Wednesday, September 14, 2011

Something I'm working on...

I have a scar on my left forearm just below my elbow. It's only about an inch and a half long.

I don't know why I was such a momma's boy. I saw my dad on weekends, and I had twin uncles in their early 20's whose sole purpose seemed to be "toughening me up" and "not allowing me to be such a big baby anymore". In spite of these factors, I grew in to a timid, chicken-hearted 12-year old. I was a risk-management specialist, and avoided all activity that carried the remotest possibility of pain.
When my mom re-married, she and my step-dad decided to move us to Covina, CA. This put me into an interesting predicament. I had never once attended a school in my own neighborhood, having always gone outside my district to accomodate my working-mom's schedule. Now I was finally going to attend Glen Oak Elementary, only a short walk from our new house.
This was a very significant change.
I had never gone to a local school before, and had grown accustomed to the solitary life of a latch-key kid, not venturing outside, content to read books and watch television when I was home early. I didn't have friends knocking on the door. My friends were the kids of my parents' friends.
In this new place, I would be forced to acknowledge the existence of other children who shared the same block, even the same cul-de-sac. Before I had started school I was wilting under the presumption of peer pressure, imagining the heinous rites of passage that would demand my blood, sweat and complete absence of tears in order for acceptance to be granted.
My initial response was to avoid contact with anyone at all costs. It was my great misfortune then to be the only neighborhood child in possession of a large and beautifully proportioned swimming pool. I don't know whether the kids on my block had a pre-existing knowledge of this pool, or if they just sniffed it on the air as they cruised by on racing bikes. Either way, they peeked over the back walls, or came to the door, at first feigning interest in me, working all the while toward the beckoning siren call of my last (private) resort .
My resistance was useless, and I was soon considered one of the guys, at least, on a trial basis. I knew that the time would come when my daring and nerve would be put to the test, my fearfulness and cowardice called in to question. I knew that soon summer would be over, and with it my brief run of acceptance.

Saturday, June 4, 2011

The Jumping Bean

There was a jumping bean. Her name was Emma. She was jumping and jumping. She was crazy. It was hard to stop her. Finally I picked her up and said to my friend 'Stop jumping'. But guess what? She did not listen. She just kept on jumping! Again, she was crazy.

By Nettles

Jesus is Three Persons

Jesus is Three Persons.

Jesus is a soul. He is three persons. He is God. He is, of course him, and a Holy Ghost. He is good. On the other hand, God is the King. If you want to believe then you want to be a Christian. That is good. Think of it as a story book that there is a King, a Prince and a servant. The Prince is sent from a Magic Land to Earth to save us. Well that Prince is very brave. He died on a cross and that same cross represents him. Think about it.

The End.
By Nettles

Thursday, June 2, 2011

The Food Chain

Biggleton Rabbit emerged from his burrow holding a corncob pipe in paw. The violet radiance illuminating the heavens was a sight to be beheld this particular sunset; and Biggleton planned to enjoy every second of its glory. He nestled into thick blades of grass and lit his pipe, watching the silhouette of birds disappearing into the Lord’s bosom. “What’s a cute little bunny doing out of his hole this late?” a sinister voice came from the brush. “Uh (gulp) evening Mr. Fox, sir” Biggleton trembled. “You know little bunny, it has been such a long day and I still hunger,” said the fox. “Well Mr. Fox I have stored beautiful, thick blades of grass and some nuts should you wish to join me for an evening snack.” “Hehehe” the fox snickered, “I do not want your pitiful grass nor nuts dumb rabbit, but I wish to have you.” Biggleton’s eyes began to swell as a tear or two ran down his little face. “Bu-but Mr. Fox sir, I do not wish to die tonight. Please spare me good sir.” “Silence you pitiful little thing” the fox sneered, “don’t you know you are on the lower end of the food chain here in the forest? You are a disgrace, crying for my pity. I shall eat you and make jewelry of your bones little rabbit.” As the fox prepared to make his kill stoke, a larger voice came from behind. “I too am hungry this evening for there were few fish in the stream today.” The fox quickly turned and was frightened at the sight of a magnificent grizzly bear that had been watching the exchange between the two animals. “Uh-Mr. Grizzly good sir-I, I was just about to feast on this delightfully meaty little rabbit here sir. Would you join me?” “My hunger is such that I crave more than such a puny little morsel like that rabbit,” said the bear, “I think you shall suffice quite nicely little fox.” The fox began to weep hysterically. “No please Mr. Grizzly, good, wonderful and kind Mr. Grizzly. Please do not ea…” GULP.

The rabbit watched in horror as the grizzly bear ate the fox. The bear then walked over to the quivering rabbit. “May I little rabbit,” said the bear motioning over to the rabbit’s pipe. “Uh yes, YES Mr. Grizzly, here take a puff sir, it would very much please me.” And the bear did. The two sat upon the meadow watching the sunset and exchanging folktales of the forest. The bear thanked the rabbit for the company and bid him goodnight as he walked away into the horizon. The rabbit galloped about happily to his burrow, whistling to the bright blue moon. As he neared his burrow, he was surprised to see his new friend awaiting outside the burrow entrance. “Ah, little rabbit,” said the bear, “I am still hungry.”

Wednesday, June 1, 2011

A Backwards Tale

Epilogue: The rain beat down upon his brow as he stared at the coffin being lowered into the ground. His eyes swollen knowing she was forever gone. His heart ached; the loss was too much for him to bear.
Act III:Michael I truly regret having to inform you of this but Ana was killedhe fell to the floor sobbing uncontrollably, unable to finish the remainder of the letter. He stormed to his study where he ripped pictures off the wall. He opened his desk and removed a different letter from his drawer, ripping it to pieces as he screamed into the night.
Act II: She felt an epiphany bestowed upon her, an extreme desire to go preach the good word. She knew she must leave but believed he would not understand. “Savages” he called them, often voicing his desires that “they” all should burn. But she believed them God’s Children and prayed they would soon know. She left a note explaining why she had left him and where she had gone. Her letter ended with it will be fine, you will see. I love you always-Ana
Act I: It was a quiet afternoon and the study was filled with tension. He mocked her as she read the good book. “Why do you always mock my faith?” she inquired. “Its not your faith per say” he replied “its where it takes you. You know I hate when you go on those so-called missionaries. She paused understanding his reasons and respectfully walked away.
Prologue: Many years before our story begins, there was Mike in his kitchen. It was a quiet morning and he was making pancakes. The phone rang unexpectedly. He lay down the spatula and answered the cordless device. “Mike’s famous House of Pancakes can I help you?” he giggled. “Mike” a faint voice replied, “its Meredith.” Mike instantly became weary, wondering why his wife’s friend was calling him when they were supposed to be doing missionary work in Saudi Arabia. “What is it Meredith, tell me please?” Meredith began to cry “its your wife-they, they shot her. She’s gone.” He dropped the phone and began to bawl. The toddler sitting in the high chair panicked and began crying. He arose and picked her up, pressing her against his chest. “Its just you and me now my little Ana” he continued to sob. “God recruited mommy then took her from us.” “He will not take you from me, I promise.”

The Hunter

The old man scurried through the woods, a look of great distress over his face. He came upon a creek where he bent over and gulped the waters madly. A young fisherman looked on from a short distance. “Are you alright old man?” hollered the fisherman. The old man looked startled for an instance. “No, I am being hunted” the old man cried out, “I haven’t the strength to outrun him anymore.” And with that, the old man disappeared into the dense brush. The fisherman was startled. He dropped his pole and pulled out a small pistol from his vest and ran towards the direction where he last saw the old man. He feared calling out for the senior as it might alert the hunter as to his position. A short distance later, the fisherman found the old man laying on the ground in agony. The old man looked up at the fisherman. “He got me son, he got me.” The wide-eyed fisherman quickly turned his pistol into the surrounding trees. “Where did he go old man?” The old man managed a slight chuckle. “Its no use son, he is too quick. Never underestimate him, the greatest predator of them all!” The young man bent over looking to tend the old man’s wound but realized there was nothing to tend. “Uh where are…”, “Don’t” the old man interrupted, “don’t EVER underestimate him, for one day he will catch up with you too.” The old man let out a final gasp of air and was gone.

Thursday, May 26, 2011

Once upon a time...

...there was a website known as Ficlets, where one could be creative and write a short story. The site itself did not last long (though, if you click on the link it will now take you to brand new shiny place called Ficly - A better, shorter story) but before it's demise, I managed to save our two stories we wrote there. Harold Patch is by me, Pomegranates and The Rebirth of Frances by Snarktwain:

Harold Patch

“Here I am” he thought, unable to speak, unable to move. “But she couldn’t have”. He started to think of earlier; how he kept nagging at her, complaining about her. Why couldn’t he just appreciate her? Why couldn’t he see that eventually she could blow up, or worse… “I guess I can’t blame her” he thought, looking around. He noticed he was with the harvest crops. The pumpkin patch to be exact. “So what am I doing here? She’ll come back for me, we’ll sort this out” but somehow he knew that she had put up with him for too long, that maybe this time it wouldn’t end well. He tried again to move but to no avail. He saw her coming out of the house, walking towards him. “This is it”. She bent low and grabbed him. “Why is she holding me? Why am I so light?” She brought him into the house and passing a mirror he saw what he was. He began to tremble in fear as he noticed she had walked into the kitchen, the oven on with a cookbook on the table. He looked and saw it opened to the page for “pumpkin pie”...

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The Rebirth of Francis

Francis was thoughtful, conscientious and, on the whole, concerned that he not compromise his morals in any aspect of his dealings with his fellow man. Since nobody is perfect, it fell to Francis’ subconscious mind to set about forgetting many of the smaller offenses that he committed on a daily basis, so as to keep him from a lifetime of mental self-flagellation. Still, recollections of minor offenses committed managed to slip through the cracks from time to time.
When awareness of moral failure reared its head, there was much pain to be distributed to his extremities. Often Francis would awake uncomfortably on the floor, a dull throb emanating from the area of his lower legs. Such is the life of a man of absolutes.
It was then, a bit of a shock to his circle of brotherly support
on the day that he walked in to the small, cramped community center basement where they met weekly, arm in arm with someone in a poorly made bear suit.