsy shop.}

“Honey, where are you? I’ve just had the strangest experience in my entire life.”

“Really? Well, first, let me explain. My boss sent me to Spain for a week. First thing, I get in the office, and there he is with a ticket and a packed suitcase all ready for me. Anyway, I tried calling you, sweetheart, but for the life of me couldn’t leave a voicemail. The signal kept crapping out. Anyway, to make up for this I sent you something. Did you get my present?”

The Great Nation

noreply@blogger.com (Dick Barsky) — Wed, 20 Aug 2008 15:50:00 +0000

{"the gang celebrates" courtesy Marisa Haedike of Creative Thursday.
Visit Marisa at her blog and Etsy shop.}

“Grandma, grandma, tell us about the Great Nation. Pleeeeaaaseee?” cried the group of young children.

“Again? My, my, you sure do like this one, my little dears. Alright then.

“Once there was a Great Nation. It was Great because there everybody worked together for the common good. No one thought ill of another, no one was discriminated against. The religious were tolerant of other religions, and even those who were non-religious. Yes, including the atheists. Gays and lesbians were treated like heterosexuals. My, even the Transsexuals were never looked at cross-eyed.

“In this Great Land that rose from Sea to Shining Sea no one ever went hungry, no one was poor. Everybody had equal access to health care and the insurance companies covered every illness, regardless of any pre-existing condition. Even the elderly (yes, Johnny, that would include me) were honored, always having a warm bed and meal, and plenty of friends and family surrounding them, day and night.

“Those of humble origins could easily make for themselves a better life. Competition between people and company’s was friendly. Those who were lifted high on pedestals were never torn down through envy and jealousy. Those who needed help were given it without question, without consequence.

“Those born into esteem, privilege and money devoted their time to making the Great Nation even Greater. Those in Power respected the Law and only worked for change when it was needed, never to benefit one group, or person, over another. No one in Power ever abused their Power, and the people, having such Great Leadership, followed suite and didn’t abuse their neighbors, friends, and colleagues.

“When elections were held everyone eligible to vote did, happily. Election Day was a Festivity, a Holiday. All employers gave their employees the whole day off. Even Jury Duty was seen as an honor, and many hoped to be called.

“No one ever worked more than 40 hours a week, and everyone was paid according to their worth, not what an accountant thought the position was worth. (Have you ever seen a millionaire janitor? I have, in this Great Nation.)

“This Great Nation was truly a Melting Pot where immigrants were always welcomed, cultural and racial heritage were always celebrated, and the populace was color blind. (Yes, Sarah, no one would ever notice your dark skin.) Everyone was always Happy, and the rest of World wanted to be Just Like Them.

“And, now, nap time, my dears. My tale is done for the day.

“Oh my, wasn’t that a silly little story?” Grandma chuckled.

Rapunzel

noreply@blogger.com (Dick Barsky) — Mon, 18 Aug 2008 22:06:00 +0000

{"rapunzel" courtesy of Lillianna Pereira.
Please visit Lillianna at her website and Etsy shop.}

Once upon a time there lived a little girl named Rapunzel. She was a sweet little girl who loved to sing and wear her hair in exceptionally long braids. Sadly for the good-natured girl, her parents were quite fearful of her losing her innocence and so they locked her up in a tower away from the lascivious eyes of boys and that one creepy guy who lived down the block. Rapunzel, with the sweet disposition, bided her lonely time in the tower by singing with the birds and imagining an entire world in the clouds that she would one day escape to, leaving her solitude behind.

Now, it so happened that the tower Rapunzel occupied was built at the edge of some undeveloped land. An amusement park owner and his son were out one day surveying the area as they were interested in erecting a new park. The son, having excellent hearing, caught the sweet tones of Rapunzel wafting lazily through the air. Drawn to the airborne music, the young man headed toward the tower and caught site of the lovely girl sitting by the one window singing.

“Hey,” he called up to her, “whatcha doin’ there?”

“Oh, my,” cried a startled Rapunzel, “Hi. Wow, you’re a real boy, aren’t you? I’ve been up here about ten years now, haven’t seen a soul outside my parents. What’s your name?”

“Mark.”

“I’m Rapunzel. Mark? Hmmm, I prefer Arthur. May I call you Arthur?”

“Uh, sure. So, uh, why are you trapped in a tower? Seems a bit along the lines of some fairy tale, especially with that name.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. It’s my crazy parents. They locked me up here to keep me a virgin. They used to use a cherry picker to get up here, but my hair’s so damned long they just use it to climb up. I keep telling poppa to lay off the pie and beer, he’s getting fat. At the rate he’s going they’ll be back using the cherry picker before next Spring.”

“Wow, that’s … that’s kinda weird. You’d think the DCFS would have gotten involved or something.”

“Yeah, I know. I mean, they were called in way way back. But, I was homeschooled, fed well, I’m not dirty, and have plenty to entertain myself with. ‘Unorthodox but acceptable parenting techniques’ I believe is what the report said.” Rapunzel leaned her head on her hands and sighed.

“Oh, that’s a bummer. Figures, though. Those government agencies tend to miss the obvious, if you ask me. Anyway, they climb your hair, you say?”

“Why yes, they do. Why?”

“Well, see, my dad is looking to build an amusement park next to your tower. And, well, to be honest, you’d make quite the attraction. ‘Come See the Real Life Rapunzel, Five Dollars Only.’ Or something.”

“Well, hold on, Arthur/Mark. I’d better be getting a cut of that if you’re going to make me a carnival attraction.”

“No, no, no. We’re not a carnival. But a full-blown amusement park. My dad’s got like ten of them across the US. We’re like Disney or Six Flags. Smaller, sure, but that’ll change.”

“Oh, I see. Well, if I agree to this, I want 80% of gross ticket sales, plus a 5% take on all general admission sales. Oh, I also want a percentage of merchandising, but we can agree to an exact amount after I go through the cost breakdown.”

“Jesus, for a chic locked in up in a 30 foot stone tower nearly her entire life, you sure do drive a hard bargain. I’ve gotta talk this over with pops, first. But, hey, maybe a way to seal the deal would be some first hand experience with that hair of yours.”

“Hmmm … alright, I’ll let it down and you can climb up. I’d like a better look at you anyway. But, if we do strike a deal,” Rapunzel continued as she wrapped her serpentine braids around the hook outside her window and began to let the braids unfurl toward the ground below, “patrons only get to swing on my hair, they can’t come up.”

“Sure,” Arthur/Mark said as he climbed through the window. “Wow, you’re beautiful. I mean, I could tell from below, but, wow, up close you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

“Hee hee,” Rapunzel blushed. “Thank you. Well, my friend Arthur, you’re quite handsome yourself. In the league of Brad Pitt.”

“How do you know about Brad Pitt?”

“Oh, the Internet. My parents, for all their flakiness, put in some really nifty tech gear up here. I even have a dedicated T1 line. I know it’s only 1.5 megabits per second, but it’s not like I have to share it with neighbors, or an office.” Rapunzel positively glowed and Arthur/Mark was completely smitten.

He leaned in to give Rapunzel a kiss, which she accepted gladly. They were quickly undressed and going at it like two dogs in heat before either one of them realized what had happened. But, the orgasms were mutual and sweet, and they lay in each other’s arms on Rapunzel’s bed for quite some time.

The sun began to set, and Arthur/Mark went on his way to work out the business details with his father. His lust was strong, but, he also realized he may have actually fallen in love with a real life fairy tale. This, he decided, was to be kept from his shrink.

It wasn’t too long after that Arthur/Mark, his father and Rapunzel hammered out the details of their arrangement. And, as soon as the park was opened she was the main attraction. Soon, not only were Arthur/Mark and his father even wealthier than before, but Rapunzel had realized a considerable sum of money herself. She calculated that at the current rate she’d need only be the star attraction for a couple more years before she could retire in sumptuous comfort.

Her relationship with Arthur/Mark grew over time from mere torrid sex to actual friendship and on to real love. They did decide, though, that marrying now wasn’t a good idea, that it was better to wait until Rapunzel was able to retire and Arthur/Mark was officially given a controlling share of his father’s company. That way, there would be no objections to making Rapunzel go from the “Virgin Fairy Princess” to the “Deflowered Business Tycoon Who Is Now Retired & Married To The CEO Of The Amusement Company.” After all, at this early stage, such a title change would be catastrophic to their marketing campaign.

{"Spun" courtesy of Cathy Nichols. Please visit Cathy at her blog, website and Etsy shop.}

Now, let’s move away from the love birds and their sex life, and focus in on Rapunzel’s day job. From 9 am to 10 pm (with breaks, of course, no labor laws broken here, folks) Rapunzel would let down her hair for the mostly young and horny men who came to see here. They would get on, swing back and forth for about a minute, and Rapunzel would lip sink to some sweet melody she’d recorded earlier. Aside from the occasional spilled soda, or melting ice cream, everything seemed to be going well. That is until Clumsy William came to see her. Clumsy William was known far and wide (well, at least in his subdivision) as the clumsiest person alive. But, amusement parks take extraordinary precautions, and Clumsy William felt the Rapunzel ride couldn’t be all that dangerous.

Oh, how wrong he was. Once Clumsy was seated comfortably and strapped in to Rapunzel’s braided hair-seat, he was swung back and forth gently, the arcs slowly growing. And, then, a freak storm sprung up and it seemed that everytime Clumsy William would swing back the wind would blow so that he would go just that bit higher. And, it seemed everytime he would swing forward the wind would reverse direction and push him from behind. Soon, Clumsy William was swinging in giant, wild arcs, crying for his mommy and peeing his pants. Just when the ground crew and Rapunzel couldn’t think it would get any worse, Clumsy William, through shear panic, undid his safety restraints just as he was going forward, went flying through the air, and landed with a horrible thud in a briar patch.

Of course, the storm subsided, the sun began to shine again, and all the world’s birds sang in harmony, and the park closed early that day.

It didn’t take long for Clumsy to hire a lawyer and sue the park, including personally suing Rapunzel. Arthur/Mark and his father lost the suit and a good deal of money, but their insurance covered most it, so they continued operating. Poor Rapunzel, though, thinking she was covered by the park’s insurance received quite the rude awaking. No, she was not covered, and as she was held directly liable for Clumsy William’s body cast and blinding by thorns, she ended up declaring bankruptcy and having to sell her hair to a theater company for wigs in order to raise the required funds.

Arthur/Mark tried to help her, but couldn’t come up with the cash without eighty-sixing his company. In fact, in order for the company to remain insured they had to close the Rapunzel attraction. Sad, dejected, nearly bald, penniless and out of work, Rapunzel wandered off one night, leaving behind no word as to where she was headed.

{"chimney sweep print" courtesy of Ernesto and Cassandra Velasco of doubleparlor.
Please visit doubleparlor at their website and Etsy shop.}

Years passed, the amusement park recovered and Clumsy William accidently blew his brains out one night playing with a friend’s hunting rifle. (Who lets a blind guy play with a gun?) Rapunzel, meanwhile, had headed toward the wastelands known as Detroit, her young twins in tow. There she managed to gain employment in a White Castle and she would sing to herself as she closed up every night.

After Arthur/Mark was given credit for saving the company his father gave him the reigns. Arthur/Mark decided to head North in search of new spots to open up parks, and ended up in Detroit. With his connecting flight into Canada cancelled, and no available flights for two days, Arthur/Mark decided to make the best of his extended layover and explore Detroit. Wandering about in his chauffeur driven limousine he spied the White Castle with Rapunzel sweeping the floors. He had the driver stop, hopped out, and ran to the locked doors. There was his Rapunzel, hair to her waist, sweeping the grimy floors underneath awful fluorescent lighting, singing. He could hear her sweet voice through the doors.

He shook the doors trying to get in. “Rapunzel,” he called, “Rapunzel, it’s me, Arthur/Mark! Let me in!”

Frightened at the noise, Rapunzel looked up and saw a man dressed in an expensive cashmere overcoat trying to get in like some wild, hungry beast. And, then, by the dim orange street light glow, she realized it was her Arthur/Mark. The man she had loved and left a few years back.

Running to the door Rapunzel fumbled the keys, but was eventually able to unlock the door.

“Arthur/Mark, you’ve come to save me!”

“Rapunzel, oh, how I’ve missed you!” They embraced and kissed, but kept their clothes on and firmly on their feet, for the floor was disgusting.

Arthur/Mark drove Rapunzel back to the slum building where she lived and walked up the twenty flights of rickety, termite infested stairs with her. There, just beyond the door he saw the backs of two small children outlined by the blue glow of a TV.

“Arthur/Mark, those are our children.”

“Our children? But, we always used protection. Well, except for the first time, but that was way more than 9 months before, before, well …”

“Yes, true, sort of. Remember three weeks before Clumsy William came by? You came up with a couple of six-packs. And, well, we’re both light weights. Seems we did the deed with no condom. And, well, you already knew that my gyno failed to renew my prescription for the pill, so, well, there are our two lovely children.”

Thunderstruck by the turn of events, Arthur/Mark fainted. He was awoken when the little girl threw a nice glass of ice water on his face. Startled, wet and a bit chilly, he had everyone pack whatever belongings they wanted and took them back to his suite at the most expensive hotel in town.

Arrangements were made for Rapunzel and the children to fly back to Arthur/Mark’s home where they would wait for him to return from his business trip. Once back Arthur/Mark and Rapunzel decided it was best for them all, including the children, to go to family therapy. After all, there was a mountain of history that no magic spell could make disappear.

And, so, through family counseling and couple’s therapy, Arthur/Mark and Rapunzel worked through the years of anger and feelings of abandonment to start fresh. Arthur/Marlk gave Rapunzel a nice ocean front penthouse, and they dated for a year or so. On the anniversary of Arthur/Mark finding Rapunzel for the second time he proposed. He had a brick tower built secretly at night on the beach, and when Rapunzel woke the next morning, he brought her to it.

“Now, Rapunzel, love, I have a surprise for you at the top of that tower.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. You built a friggin’ tower? What, you like me better up there than in the penthouse?”

“What?” Arthur/Mark yelped, getting a horrible sinking feeling in his stomach. “No, no, no. I thought this would be romantic, a reminder of when we first met. I’m going up with you, and there’s stairs. See, the door on the side. There’s a handle, no locks.”

Relieved, and a little bit amused for having made him sweat, Rapunzel went up the circular flight of stairs with Arthur/Mark and entered into a room that was exactly like her old tower room, except this one was made entirely out of jewels. And, what should she see poking up out of a Ruby and Emerald bed but a giant engagement ring. As soon as Rapunzel picked it up, Arthur/Mark dropped to one knew and proposed.

The wedding was celebrated in grand style. All the tabloids deemed it “The Wedding of the Century”. In order to gain some privacy, Arthur/Mark ended up buying a South Pacific island just for the nuptials. He bought the island in a small island nation with no airport, which kept the tabloid helicopters away. But, it didn’t stop Geenpeace from floating offshore protesting the wedding as harmful to the environment.

Now, let’s not forget the children who never knew their father and lived in squalor during their formative years. Their therapist taught them that it was okay to be angry at their father for not being there, even if it wasn’t his fault. That the anger would subside in time, and one day they would understand. But, the important thing for them to remember is that he did find them, and he did marry their mother, and they all now lived in tremendous wealth and luxury.

Secretly, the children made a pact to to never let that happen, and so they, like all other children, grew up to hate their parents and only call during the holidays.

Goldilocks and the Militant Bears

noreply@blogger.com (Dick Barsky) — Fri, 15 Aug 2008 16:06:00 +0000

{"Bunny Time" courtesy of Scarlett Cat. Please visit Scarlett at her blog and Etsy shop.}

Once upon a time in a gated community there lived a beautiful little girl with big, golden curls, and the biggest, most sparkling blue eyes you’ve ever seen. Because her father owned a company making gold plated handles, latches, hinges and locks, this little girl became known as Goldilocks. While she liked the nickname, no, she didn’t find anything humorous about it.

Now, not only was Goldilocks’ family wealthy, but they were healthy eaters as well. While dad went off to run his company, mom stayed home and cooked all sorts of good, wholesome food. She made everything from scratch, there wasn’t a hint of processed food anywhere in the house. Even at Halloween Goldilock’s mom would make low-fat, healthy treats for the neighborhood kids. Luckily, those treats were actually delicious, so they were never egged.

It happened that one warm and sunny day Goldilocks grew tired of being inside and went out for a walk. She decided to explore the woods behind their house. With a recyclable bottle of water and an oatmeal bar in her Gucci shoulder bag, Goldilocks set off across her yard and into the cool, dark shade of the woodland.

There was a path already worn into the moist earth, and our curly haired beauty wisely stuck to it. About an hour in, though, she began to grow tired and thought it would be best to turn around and head back home. But, much to her surprise she couldn’t make out the path behind her. In front of her the path was clear, but when she turned around it was almost as though the path disappeared.

Hmmm, she thought, this is really odd. Okay, maybe I’m just a bit tired and somehow the sun through the leaves is playing tricks on me. With that, she took a few steps back toward the way she came and quickly realized she was stepping on grass, leaves and twigs.

“What the … This isn’t right. Hmmm, okay, I’ll just keep forging ahead, I guess.” Goldilocks said, talking to herself.

{"Another land another day another dream" courtesy of Jessica Doyle.
Please visit Jessica at her blog and Etsy shop.}

Not long after our intrepid explorer came upon a clearing. The sun was streaming down form a brilliant, nearly cloudless sky. The path she was on meandered forward, taking a lazy snaking path through what appeared to be a little village of stone, wood and brick homes, each with a smoking brick chimney and neatly thatched roof.

Uh, huh. I must have slipped, cracked my head. Yeah, that’s got to be it. And, I’m laying in some hospital and this is all some dream. Otherwise, I slipped down a hole, don’t remember, and now I’m in some sort of Thomas Kinkade painting, like some modern Alice Liddell. Hmmm, either way, I’m starving, let’s see if anyone’s home.

With that thought, Goldilocks walked forward into the warm sunshine, shading her eyes against the sudden brightness. She came to the first house on the right and knocked. There was no answer so she knocked again, real hard. Still no answer. Not wanting to commit any crimes, she moved on to the next house on her right. Again, she knocked and again there was no answer. When she knocked again, though, the door opened inward giving Goldilocks a good view of what appeared to be a tidy little house with a tidy little kitchen. Nothing too big, but not too small, either.

“Hey, anyone home?” she called out. There was no answer. Well, she thought, the door’s open, might as well take a peak. Besides, this isn’t real, so I’m not really committing breaking and entering.

Once inside she heard her stomach growl and felt the first pangs of hunger. She took a good look at the countertops (granite) and saw a cookie jar. “I’ll just have one,” she muttered. But, when she opened the lid she was met with the sight of Twinkies, Ho-Ho’s and various Fun Size candies. Dejectedly she put the lid down. “I can’t eat this,” she muttered. “I’ll just take a peak in the fridge.” With that, she went over to the stainless steel Sub Zero, pulled open one door and was greeted with the sight of sausages, deli meats, cheeses and one lone, sorry looking tomato. Slowly, she closed the refrigerator door, head held a little lower, and headed out into the shining sun.

This time she decided to try the other side of the path. Again, she knocked and knocked on a few doors to no avail, until one opened on its own. This house was a mess and Goldilocks had to carefully pick her way over piles of old newspapers, magazines and tabloids. Everytime her hand landed on a side table or lamp it came away ashen gray from all the dust. She found the kitchen to be nearly a nightmare with old, unwashed dishes sitting in the sink, some of them multicolored from the mold. She decided not to touch any of the food sitting out, but did peak into the refrigerator. Her beautiful eyes were met with the sight of white fuzz covered food, everything looking like some weird multicolored mold covered prunes. She slowly closed the door, fearful that slamming it shut would disturb all that fine layering of mold and send spores jetting into the kitchen and all over herself. She decided to look into the freezer, on the off chance there was something actually edible, but saw only a multitude of frozen dinners.

“Crap, I really can’t eat anything here. Ewww, disgusting.” She ran out, nearly forgetting to close the door behind her.

{"Mushrooms" courtesy of Jessica Doyle. Please visit Jessica at her blog and Etsy shop.}

As she walked on she spied a neat little house nearly dead center on the path. It had a nice little garden in front, and as she drew closer she realized it was a vegetable garden. When she was just a couple of feet away she realized there was a little sign poking up between the currants and strawberries. “Certified Organic by the Office of Organic Bear Food Growers” the sign read.

“Office of Organic Bear Food Growers? What the heck’s that?” Scratching her head Goldilocks knocked on the door. This time the door didn’t wait for a second beating, it opened gently at the first tap. The inside of the house appeared quite spacious with an open floor plan. The kitchen was in the back, but had plenty of light streaming in from its giant bay window. Walking in Goldilocks noted that whoever lived there had interesting taste, an eclectic mix of modern and antique. It reminded her of her parents taste in furniture, which thought only served to further convince herself this entire adventure was a dream.

When she made her way into the kitchen she realized all the food there was just like back at home. Excited, she began to look for pots and pans, intending to cook up something good for herself and the owners of the house. She was ecstatic when she found professional grade cookware and really sharp knives, all gleaming and spotless. She found barley and beans, lentil and oatmeal, organic brown sugar and organic fat-free milk. She also found some free-range grain fed chicken in the freezer, which she defrosted. Without her recipes, though, Goldilocks had to improvise, but she loved to improvise.

To add to her mood, Goldilocks put on some good classic rock, Tom Petty, Credence Clearwater Revival and Led Zeppelin, and started cooking. She chopped, rolled, kneaded. She mixed, pounded and shaped. She was happy as happy can be. Now, just as she was finishing making a sumptuous feast, including organic apple pie, the bear family that lived there came home.

{"Mom, this is the friend I told you about" courtesy of HidenSeek.
Please visit HidenSeek at their Etsy shop.}

“Hmmm, I smell something cooking,” said Momma Bear.

“Hmmm, someone’s been listening to my CDs,” said Poppa Bear.

“Hmmm, someone’s been eating the oatmeal raisin cookies,” said Baby Bear.

“Ah, ha, it’s a human!” all three cried out when they came into the kitchen.

“Eeeek!” squealed Goldilocks. “I … I … I made food!” she stammered.

“We see,” all three bears said in unison.

“Okay, little girl,” grumbled Poppa Bear, “look, normally we eat your kind. But, we were just at my mother’s, and, see, she’ll kvetch non-stop if you don’t eat. So, we’re all three a bit full.”

“Oh,” Goldilocks said, saddened that the bear family wouldn’t share in the feast she prepared, but happy she wasn’t going to be dinner. “I know I’m trespassing, but figured I was having a dream, or something, I just went for a walk in the woods behind my house, but somehow the path I was on disappeared, I could only go forward. And, then, I found this place, and I was so hungry and your house was the only one with organic, healthy food and I wanted to make something nice for the family that lived here and I was so hungry too and … and … “ Goldilocks started to cry as her exhaustion, hunger, terror and confusion all collided.

“There, there,” Momma Bear said, hugging Goldilocks with her massive, furry arm. “It’s all right. Tell you what, we’ll set the table, nosh a bit with you, and you eat your fill. Then, we’ll all get some rest and see about getting you home tomorrow. Okay?”

All Goldilocks could do was shake her head in agreement. They all sat down with Goldilocks and found her cooking so good they ate and ate until they were nearly bursting. Even the apple pie disappeared into happy mouths.

After dinner the Bears insisted that Goldilocks leave the dishes in the sink for them to wash the next day and they all retired to their own rooms. Goldilocks was snuggled in to the guest room, where she quickly fell asleep dreaming of home.

When she awoke the next morning she found herself surrounded by the Bear family.

“Goldi,” Momma Bear began, “we need to talk. Get dressed and meet us in the kitchen.”

Goldilocks first pinched herself. Oh, it was painful, and the realization that this was all real didn’t seem to freak her out. She got dressed, brushed her teeth (Cool, the Bear’s have Sonicare for their guests, thought Goldilocks), and met the Bears in their kitchen, still wiping the sleep from her eyes.

Before Goldilocks could say anything she was presented with a heaping plate of low-fat, whole wheat pancakes with homemade blueberry syrup. Poppa Bear directed her to eat while he spoke.

“A long, long time ago, we bears used to roam far and wide, unfettered. No humans cut down our trees, or plowed over our houses. Our cubs could play in the fields without worry of being shot for their pelts, or coming home to find a bulldozer full of their momma’s blood and innards. Ah, it was a beautiful time. But, the last 50 years have been different. That nice little walled in enclave you call your neighborhood used to belong to us. And we want it back. We want it all back. What I’m trying to tell you Goldi is that, we like you, but you’re human, and all us bears have vowed to wipe out humans wherever they’ve taken our land. Now, we don’t want to hurt you, but you’ll have to choose sides. But, before you do, let me tell you more. You see, your father has been the worst offender. Yeah, we know who your parents are, we Googled you last night. It seems your father’s factory is dumping pollutants into our water. Do you know how hard is to get the Culligan man out here? One look at us and they go running the other direction. What? No one’s ever seen a talking bear before?

“Anyway, besides your father’s dismal environmental record, he’s also teamed up with Donald Trump to plow this whole village under to build some new casino, resort, or office tower. Maybe all three.

“So, I’m sorry kid, but you have to know. You’re family is number one on our list to take out.”

Goldilocks just kept eating her pancakes, thinking how delicious they were. She thought about her father and mother and how she liked her mother, but her father was kind of a prick. And, lately it seemed to her he was getting a bit odd, always going on about money, real estate, how we should be drilling everywhere, even in people’s backyards, for oil, and how the forests were nothing more than disease incubators. Frankly, she was sick of his raving and ranting. She felt like the Bear family was kind to her, and how furry they were, and soft, and they even had their own Certified Organic vegetable garden.

“Well, Poppa Bear, I understand where you’re coming from. And, to be completely honest, while my mom is nice, father’s been kinda a prick lately. Truth be told, I don’t much care for him, and mom is just kinda there. I feel real bad about what my family’s been doing to you and I want to help. Oh, by the way, if you need guns, father’s got a huge stash in the basement, I can get them.”

And, so, Goldilocks joined up with the Bear Militia. That afternoon the Bears guided her back to her house, and she snuck in to the basement through the always unlocked patio door, broke into her father’s gun cabinets and started handing out firearms to the waiting bears. They all went back to the bear village and waited for nightfall.

Oh, what a bloody mess it was. As families where coming home with take-out under their arms, or settling in for hours and hours of TV viewing, the Bear Militia descended upon them in stealth. The first cries of “OH MY GOD! THE BEARS HAVE GUNS!” came from the Hendersons. Next it was the Smiths, and then two, three, even four families at a time as the Bear Militia gained confidence. There were broken bodies strewn across well manicured lawns, bullet riddled children laying atop ripped apart family dogs. Blood and entrails of the human victims lay everywhere. Finally, the Bears came upon Goldilocks’ family, with Goldilocks leading the way. Her father and mother were standing at the door to their deck, kitchen lights on behind them revealing a dinner untouched. Their eyes were wide and disbelief showed from every corner of their being. Goldilocks fired first, a rapid burst from the totally illegal AK-47. She aimed for her father, who started dancing like some crazed marionette with each bullet hit. Her mother screamed in horror, but was cut short in an explosion of body parts as the grenade hit her.

It was all over in less than two hours. It was then that the Bear Militia took control of the bulldozers and other heavy equipment sitting nearby to demolish the multitude of McMansions, taking special glee in razing Goldilocks’ previous home.

It was all over as the sun began to rise in the East. Exhausted but exhilarated, the Bear Militia, along with Goldilocks, wound their way back to the comfort of their own homes.

Goldilocks stayed on with her adopted bear family, cooking wholesome, healthy food for everyone in the village. She even convinced the Bear Council to designate a quarter of their re-won land as a Certified Organic vegetable and fruit garden so that all the bears could enjoy all-natural food.

Harold, the Medicated One

noreply@blogger.com (Dick Barsky) — Thu, 14 Aug 2008 15:47:00 +0000

{"Dragon In A Wagon" courtesy of Pimped Paperie.
Visit Pimped Paperie at their blog and their Etsy shop.}

Harold was a troubled man. In fact, Harold spent most of his life troubled. Growing up his family was always on the move and he was always in one new school after another. Making friends was hard, and keeping them impossible. Harold was sad, lonely and depressed. To pass the many empty hours away he would play his collection of Cure albums, over and over and over, until the tapes gave more hiss than music. At that point, Harold just bought CDs.

Harold would also sneak into his parents liquor cabinet and imbibe himself until everything became multiplied, his tongue flapped uselessly, and he eventually passed out. His parents not being big drinkers, he had to cut that fun short. But, then he met a kid named Mitch. Now, Mitch was heavy into the Grateful Dead and always had an eighth on him, for sharing or sale, depending on Mitch’s mood and how much cash he needed to keep his dealer happy. Mitch and Harold became really, really good friends. So good, in fact, Harold packed away his Cure CDs and bought the entire Grateful Dead catalogue on CD and tape. Mitch even made copies of his bootleg tapes and gave them to Harold as a present.

Oh, what, well, fun, I suppose, those two had, sitting in Mitch’s room, toking up, listening to the Dead, thinking they were having really, really deep conversations when in fact they were stone silent. But, they both thought they were having a grand time, and kept each other company in this way throughout high school. Now, Mitch’s parents never pushed academia on him, so after graduation he wandered off West somewhere, never to be heard from again. Harold, on the other hand, grew up with academic minded parents who pushed Harold to do well in school and eventually go to college. For all of his pot smoking, Harold did surprisingly well, even earning a scholarship to Brown University.

When graduation day came Harold cried, not because he was leaving behind the sixth high school he attended. No, he cried because Mitch had already departed for places unknown and he really needed a fix. Unfortunately for Harold, though, he’d smoked the last of his personal stash the night before.

The summer months were long, hot, and excessively boring for poor Harold. So, he started drinking again. By the time he hit the dorms his parent’s liquor cabinet was a graveyard of empty bottles which took them years to discover.

Now, Harold fared better in the dorms. In fact, he happily became reacquainted with his lady friend, Mary Jane, and some of her other friends, Mr. Cocaine, Ms. Speedball, Little Baby Heroin, and the funkiest of them all, Sir Acid and his cousin Lady Mushroom. Harold really liked Sir Acid and his cousin Lady Mushroom. He liked them so much that he spent his four years at Brown constantly seeing what wasn’t there, including so many rainbows he nearly killed the entire leprechaun population through exhaustion.

But, all good things must come to an end, and so it was with Harold and his psychoactive friends. His studies were over, and he’d actually earned a degree in accounting. A good job awaited him in Boston, and he’d found a slightly-larger-than-a-closet studio that he could actually afford.

{"the Nurse" courtesy of Emma Klingbeil. Visit Emma at her website and at her Etsy shop.}

It didn’t take Harold too long to realize that his life as an adult was so much worse than when he was a kid, or even in college. His bosses all tortured him with actual work, no one there was willing to share their stash, or even give out their dealer’s name, and he had to pay his own bills, on time, every month. He thought he was going to go crazy. So, with HMO coverage provided by his employer, Harold found a general practitioner. After a few visits with him, he was given a recommendation to a wonderful psychiatrist. The best part for Harold was that it only took him three months to get an appointment, for the end of the next month.

Now, this particular psychiatrist, along with all doctors who took HMO health insurance, had a policy of not being with a patient for more than 15 minutes. Less, if at all possible. So, Harold’s first visit consisted of him sitting in the waiting room filling out a 10 page questionnaire regarding his general physical health, medical history, family medical history, fears, worries, pleasures and his deepest, darkest thoughts. It was those last parts Harold really got into, pouring out his heart about his lonely childhood, difficult college years, and his steadily growing insanity now that he’d reached adulthood. Of course, constantly experiencing flashbacks, Harold also wrote about his magical friends the fairies, dragons and pixies.

As the good doctor was quickly reading the questionnaire it was these last parts that struck her as quite odd. Coming to a snap diagnosis, without having yet met Harold, the doctor had prescriptions for Xanax, Valium and three or four specifically anti-psychotic drugs ready for him as soon as he walked into the office. Mixed together they created a wonderful euphoria for Harold. In fact, it was so wonderful he never felt like leaving work, or eating much, or even sleeping. Harold became so productive his bosses gave him healthy raises (calculated against current and future costs, excessively conservative estimates on profits, and best guesses on the health of the economy in twenty years). After a couple of years Harold was even made a Junior Junior Partner along with the hardworking Building Maintenance guy.

Of course, as time went on Harold began to develop tolerances to his various medications, so the dosages were upped. And, when a new drug came out onto the market, Harold was the first to try it, and usually the last to go off it, no matter the side effects.

Years went by and Harold continued on with his prescriptions, always looking forward to the mornings, as that was when he would take most of them. And, he always had a smile on his face at night when he took the rest. Day in and day out, night after night, Harold lived by floating along, oddly focused on his work but completely disinterested in anything around him. When he got home from work he would eat, sometimes. Mostly, though, he’d plop down on his very overstuffed couch and watch TV. Rather, the pictures would flicker in front of him and the sound would reach his ears, but Harold’s mind was off. Nothing gave him pleasure (except for taking the drugs), but nothing ever really bothered him, either. If he stubbed his toe, the pain was a distant call he would never heed, beckoning him back to reality. If he was late with a bill, no big deal, he would think. Otherwise, the bills came in and he numbingly would write out the checks and mail them off. He would have used online payments, but he just could never remember those passwords.

{"Funeral" courtesy of Athena Workman. Visit Athena at her website and her Etsy shop.}

And, so, this was how Harold lived until his untimely death. His bosses showed up at his funeral, hoping that it was some sort of mistake. After all, Harold was supposed to have finished that very important report and hadn’t received prior approval for dying. Regardless, when they did confirm poor Harold was dead they did smile, for they knew it was one less paycheck with benefits they had to dole out. They left as soon as they confirmed the poor guy was really, really, not-coming-back-from-this-one, dead. Otherwise, Harold had no friends, nor romantic or family ties, so he was buried alone, clutching two different prescription bottles in each hand, and a pill of each tucked neatly in his cheeks.

The Last Voter

noreply@blogger.com (Dick Barsky) — Mon, 11 Aug 2008 20:56:00 +0000

{"Outer Space Voyage" courtesy of Lori Biebel.
To see more of her amazing re-arrangeable murals visit Lori at her Etsy shop .}

A long, long time ago, in this galaxy, and in fact, this very solar system on this very planet, there was a great nation. A nation born out of strife and a desire for something better. Its founders knew that what they wanted to accomplish was novel, and ultimately would be an experiment. A great experiment, one the world had never seen before, but an experiment nonetheless.

But, like all experiments, grand or small, there must be an end. And, so it was with this great national experiment, founded on grand vision, principles of equality, freedom from oppression, freedom of choice.

For many years, what seemed like forever, the people would gather at set times of the year and vote for their leaders. It was a grand spectacle, and those wishing to be leaders would talk and talk. Mostly, though, they would only say bad things about their opponents, and only rarely talk about what they would do to make things better. In fact, when they did talk about what they would do to make things better they sounded exactly like their opponents.

And, so it came to pass that the populace got tired of all the posturing, bickering, backstabbing and general do-nothingness. Slowly, they stopped voting. Instead, they’d stay home and watch TV, or surf the Web. Some of them would go to the movies, while a great many would take advantage of the Election Day Sales all the stores put on.

Even the political parties got tired of the whole mess and closed shop.

The talking heads on TV decried the evaporation of democratic process and participation, but no one cared. One way or another there were still candidates and enough votes to count, and someone always won. It was a slow decay, something that never really seemed alarming, and so no one bothered to do anything different.

That is until that one day when only Charlie went out to vote. Charlie was the perfect citizen, he researched the candidates, their records, their stances on a very wide range of subjects. In short, he was a well informed voter. He weighed the issues at hand, each candidates’ ideas and visions, and what he felt was best for the nation.

So, armed with facts, graphs and rhetoric, Charlie went to the polls and cast his vote. He was the only one, and so every candidate he voted for was elected. The media went crazy for Charlie, and he was invited to appear on all the talk shows, morning news shows, and even the daytime talk shows. He was especially proud to appear on Oprah; she gave him a brand new Buick.

Time passed, and it was once again election time. Before Charlie could begin his research the media came knocking at his door. It was a Saturday morning and Charlie was still in his robe, but he answered the door anyway, thinking it was little Johnny from down the block come to collect for his paper route.

When Charlie opened the door, though, he wasn’t greeted by the tousled brown hair of little Johnny. Oh, no, he was greeted by bright lights, camera lenses, and what seemed like a million microphones. And the shouting, oh, the shouting to answer this reporter, no that reporter, how about a quick quote for the Star Tribune? Charlie, Charlie, Charlie!

Charlie slammed the door in their faces. It dawned on poor Charlie that now he was the celebrity du jour. He didn’t want that, so he decided he wouldn’t vote. But, then it hit him, if he didn’t vote, he’d still be the celebrity du jour, except that he’d be famous for not voting. He definitely didn’t want that kind of fame. He saw the headline before his eyes: CHARLIE SHULTZ KILLS DEMOCRACY DOESN’T VOTE.

So, what did Charlie do? Why, he decided to play a trick on everyone. He would vote, but not necessarily for any of the candidates. Nope, he’d use Google to look people up. Like a nationwide white pages, he’d go through the list of people he found through Google, and randomly pick names for the appropriate cities and States, of course, and write them in.

{"we all flock to Ruby" courtesy of Marisa from Creative Thursday.
Visit Marisa at her home on the web and her Etsy shop.}

Charlie, the last voter, got the last laugh. He made the Great Democracy into Charlie’s Democracy. When Charlie went to vote a few weeks later he wrote in names of people he found through his random searches. None of the candidates who were already on the ballot won. Nope, not at all. But, a great many people were surprised to find out that they were now a mayor, a Senator, or even a judge. And the President? Well, that post went to some guy named Earl who worked the graveyard shift at the county dump. His Cabinet choices? Rats and pigeons, for they never lied to him, nor led him astray.