Jasper Miller wasn’t a typical cracker kid. His father was a dirt farmer with a terrific drinking problem. He worked the fields year ‘round with the help of Jasper’s slave labor. But when coral reefs died the gulf quickly poured in on the Miller’s fields; consequentially, rolling easements that came as regularly as the tide itself slowly took their toll on the Miller’s arable land. Dad did what he could but at about 5 o’clock every night he’d head 20 minutes away to a local tavern, not only to stay cool in the air conditioning but also to bitch with the local fishermen and forget about the disgusting pig his wife had become. Jasper’s mother, Verna weighed about 400 lbs all told.
A typical day in Verna’s life involved dragging her obese self to the couch every morning. There she would sit as Jasper brought her coffee, bacon and eggs.
“Momma, please try cereal this morning,“ Jasper said once as he carried a bowl of raisin bran to his constantly talking mother.
“Nah-Oh!“ The beast said, making ’No’ into a two syllable word, as she flapped her enormous hand against the underside of the bowl, knocking it free from Jasper‘s grasp and sending milk in every direction. She made a face at Jasper that she thought was cute but to Jasper it looked like a giant pile of melted cheese was smirking at him. Jasper actually slapped her after that, he was very pissed off.
After breakfast the TV went on and Verna’s work day began. Around lunch time she would haul her self up by the handicap bar mounted on the wall next to the couch. Jasper’s dad installed it there as a joke, in an attempt to get a point across, but Verna loved it. She’d make her way into the bathroom, drop a couple of kids off at the pool then have a sponge bath. This was so difficult for Verna that it sounded like she was lifting weights or having rough sex. The rest of the afternoon she would drink pop and eat candy or chips. Jasper would feed her dinner around 6 then she’d waddle back into her bedroom. Jasper’s dad hadn’t slept in the same bed with Verna for 12 years. Often Jasper could hear her sobbing through the almost nightly powerful storms. Eventually she would cry herself to sleep.
Then suddenly Jasper’s parents were killed in the American War. Soon after he was hired in an abrupt manner by a woman named Rosa Adolfsdottir.
“ I traveled with my father quite a lot in my teens and into my twenties,” Rosa stated matter-of-factly, smiling and looking off into the distance. She downshifted in order to pass a late 70s Cadillac. The elderly captain of the big yellow boat glanced over at Jasper as they passed and gave him a sour frown. Jasper bugged out his eyes, made a pouty Mick Jagger face and gave the retiree the finger.
“That’s nice,” Jasper snorted, turning toward Rosa and wiping the back of his hand against the corner of his mouth. “Where did you come across all of this cake--I mean, you’re obviously loaded.”
“Excuse me?”
“Deaf, are ya?” Jasper responded.
“Well,” Rosa cleared her throat, “I am an heiress and an executive of a software firm.”
Jasper burst into manic spurt of laughter. “Lady, that’s great. I‘m glad we crossed paths because I‘m fuckin’ broke.”
Rosa acted as if she didn‘t hear a word Jasper said. Her face was white marble. “My name is Rosa, Jasper. I‘m not old or noble enough to be called lady.”
“Look Rosie, this is all sort of crazy, don’t cha think...”
Rosa interrupted, “No I don’t, I‘m trying not to think.”
Jasper sat silently for a few minutes. He fiddled with the radio, briefly allowing a little BTO play before shutting it off in disgust. A sudden off kilter premonition entered his mind, but a strong one nevertheless. He smiled at Rosa. Her eyes left the road just long enough to smile back, the corners of her eyes crinkled. “Where we goin’ Rosie, really?”
“Rosa. North.”
“I knew you were lyin’ about that Captiva bullshit, damn it...What‘s your,” he made quotes in the air, “ ’business’ in the SSA?”
Rosa looked at Jasper intensely. She noted his greasy but tan complexion. She felt certain he was just concerned for his well-being, which was fair enough.
“Can I trust this kid?” she contemplated.
“I have to stop several times on the way. There are certain people that should not know I am here, especially the people who work at the spaceport. I‘m not exactly, legal.”
“Alright Rosie, my part in this ends here. Stop the car and let me out.” Jasper ordered.
“Oh Jasper, you are fine. Don’t worry, really,” she reassured him as she held onto his arm. “It’s going to be so easy working for me. And besides we’re not in any danger. Don't be afraid of the SSA.”
“I…I gotta,” Jasper sputtered before desperately fumbling at the passenger door for a latch handle but Rosa pressed the child lock. Jasper was trapped.
“You are not going anywhere kiddo, and whether you believe me or not…you’ll be happy right here with me.”
Jasper then gazed out the window at the Floridian countryside, dismayed. He considered knocking Rosa out but as he glanced back at her he realized he couldn’t. He couldn’t hit her, he felt like she was armed. In the distance he saw the smoke of cane fires rising to the heavens. Briefly he thought of himself as the smoke twisting up into the sky amongst the cane vapors. Through the vent he could smell the sweet smoke curling into his nostrils.
His eyes were sore.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Beyond Bowshock, Part One
Men, that is humans, love speed. It’s no wonder since our bodies naturally work at amazing speeds. The particulate from a sneeze for example typically travels at about 100 miles per hour. The act of cumming is blazingly fast as well. Our little genetic messengers shoot forth inside a wad of nutrients at an alarming 28 mph. So therefore, if there is anyway to do it faster, we eventually figure out how. We created jet propulsion aircraft to fly us there faster, carry our goods faster and drop our bombs faster. We created weapons that deploy and destroy faster. Our motorcycles go faster. We sell cars with speedometers that go up to 150 miles per hour, even though it’s illegal to go that fast. We made ferries so that we don’t have to drive around a lake, it’s faster to go through the middle. We weren’t even happy with going just going fast. We invented things like turbo and nitro-injection so that we can force our engines to accelerate faster. We even made and discovered chemicals to make our minds go faster. Caffeine, the most psychoactive substance in the world makes our neurons fire faster, they already fire at mind bending 268 miles per hour. Many people are addicted to the speeding effect, imbibing the drug through drinks and pills on a routine basis. Others aren’t happy with the speed of Caffeine. Crank is like Caffeine’s insane uncle, except with Crank you don’t come down for three or four days. You’re awake the whole time. If you were connected to high speed internet while on Crank you could get your taxes done faster, your shopping done faster, your novel written faster. That’s the beauty of the Internet for tech-savvy people, you can get things done faster but you can do it in a much more relaxed (ah-hmm, lazy) manner. All that verbal communication just slows things down. People love sitting on their ass while robot arms put little maraschino cherries on their éclairs. And not just on one éclair, hundreds of them at once. This is why when the men from Fen arrived everyone got so excited. We could all go faster but we didn’t have to work very hard to achieve it. The Fennians gladly laid inter-galactic travel at our feet.
Realization
Tables are turned, I rule.
Powerless: I made my mother cry.
When its time to raise your parents
the world falls apart and comes together at once.
Powerless: I made my mother cry.
When its time to raise your parents
the world falls apart and comes together at once.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Legion III
Garrison was rushed by ambulance to Bounty Hospital on the edge of Bounty, the quicker picker upper of cities. In Bounty, everyone has what they need, hence the name. Since they al have what they need, they all watch out for themselves. Anyway, he was rushed via gurney into Bounty's hospital. His fat, lifeless body limply pooled itself across the hard cushion like a puddle of molten bree, his skin the ashen rind. Destination: the ER.
Four nurses congregated around a computer screen, all of them behind a screen designed in such away that anxious patients, their family and their friends couldn't see what the nurses were doing. But these nurses were standing up and laughing, they were on break. Meanwhile, a woman who began vomitting every twenty minute or so about 6 hours earlier, before moving on to dry heaving, began vomitting blood. In a gesture of good will, the nurses had given her a green waste paper container in case she needed to do something other than dry heave. All across the waiting room the other forty or so victims of severe trauma watched as the woman made Christmas.
Garrison's wound was luckily serious enough to merit a free pass to the head of the line. No waiting for Garrison. His throat got slashed. After pumping blood into Garrison and ghouling their way around his body with needles and knives, the doctors had brought him back to life and he lay sprawled across a white sheet, Scrubs at his side.
He woke up four days later.
"Gurpleblurplewurple," he said.
"Don't try talk uhm, mister, Bill."
The doctor tried to stifle his laughter but could not. Garrison moaned in anguish at his predicament and moved his head from side to side, leering uneasily out of the cheaply adorned hospital window. Stiff and dun, the curtains hung, framing the dew as it rose off of Bounty. He was in pain, his doctor was a cretin and it was dawn.
Four nurses congregated around a computer screen, all of them behind a screen designed in such away that anxious patients, their family and their friends couldn't see what the nurses were doing. But these nurses were standing up and laughing, they were on break. Meanwhile, a woman who began vomitting every twenty minute or so about 6 hours earlier, before moving on to dry heaving, began vomitting blood. In a gesture of good will, the nurses had given her a green waste paper container in case she needed to do something other than dry heave. All across the waiting room the other forty or so victims of severe trauma watched as the woman made Christmas.
Garrison's wound was luckily serious enough to merit a free pass to the head of the line. No waiting for Garrison. His throat got slashed. After pumping blood into Garrison and ghouling their way around his body with needles and knives, the doctors had brought him back to life and he lay sprawled across a white sheet, Scrubs at his side.
He woke up four days later.
"Gurpleblurplewurple," he said.
"Don't try talk uhm, mister, Bill."
The doctor tried to stifle his laughter but could not. Garrison moaned in anguish at his predicament and moved his head from side to side, leering uneasily out of the cheaply adorned hospital window. Stiff and dun, the curtains hung, framing the dew as it rose off of Bounty. He was in pain, his doctor was a cretin and it was dawn.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Legion II
James run. He run fast past the veteran's clubhouse and cut a man who was stumbly outside. The man yell, "Anarchist bastard," gurgly sound...he fall down. He choke on sidewalk, with blood. Blood make puddle in c'ment. I saw it first, then I saw James. James come see my mommy. Sirens loud when he came to my step. Mommy and me sat on step, it's bricks. "Hey kid" I looked down when he talked. Mommy was upset with Grammy. Mommy say, "You know James, when you have to raise your parents, the world comes together and falls apart at once. I can make my mother cry, she's powerless..." James say, "I don't know anything about being powerless." Rocks make scratches on brick, I drew James and Mommy talking. Man yelled down alley, say "Anyone see a guy with a knife?" James gave Mommy lots of dollar bills and say "See you in a few weeks." P'lice car at veteran's club, man say "I just had an argument with the guy over politics." Blind man make accident, put stick in blood and splash it around. P'lice man's shoes bloody. That was bad and lots of people cry and yell. On our bricks, little red spiders go around. They make bloody splats when you smoosh 'em, but not as much blood as the gurgly man makes. "Hold on Garrison" says a lady with a rag on her arm, like the kind mommy uses to wipe the cat's eye boogers. Garrison can't hold on, he's going somewhere floaty. Him's not there anymore. Lady crying. P'lice man laughed at Mommy when she said "Why are you doing this?" There was a big bee sound and she got really straight then she slept. I rode in the front seat. The P'lice man put Mommy in back, the door hit her head, but she was sleeping. James hide in weeds by chain fence when we went by. Ambulance take Garrison away now. Lady ride with him and cry. He's dead, she doesn't know.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Pinko in the Legion
"I feel bad for the guys, they're victims," said Garrison
A couple of the men on the other side of the bar shifted uncomfortably in their bar stools. The one to the right of the video lottery machine stared down into his rum and coke and stirred with his cocktail straw. He smirked and looked up at me. I ignored his gaze and just listened while I picked crumbs of black crud from behind the molding on the bar.
"Nah, they choose to fight."
"That might be true in some cases, but they don't know what they're fighting for, that's the sad thing. Now these boys are sold a load of fucking crap about terrorism and freedom, and you know it Pete."
"Fuck that, it's all real, it's not a line of shit...you know what Garrison? People like you piss me off-- how in the fuck did you forget about 9/11?"
"OK, OK Petey boy. Scrubs, give Pete a shot on me, he looks like he might cry."
Scrubs got a bottle of Beam and flipped it up, pouring Pete an exact dram. She slid it in front of him. He emptied it and handed it back to her.
"I didn't forget about 9/11 Pete. It pisses me off just as much as it pisses you off. But I don't see them any different to you or I. We're all victims. Either they got a hold of us directly or we've been affected by the fact that they've got so much control."
"How in the world are they victims just like us? You rarely make sense to me, man."
"And you sound like a conspiracy theorist!" hollered blind Stephen from the far corner of the bar, wobbling in his seat with his grey locks dangling. Garrison nodded and sipped at his pint.
He swallowed hard, squinted and looked up at the TV briefly, then began again.
"You got to realize Pete, the government has most of us convinced they're our protectors, but they're not. It's actually the other way around. They're exploiting each and every one us. American, or otherwise. Now, Al-Qaeda, they're just part of the same sort of system. But they're elusively resisting control by the dominant force, us! It pisses senators and CEOs off when someone can disrupt the traffic like they did on 9/11. And I agree with them, it's not right. But, as usual, the feds have got it all wrong. Rather than try and sell it to us that way, they've got this freedom and evil thing going-- rather than get people on their side using reason, they've resorted into scaring us," Garrison's voice began to boom, "threatening us with imminent destruction!" He drank again. "Just like Al-Qaeda's got them crapping in their pants. The thing that pisses me off is that they lie, Pete."
"Yeah, but our guys are still fighting for the right."
"What the fuck is the right man? We can even agree among ourselves what the right is. How the hell are we going to convince them we're right by peppering them with bombs?"
"He's got a point there, Pete, " said blind Stephen.
"We got to get on the same page, get beyond all this fake shit," Garrison added, "They're not fighting for us Pete, our ideas, our children. They're fighting to keep shipping lanes open, to keep offices from being blown up. They don't give a fuck about our local economy or the fact that they've tricked our kids into fighting and dying so their kids can go to Notre Dame and Princeton."
"I never really considered it that way, Gar, " muttered Pete.
"Shut up Garrison, you're scaring away my tips," said Scrubs.
"You're sounding like one of socialist faggots from Denmark that were in here a few weeks ago, Garrison," said Mick, as he returned from the bathroom, trailing dirt and mud from his boots as he clumped across the dance floor in his Carharts.
"I am part Dane, you asshole. And maybe I do sound like a socialist. We got everyone convinced that watching out for themselves is the answer, while Big Brother and his fucking CEO minions rape our sons and daughters. I think we'd be a lot better off if we started watching out for our own and stopped looking up to the feds, the banks, the CEOs and their armies so much. I mean, we've gotten pretty far since Obama got into office but we didn't all of sudden start planting gardens and singing Kumbaya. We're all still in here on a perfectly beautiful afternoon drowning in the man's brew. we've forgotten about what America is supposed to mean. We need to rethink the American dream and then revamp it. It don't mean fighting and spending money."
"What are you running for office!?" shouted blind Stephen.
"Shut the fuck up Garrison" yelled Scrubs, "or get out. It's not that I don't agree with everything you're saying but I need to make a fucking car payment and pay the babysitter when I get home."
Garrison got up and put his coat on. He pushed in his stool and straightened it for the next customer.
"You had me convinced until you brought up Obama," said Pete, "I don't mind go back to the old ways, everyone knows I believe in them. But being nice to fags, black power, c'mon dude. This progressive stuff is out of control, somethings have got to be sacred."
Garrison looked Pete squarely in the eye.
"That is because you are an old, ignorant redneck fuck Pete. Stuck in your ways. That's fine douchebag, you stay behind while the rest of us move forward. Your boy's over there in the shit, fighting for nothing while you drink and make pronouncements about shit you nothing about."
Garrison walked toward Pete and Pete got out of his stool-- he steadied himself and puffed up his chest. He looked like a big bearded turkey. The folds of his neck fat were trembling, his partially grey goatee and blue bandanna soaked with beer and sweat respectively.
"Be nice guys," Scrubs commanded.
Garrison strolled by Pete, and gave him a derisive look, then at the last minute he reached out his long skinny arm and flipped Pete's ball cap right off of his head.
"You've been uncrowned pal."
And with that Garrison walked out of the Legion for the last time. He opened the door and disappeared in a flash of sunlight and smoke.
A couple of the men on the other side of the bar shifted uncomfortably in their bar stools. The one to the right of the video lottery machine stared down into his rum and coke and stirred with his cocktail straw. He smirked and looked up at me. I ignored his gaze and just listened while I picked crumbs of black crud from behind the molding on the bar.
"Nah, they choose to fight."
"That might be true in some cases, but they don't know what they're fighting for, that's the sad thing. Now these boys are sold a load of fucking crap about terrorism and freedom, and you know it Pete."
"Fuck that, it's all real, it's not a line of shit...you know what Garrison? People like you piss me off-- how in the fuck did you forget about 9/11?"
"OK, OK Petey boy. Scrubs, give Pete a shot on me, he looks like he might cry."
Scrubs got a bottle of Beam and flipped it up, pouring Pete an exact dram. She slid it in front of him. He emptied it and handed it back to her.
"I didn't forget about 9/11 Pete. It pisses me off just as much as it pisses you off. But I don't see them any different to you or I. We're all victims. Either they got a hold of us directly or we've been affected by the fact that they've got so much control."
"How in the world are they victims just like us? You rarely make sense to me, man."
"And you sound like a conspiracy theorist!" hollered blind Stephen from the far corner of the bar, wobbling in his seat with his grey locks dangling. Garrison nodded and sipped at his pint.
He swallowed hard, squinted and looked up at the TV briefly, then began again.
"You got to realize Pete, the government has most of us convinced they're our protectors, but they're not. It's actually the other way around. They're exploiting each and every one us. American, or otherwise. Now, Al-Qaeda, they're just part of the same sort of system. But they're elusively resisting control by the dominant force, us! It pisses senators and CEOs off when someone can disrupt the traffic like they did on 9/11. And I agree with them, it's not right. But, as usual, the feds have got it all wrong. Rather than try and sell it to us that way, they've got this freedom and evil thing going-- rather than get people on their side using reason, they've resorted into scaring us," Garrison's voice began to boom, "threatening us with imminent destruction!" He drank again. "Just like Al-Qaeda's got them crapping in their pants. The thing that pisses me off is that they lie, Pete."
"Yeah, but our guys are still fighting for the right."
"What the fuck is the right man? We can even agree among ourselves what the right is. How the hell are we going to convince them we're right by peppering them with bombs?"
"He's got a point there, Pete, " said blind Stephen.
"We got to get on the same page, get beyond all this fake shit," Garrison added, "They're not fighting for us Pete, our ideas, our children. They're fighting to keep shipping lanes open, to keep offices from being blown up. They don't give a fuck about our local economy or the fact that they've tricked our kids into fighting and dying so their kids can go to Notre Dame and Princeton."
"I never really considered it that way, Gar, " muttered Pete.
"Shut up Garrison, you're scaring away my tips," said Scrubs.
"You're sounding like one of socialist faggots from Denmark that were in here a few weeks ago, Garrison," said Mick, as he returned from the bathroom, trailing dirt and mud from his boots as he clumped across the dance floor in his Carharts.
"I am part Dane, you asshole. And maybe I do sound like a socialist. We got everyone convinced that watching out for themselves is the answer, while Big Brother and his fucking CEO minions rape our sons and daughters. I think we'd be a lot better off if we started watching out for our own and stopped looking up to the feds, the banks, the CEOs and their armies so much. I mean, we've gotten pretty far since Obama got into office but we didn't all of sudden start planting gardens and singing Kumbaya. We're all still in here on a perfectly beautiful afternoon drowning in the man's brew. we've forgotten about what America is supposed to mean. We need to rethink the American dream and then revamp it. It don't mean fighting and spending money."
"What are you running for office!?" shouted blind Stephen.
"Shut the fuck up Garrison" yelled Scrubs, "or get out. It's not that I don't agree with everything you're saying but I need to make a fucking car payment and pay the babysitter when I get home."
Garrison got up and put his coat on. He pushed in his stool and straightened it for the next customer.
"You had me convinced until you brought up Obama," said Pete, "I don't mind go back to the old ways, everyone knows I believe in them. But being nice to fags, black power, c'mon dude. This progressive stuff is out of control, somethings have got to be sacred."
Garrison looked Pete squarely in the eye.
"That is because you are an old, ignorant redneck fuck Pete. Stuck in your ways. That's fine douchebag, you stay behind while the rest of us move forward. Your boy's over there in the shit, fighting for nothing while you drink and make pronouncements about shit you nothing about."
Garrison walked toward Pete and Pete got out of his stool-- he steadied himself and puffed up his chest. He looked like a big bearded turkey. The folds of his neck fat were trembling, his partially grey goatee and blue bandanna soaked with beer and sweat respectively.
"Be nice guys," Scrubs commanded.
Garrison strolled by Pete, and gave him a derisive look, then at the last minute he reached out his long skinny arm and flipped Pete's ball cap right off of his head.
"You've been uncrowned pal."
And with that Garrison walked out of the Legion for the last time. He opened the door and disappeared in a flash of sunlight and smoke.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Potholes
These potholes constitute crisis
Each drive is a role of the dices
I would like a new car
But I won't go that far
Since my 89 Camry suffices.
This limerick won the CBC Weekend Mornings Nova Scotia 2009 Limerick contest.
Each drive is a role of the dices
I would like a new car
But I won't go that far
Since my 89 Camry suffices.
This limerick won the CBC Weekend Mornings Nova Scotia 2009 Limerick contest.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
