Online Onslaught Three

Summary of OO3

2006-01-16T21:40:00.000-08:00

For those that are new to this blog, it contains the archive of the 2005 summer contest hosted by Modern Acropolis, Online Onslaught Three.

Online Onslaught gathers talent from all across the US into one writing contest -- meant to encourage creativity and expression in all the writers. To participate next summer, email me at misshb@gmail.com. If you would like to read the prompts and posts from this contest, continue reading below.

Additionally, check out OO2 from summer 2004. (Note, the original Onslaught is no longer on the internet)

Players' Identities

2005-07-26T19:26:00.000-07:00

In Removal Order:

Week Removed/Ranking (if applicable)/Alias/Real Name/Blog Address(es)

1/Arty Ant/Tim Kamermayer/Journey for Something More
1/Rowdy Racoon/Kristen/none
1/Mysterious Monkey/Ian Samuel/Burning Light of Reason
2/Daring Dragonfly/Alan Tauber/Xanga & Storm of Thoughts
2/Giddy Giraffee/Kiyomi Bolick/Xanga
2/Daunting Dolphin/Caity Ross/Livejournal & Square Pancake
2/Benign Butterfly/Anna Grey/none
2/Sassy Snake/Kyle Cheesewright/none
2/Original Owl/Mel Gibbard/From the Inside
2/Brainy Badger/Undisclosed
2/Earnest Elephant/Vivienne Creamer/Xanga & Musings
3/6/Wordy Woodpecker/Abram Rose/none
3/5/Ferocious Fox/Undisclosed
3/4/Precious Panda/Thomas McCloskey/Xanga
3/3/Creative Cardinal/Jenny McBride/Basil the Killer Sheep & Ivory Angel & Livejournal
3/2/Tenancious Tiger/Matt Harms/none
3/1/Flippant Flamingo/Andrea Parish/Live Journal & If Walls Could Cook

Final Results

2005-07-25T01:11:00.000-07:00

The rankings of the top six players:

6) Wordy Woodpecker*
5) Ferocious Fox*
4) Precious Panda
3) Creative Cardinal*
2) Tenancious Tiger

And the winner after three weeks of stiff competition, Flippant Flamingo!

All players denoted with a * recieved signficant penalties for missing a prompt.

Note all ex-players: Contact me within three days (Wed at noon) via email with your blog address if you'd like it included (I know some of yours) when I reveal the identies of the players or if you'd like to remain annonymous.

Flippant Flamingo # 9

2005-07-23T08:11:00.000-07:00

The air is thick with sex
Heat, sweat, light and music pulsing
Filling every nook and cranny. The room
Dancing frantically, bodies adorned with wings
Feel the subtle, heightened effects of the drug

Known as Buddah's embrace, an illegal drug
That enhances emotions, sensations, and sex.
Ecstasy give each dancer's mind wings
That beat with each beat pulsing
Sound waves that molds the cherry smoke.
In this huge, dark, hot room

No one person is given enough room
To naturally move, claustrophobia unfelt by the drug
Affected mass. Almond smoke
Hovers on the ceiling like an angel of sex
That shoots arrows, spilling the pulsing
White blood out of the dancers wings.

Angels of black circle their dark wings
Around each painted raver in the room,
Their barely perceptable heartbeats adding to the pulsing
Rythem that the small, chalky, white drug
Has encouraged.
Out of their minds with heat and sex
Dancers forget their cravings for methonal smoke;

Although the ritual nicotine smoke
Will give them temperoary wings
To survive the day with no thought of sex
And of that undecorated, rented room
In which they created a new type of drug,
One that gives their hearts a new pulsing

And pounding.
They lie pulsing,
Surrounded by their clouds of salty smoke
Creating the only sensation free of the drug.
They will relearn to fly with out those wings
Created by the enviornment of the room
That was full of musk and sex.

The wearing of wings takes a delicate drug,
A mind insane with sex and rabid with pulsing
In a room full of smoke and ecstasy.

Tenacious Tiger #9

2005-07-23T06:27:00.000-07:00

I grew up in a musical family. My Aunt was my music tutor from the time that I was in second grade, so I grew up using songs as a way to pack things away into the duffle bag of my memory. Some people take pictures to remember different phases of their life, but I've always used music. To this day, all it takes is a few notes of a certain song to make feelings and ideas flood to the forefront of my brain, making me remember the exact slice of time as if I was there living it again.

I Do It For You -- Bryan Adams:
Look into my heart, you will find
There's nothin' there to hide
Take my as I am, take my life
I would give it all, I would sacrifice

I was wearing a charcoal grey suit, unfitted, that was purchased in a hurry. The putrid scent of dozens of different flowers was overwhelming as you sat in the pews. Maybe it was the perfume of all the women there, as well. I kept my head down and listened to a pastor speak about the accomplishments of my father, and how he now will look after my sister and I from above. The clip-on tie I was wearing was pushing against the already gigantic lump in my throat. Before they played the song, some people spoke about how they remembered my father and what he meant to them. But I just sat there, wondering what I would do next in life, sizing up the legacy I had to live up to.

Sidewinder -- Lee Morgan

A simple piano lick opens with a nice kicked-back drum beat. It's calm and relaxing, just the two little sounds toying with one another. The rest of the band just sits back and waits while Kyle and D-Rock do their thing. Then WHAM, the crowd gets a nice wake-up call in an instant as 15 trombones, saxes, and trumpets drop the fattest, rowdiest, loudest note they can. (The goal of that note, as the band members would explain, was to create such a shocking and startling sound that it would make all the babies in the crowd cry.) Then, back to business as usual, a driving beat replaces the old one as David and I trade fours with one another. I'd make a statement, he'd try to top it, then I'd show him who's boss, all using my sax and his trumpet. We toyed with one another for a minute or two, then the rest of the band joined in until David and I reached our featured solos. But as the song winded its way to the end, I realized that I would when it was done, I would never pick up my sax again. Ten years of practicing, playing, and sweating came to a grand censura of a finale. I ended my playing career with the best performance I had ever managed to put together, and I was pleased to walk away on top of the world.

These are but a few examples of how songs open my memory banks. Maybe it was my musical upbringing, or maybe I'm just a freak, but for me, music makes anything possible. It lets me speak to my father, it lets me communicate with friends from the past. It just lets me be me.

Creative Cardinal #9

2005-07-22T13:14:00.000-07:00

When I first saw him, tiny pale fist curled in on himself, his pink lips quivered. Tired, he would cry. I put my hand (not so big yet) on his head. It was like touching down feathers. My fingers felt so warm. I was only two and so I didn't really understand what this creature was, this rumpled ball of flesh and fat that sobbed constantly and drooled over everything, but I loved him anyway. I patted his head and whispered, "Bae. Bae."

My responsibility. I wanted to protect him. I wanted to keep him safe forever.

He had a yellow blanket when he was little. Yellow was his favorite color because it was "the happiest" or so he told me. "Celebration" was his favorite song. There was this Denny's commericial that always came on during Ninja Turtles and he'd always get up. His yellow, footed pajamas flew fluff everywhere and he jumped from couch to couch, singing at the top of his shrilly, silly lungs: "Celebrate good times! Come on!" I, who was too mature for some things, rolled my eyes. Then we pretended that the brown carpet was hot lava.

My responsibility. I will wrap him up in winnie-the-pooh sheet and put him in a laundry basket. He always wanted to play with my dolls. I didn't want him to because it wasn't right for boys to play with Barbies. Mommy just told me that it was because he wanted to play with his big sister, he wanted to be included in everything she did. He loved me so much.

He told me very solumnly one day after rocking it on the swingset that he was going to marry me someday. I took his hand and kissed it and told him that it was against the law, but he promised we'd find a way anyway. Silly boys. We played dress-up. I pushed him on the swingset, my slender arms trembling as I tried to rocket him to the sky. My brother. My one and only little brother.

Not always. Do you remember when our sibling came along? We didn't want him following us so we shoved him in a closet and told him not to come out. He didn't even cry, much. whenever we'd exclude him, he'd promptly roll over and take a nap. Sometimes we didn't even notice. Especially not the time we got Monopoly money all over my parent's bedroom, smeared across the carpet in jagged, paper rainbows.

Baseball bats with walnuts. The shells got everywhere. I remember his wailing in the other room. We both got spanked at once. Not always, though. Usually I was the first. When they hauled us in for shots, I always got it first and was told not to cry. I had to be brave and take it so that my younger brother would know that it was okay. For him, I bit my lip. For him, I refused to cry a tear. Not until I was alone, anyway. It was my responsibility.

Alone. Maybe...maybe...maybe... He wanted to be with me always. And we were together, most of the time. We made num-chucks out of soda-straws and marshmallow men out of toothpicks. But there were days when I wearied of him hanging on to me, when I slammed the door in his face and leaned my back up against it so that I could play alone. The cars drove over the play mats the way I wanted them to, the blocks could be built in towers that he never knocked down, and I wouldn't have to explain the awkward story lines pumping through the tiny figures that danced at my command. He didn't understand rape but I did, even then. And the toy women would be hurt and trembling only to be rescued by a knight in shining armor who turned out to be not a knight at all, merely another villain trying to make girls do thing they didn't want to do. Things they couldn't quite remember afterwards. Maybe if I hadn't shut him out, maybe if I hadn't hid that part of myself maybe he'd trust me more today. Maybe he would have trusted me more before. Maybe things wouldn't have gotten this out of hand.

He doesn't like the color yellow anymore. What do you do when the boy who was everything to you, the boy who was your responsibility, loses the joy inside his eyes? What are you supposed to do when he comes to you with the blood running down his arm, telling you that he cut himself with eyes cold and never moving. He held the razor that cut along his own skin, crying that he didn't deserve to live.

Bae. Bae. They tell you he's not your problem. They tell you he's beyond your control. They tell you that you have to live your own life and let him live his, but how can you possibly do that when you were the one who held him up in the swimming pool, who gave him rides on your back when you were both learning how to swim? We called it the water taxi. I'd spin him so fast he'd inhale water bubbles and mommy would scold me but we'd do it again.

How do you go on when the one thing that mattered to you more than anything else in the world suddenly changes into something that you never thought it could be. And your friends are still laughing and your teddy bear still smiles but you look up into a Godless sky screaming inside because the pain is so much. You were responsible for him and you FAILED.

All I can think of on days like this, are yellow footed pajamas and words to a Denny's commercial: So bring your good times, and your laughter too... We gonna celebrate your party with you....

Precious Panda # 9

2005-07-21T13:39:00.000-07:00

I walk these streets….

Reverend Carnat had presided over some interesting weddings before, but this certainly was a first. The bride was screaming—singing, actually—and knocking over the flower displays in the church. Oddly enough, right when she shoved the groom to the ground, all reverend Carnat could think about was stage diving.

Mathew Carmichael and Sandy Almaeda were the all-American couple. After meeting in a freshman seminar class at Kansas State, they dated for the next five years before they finally appeared ready to settle down. When Michael, who by then was the head softball coach at a local high school, proposed to Sandy, a software designer, everyone thought they were happy.

Sandy, however, was far from happy. She knew that Mathew had cheated on her repeatedly, including several affairs with his students. While his sense of humor was somewhat entertaining when they were 18, his fart jokes stopped being funny a long time ago. Sandy felt like she was dating a real-life Peter Griffin, an alcoholic moron who treated her like the fungus living between his rolls of skin. For some reason, though, she couldn’t bring herself to end it. Childhood asthma and years of psychological abuse from Michael left her physically and emotionally weak, so when he proposed, she didn’t have the strength or self-esteem to fight him off.

A newspaper headline days after the wedding read, “iPod bride goes wild.” If they only knew the half of it.

As Sandy came down the isle, reverend Carnat noticed that something wasn’t quite right. She was bobbing back and forth with a swagger and confidence that he hadn’t seen in her before. When Sandy’s father lifted her veil and stepped back, he saw that her eyes were bloodshot and she was wearing small headphones connected to an iPod, which she held in her hand. It blended right in with her dress. Sandy turned to the reverend and said “it’s all the same…only the names have chaaaaaanged…every day, it seems like we’re wasting awaaaaay.”

Reverend Carnat thought it would be best to ignore her and proceed with the ceremony. Mathew still hadn’t noticed that she was a little tipsy, which wasn’t uncommon in the weddings the reverend had presided over—most brides and grooms needed something to get them down the aisle. Still, Sandy kept bobbing back and forth while Mathew was saying his vows and it was a growing distraction for the audience.

Some were giggling, others whispered to each other, but everyone was startled when she suddenly shouted at him, “SOMETIMES I SLEEP, SOMETIMES IT’S NOT FOR DAYS…AND THE PEOPLE I MEET ALWAYS GO THEIR SEPARATE WAYS………….SOMETIMES YOU TELL THE DAY…BY THE BOTTLE THAT YOU DRINK, AND TIMES WHEN YOU’RE ALL ALONE ALL YOU DO IS THINK…but we both know that last part isn’t true, though, right Matt? Right? Am I right? Right? When you’re all alone, all you do is watch stupid fucking nascar…Well………I’VE SEEN A MILLION FACES AND I’VE ROCKED THEM ALL.”

There was silence in the church. No one really knew what to do when Sandy threw off her veil and shoved her fiancé to the ground shouting “I PLAY FOR KEEPS, ‘CAUSE I MIGHT NOT MAKE IT BACK!” Sandy was building momentum, and when she punctuated knocking the flowers over with “CAUSE I’M WAAAANTED…DEAD OR ALIVE!” even reverend Carnat was smiling a little.

Sandy took off her ring and threw it at Mathew, whom she left lying there at the altar as she walked back down the aisle alone, a big, happy smile on her face. She pushed the church doors open and marched down the steps in the sun. Getting into the waiting limousine, she said to herself, “I been everywhere…still I’m standing tall.”

TKO Question #9

2005-07-20T13:37:00.000-07:00

TKO Question #9

Oh, give me the beat, boys, and free my soul
I want to get lost in your rock and roll
And drift away

Write about a scene that involves music. You choose the song.

[I am aware this is not political but I think you all are better on fiction/personal questions and this is the last TKO]

Post between noon tommorow and noon Saturday.

Wordy Woodpecker #8

2005-07-20T09:57:00.000-07:00

The beach, no matter how much superficial change it endures over the years, always seems to retain its beauty. Its shape is constantly distorted by waves and humans, yet no matter how bad the initial distortion is, it always seems to return to normalcy. In fact, the beaches that have been around the longest always seem to be the most beautiful, despite enduring abuse for a so much longer time. This resistance to all nature and man throws at it should remind us how to deal with all of our own individual problems.

An individual raindrop does little to harm to the shape of the beach, but alas, the little raindrop rarely comes alone. After a shower of raindrops, the beach is a mere shadow of its former image. Each drop leaves a tiny individual mark that allows further drops to have more of an impact, and all that is left is a battered surface filled with tiny craters where the final drops fell. And yet, one day later and one can’t tell of any damage to the beach’s surface at all. Similarly, we all face our own “rainstorms” at times, where small problems all seem to come at once. We can easily face each problem if they happen one at a time, but it is so much harder when they come all at once. But like the beach, we must be able to move on. Instead of letting each individual problem compound into something larger, we must be able to clear our mind and deal with each problem separately from each other. Alas, if only it was as easy as the beach after a rain storm.

Waves routinely crash into the shore, but every so often, a wave that is large enough will pound the beach hard enough to change its shape for a while. But while the shape may have changed, it manages to still be a great sight to behold. And each individual wave that crashes onto the beach leaves just a little sentiment that adds to the beach’s long time value. Similar, we all have “waves” crash into us, incidents so poignant that they still influence our current actions. But, much like a huge wave does not destroy the beach, we must not let powerful events destroy us either. Instead, again like the beach, we must be able to take each problem and get something out of it. Trying something new often results in a feeling of failure when one doesn’t perform as expected, but is always beneficial. The pain is temporary, but what is learned stays with you for a lifetime.

Tenacious Tiger #8

2005-07-20T07:39:00.000-07:00

"Now Jonathan, we need to talk about all of those girls at school." I loved how blunt my grandfather could be at times.

"When I was your age, guys couldn't wrap it up when they wanted to sex girls." Holy crap, my grandfather is telling me about when he was having sex like a hundred years ago. I'm not even sure that I knew what a condom was when I was 13 years old, but in retrospect, I'm sure that's what he was alluding to when he said 'wrap it up.'

"You need to find a good girl, Jonathan. Not one of those hoodlums. You need to girl to take ca--." Before he could finish, I was greeted with a finger snap to get my attention and a finger pressed over the lips to get me to shut up. The bobber on my grandfather's fishing line was dancing up and down, just barely breaking the surface of the murky water. Some little fish was toying with the fishing master. Then suddenly, the bobber--well--"bobbed" underwater, my grandfather yanked back on the rod with the force of one thousand horny 13 year olds waiting to ravage the condomless masses at the school sock-hop. Bass #1 was tossed into the bucket. A new minnow got hooked through the gut and with a high pitched whiz, the fishing line was cast another 50 yards away from the old mint-colored family boat, putting the tiny red and white bobber at the edge of visibility. Man, my grandfather could fish with the best of them.

"Now, what I was saying, you don't need one of those crazy girls that sleeps around. You need a good one, Jon. Like your mother." Ohhhhh yeah grandpa, great way to get me to bow down at the altar of penile responsibility. Tell me I need to date my mother.

"It's a new world out there, you have more to worry about than just the birds and the bees. Now you have to worry about people breaking your eggs and stealing your honey." I'm still not sure what that means.

"When I met your grandmother, we were married within 6 months, and had your father within the first year." At the time, I didn't know that meant that my grandparents boned before they were married.

"But you can't do that anymore, Jon. You need to test drive the snow tires, make sure they can handle it all: highways, icy ponds, snow drifts. You know." I didn't know, but I just kept nodding my head, partially frustrated at the fact that the fishing skill apparently didn't trickle down 2 generations into my tiny frame. I still just sat there, fiddling with my fishing rod, waiting for the next metaphorical tidbit from my grandfather.

"So the first time you bring a girl to family Christmas, I'm going to have to really sit down and talk with her, okay?" That was our big test: family Christmas. When you brought the girl or boy with you to family Christmas, you were serious. You can't just share the Sanst ham dinner with anyone, can you? There are nuclear facilities that aren't even guarded as closely as our family Christmas.

"Got it, grandpa. Thanks. What's the best spinner bait to use in 10 feet of semi-visible water?" Change of subject, naturally.

And this is how I learned about the world. Be it my grandfather, my grandmother, or my father, life's lessons were best learned over a trolling motor and the greasy smell of large mouth bass.

Oh, and when I did take Linds to our first family Christmas, my grandpa pulled me off to the side and said "Good catch, Jon. Good catch." I suppose the fishing metaphors will never end.

Flippant Flamingo #8

2005-07-19T22:01:00.000-07:00

10pm and the café was empty. Usually at this point, it was just getting busy, full of revelers enjoying their last few hours before the cruise ship left port, or their evenings after a long day of work. On these beaches, it was very unusual to see the locals mixing with tourists- but the few that found themselves in my café at that hour had usually doffed the drunken teenagers and rude thrill-seekers, and wanted to truly understand the beauty that is my beach. For twenty-five years, I had served them all. Frozen drinks, good food, and desserts that were fit to be eaten only while watching the sun set behind fishermen just starting their evening run. That was truly heaven.

So now, here I sit. The last umbrella in the cupboard floating in the last of the mai-tai, and the last slice of chocolate cheesecake sticking to my fork. Alone, finally enjoying what my customers had been calling heaven. Funny how I never seemed to get the chance to enjoy this while they were around. It is really beautiful, but it just isn’t the same. I need loud voices shouting out to the cooks what’s next on their list. I need customers laughing at the latest antics of the birds (who, we think, had become slightly addicted to the remnants of cruiser’s watery daiquiris). I need a flour-streaked apron around my waist and waves and shouts from the fishermen. Those are the things that made this my heaven.

Paradise, however, is easily lost. When the cruise ships moved to the next island, we were left with little except pollution and poverty. I didn’t see the effects for a while- hard times are the times you want most to be around those that make you smile. After a few months, though, locals started moving away and those who did stay simply didn’t have the money to pay off the tabs they’d been running up with me on the promise they’d eventually pay me back. I didn’t really care about the money- but when they were all too embarrassed to join me in the evenings, I didn’t have much left. I sold what there was, and gave the money to the two employees who had stayed. My tickets were sitting back in the now-bare kitchen, waiting to take me off to another island, another café. I couldn’t leave this place, though. I had to see why they had called it heaven. Now, I suppose I understood.

Draining the glass and poking the umbrella behind my ear, I stood up quickly, resolving to leave and not look back. I knew I was kidding myself, though. I knew I would only be trying to recreate this wherever I next ended up. How can you really say goodbye to heaven?

Ferocious Fox #8

2005-07-19T20:21:00.000-07:00

All of my colleagues have pictures of people in their cubicles. The average wedding photo, the kids, even the family dog, are all displayed with pride. I have this. Not because it is a particularity interesting photo, but because he took it.

There are people who are great at taking pictures of themselves. You know the ones, they always have a camera in tow and have learned how to pose so as to always look good. We are not these people. I have hundreds of wonderful memories of our years together but not a single photo of the two of us.

It used to bother me. I would go to the cubicle to my right and see the pictures of a woman holding a man and be jealous. Over the years the men in her photos would change. One day I realized people keep photos to remember moments. She needed the photos to remember the men and the brief moments they filled her life.

I didn't need photos to remember him. Without effort I could recall the first time he kissed me, the night we made love on that beach, the fights over toothpaste brands, and the moments in between. I could close my eyes and hear him whispering in my ear the first time we held our baby girl. I could feel his arms around me comforting me when my father died. I didn't need photos to remember my life.

After that I was never ashamed of my lack of people pictures. I have more memories than perhaps I deserve. More importantly I still have him. People walk by my cubicle and ask me what the picture is of and I tell them that it doesn't really matter.

Precious Panda # 8

2005-07-19T19:31:00.000-07:00

Celeb Reality

Fred and Ben Savage never thought they’d be here. Child stars fading into obscurity are common, but being spit out the bottom of reality television is fairly rare. Unless you count VH1.

It all started six months before. After staring in “The Wizard” and “The Wonder Years,” Fred had not made the transition to more mature films very well and had been relegated to bit parts on Seinfeld and in an Austin Powers movie. He spent his time perusing local garage sales and narrating “Lumber Sports: Behind the Sawdust” on tape.

Ben was worse off. After “Boy Meets World” was cancelled and his career as a professional cyclist failed to develop, he was left sleeping in his car and eating discarded tins of holiday popcorn. His last project was playing “AJ” in the Backstreet Boys off-Broadway musical.

So, when their communal agent was contacted about them doing a reality show to fill the hole in VH1’s 1:35 a.m. spot left by the cancelled “Tucson Grammar Rodeo,” they jumped at the chance. The show was called “Savage Island” and the premise was simple: Fred and Ben were to survive as long as possible on a deserted tropical island resort without any food or water. It was being dubbed “The real Lost,” from the creators of “Alf.”

Despite the constantly erupting volcano and Fred speaking in the third person for hours on end, it really wasn’t so bad, although neither Savage had noticed a camera yet during their four months on the island.

Creative Cardinal #8

2005-07-18T16:06:00.000-07:00

The pink bubble snapped again. Pop. Crinkle. Crunch. Right in my earlobe. She did it on purpose. I try not to get angry, but I can't help it. They walk over me and stomp on me and some days I just can't stay hidden anymore. I decided right then and there that I was going to skin her face and turn it into one of those neat leather purses hanging off silly college-women shoulders. Fuck off, Gucci, I have my own sense of style. It involves red plaid miniskirts and arms shaded with sapphire bracelets and not spending one-hundred dollars to buy a new blouse.

Anger is always something I've wrestled with. There was a beach once where I clobbered someone with a sea-shell. Conch, I think. I kind of regret that because it wasn't really her fault her boyfriend kicked sand in my face (it felt like eating road grit). She just happened to be within reach of my grotesquely skinny hands. You wouldn't think fists the size of sausages would hurt, but I leave everyone who angers me just a little raw. Red-faced bitches. Soft-dicked manwhores.

Like I said, I've had a temper since I learned to walk. Stomp, more like. I consider ti a sign of intelligence. I know the world isn't supposed to be this way and it pisses me off. I want to scream when I hear about suicide bombers killing children, but I can't do anything about it so I slam my shoe into whatever wall irks me at the time. They shoved me into therapy when I bit my orthodontist. She wanted to give me braces, I wanted to give her a headache. Neither of us came out satisfied. Mom always nicknamed me "Little Hulk" because of the fights I used to start, just because people said things to me. I know that words can't really hurt, sticks and stones and shit, but their taunts scraped at my soul until one day my self-restraint just ripped apart. I was a good girl, until then, and I didn't do much more than stomp.

That day... they threw me down under the teeter-totter and let it bash my ankle. I was stumbling for a week. I've never seen such purple oozing. Mom wouldn't even pick me up from school, told me to stop being such a crybaby. The teachers all ignored it. Right then and there, I knew I had to deal with things myself. I made sure I hurt those assholes them anyway I could. Sometimes I stabbed them with fingers or pencils or threw spitballs at them, but mostly I used a woman's weapons: gossip, lies, and feral stares. My favorite was when I left a girl handcuffed to the jungle-gym. It wasn't a very nice thing to do, but she had gone over my physique in explicit detail telling me how ugly I was. I hurt her, because she made me believe I was worthless. They suspended me for awhile, but school was glorified daycare. My ass can stand an occasional spanking for the pleasure of revenge.

I know I'm bad. I know I should know better. I'm all grown up now, but I never have been able to leash my temper since. No cool beaches, no pleasant sunsets, nothing beautiful ever runs through my eyes free of blood or the people who grab at me, call me names, trying to rip off my clothes and throw me front-first onto a dirty pool table. It doesn't even matter if I'm wearing three feet of flannel, I just draw people with my rage. They can see my defiance in my eyes and they want to punish me for it, for being different than them, for refusing to succumb to the montony of life. I will not be ruled by them just because they're stronger for me, and the hate in the tension of my limbs makes me an obvious target.

That's why I try to stay quiet, now. That's why I don't like to talk too much or even listen. I get so angry so easily, and when I feel my blood begin to boil they're on me again like cobras, bad memories stinging my flesh like bullets of paper. Just words, I tell myself. Dumb bitch. Cunt. Worthless. Just words. They don't define who you are, what you are.

Then what are you? A girl who can't learn to give in and walk away.

Don't be angry or they'll see you and hurt you. Don't stand out or they'll find you and rape you. Pretend you are just another mild-as-milk-mush, backwards-looking, California blonde who knows nothing of politics and less of using crochet needles. Certainly nothing of using them to stab the bastards in the back.

TKO Question #8

2005-07-17T12:12:00.000-07:00

TKO Question #8 [Fiction]

Be inspired by this photograph. Write.

Post begining at noon on Monday, due on noon Wednesday.

Wordy Woodpecker #7

2005-07-17T10:19:00.000-07:00

One of my more embarrassing moments in my life happened during my freshman year in college (yet again, who doesn’t have embarrassing moments their freshman year?). When I get up in the morning, I am completely incapable of pretty much anything without my daily dose of magical elixir. Ah the sweet taste of caffeine. When I am in my early morning stupefied state, I tend to take really long showers, as I just sort of space out in the stall. Normally, the friendly reminders of “What the heck are you doing there!! Get out now!” manage to stop me spacing out, but this morning, almost everybody on my freshman floor had classes earlier than I, and so I soaked for a really long time until I finally remembered what I was doing. I walk back to my dorm room to find that the door is locked. Apparently my roommate was able to get up and leave in the time I wasted in the shower.

At first, I didn’t think the situation would be too serious. After all, plenty of other students on our floor had been locked out before, and they’d just ask the RA to unlock their door. It wouldn’t be too bad; it’s not like they haven’t seen me in a towel before. But a quick check revealed they were off at classes. A slight panic resulted, but then I had the idea of finding someone on the floor and seeing if they’d be willing to help me out by going to the Reslife building and telling the faculty there that I needed my door unlocked. I assured myself that it would be slightly more embarrassing, but shouldn’t be too bad. I walked around my floor only to find that everybody had already gone off to class. A panicked look at my watch revealed that my Chemistry test was in thirty minutes, meaning waiting it out wouldn’t work. I had to get my key, and quickly. I sat in the corner when the door to my room resided, breathing heavily and beginning to realize more and more how screwed I was. A troubling thought passed my head. In order to get my key in time, I would have to go outside cross the street and go to the Reslife building myself, all in only a towel. I would have to choose: would I sacrifice my dignity or my grades?

I chose to sacrifice my dignity, of course. I’m an engineer; I’ve already given up my dignity.

In order to get away with the least amount of attention toward me as possible, I decided that I must walk confidently. For some reason, people seem to notice someone in an embarrassing situation more if they are seen to be embarrassed. I gave myself a little pep talk, and out I went.

The first thing I noticed was how terribly cold concrete and asphalt can get after a chilly night. The embarrassment instantly set in, but luckily, I had faced no comments so far, only some double takes. Just a little further, and I could make it. The ResLife building was right in front of me, with its confortable air conditioning and occlusion. All that remained was a street that had to be crossed. I didn’t want to remain outside for any longer than I had to, so I quickly began to cross the street. Between feeling the cold burning into my feat and the burn of people’s stares, I was so distracted that I didn’t notice the black sports car coming my way.

BEEP!!!!

The deafening horn of the car that just slammed on its brakes to avoid hitting me greatly startled me, so much that I could feel my towel beginning to fall. For some reason, it always seems that the split second before a crisis time seems to go in slow motions as you realized just how bad things are going to get. But luckily, my quick reflexes allowed me to quickly reach down and grab the top end of the towel. My crotch was safely obscured from view. Of course, I only caught the top end, exposing my rear for all to see. I quickly heard the voice of someone screeching. It was the voice of a middle aged woman. Almost instinctually, I snapped around and saw a horrified tour group. At this point, I was so rattled that I didn’t care about my façade of confidence, I sprinted toward the ResLife building and quickly made my way to the desk where spare keys are handing out to help students who get locked out. I told the young worker that looked to be a student there of my situation, but the first he asked for was my ID.

Oh no he didn’t. Oh no he fucking didn’t.

I erupted into a rage. After all the crap I had been through, bullshit like this was the last thing I needed. I can’t remember exactly what I said, but it probably wasn’t too pleasant, to put it mildly. After an older worker chewed me out, now all the staff members there were staring at me, furthering my shame. Eventually, the man agreed to give me the key to my room after I had almost broken down into tears.

Suffice it to say, I didn’t do too well on the Chemistry test that I worked so hard to make.

Precious Panda # 7

2005-07-16T19:45:00.000-07:00

Walk of Shame

The first time I got really drunk was during a debate conference in Krakow, Poland, during my sophomore year in college. Apparently what happens in Poland doesn’t stay in Poland, because over the years, the story of my Krakow debauchery has spread further and faster than that new Harry Potter book. Blimey!

It was our first night in town, so we decided to have a little fun. At the time, my experience with alcohol consisted mostly of that time my brother Paul fed my dog beer until she ran into the furniture. Consequently, when my friends kept buying me drinks, I figured I would be fine since they were in these really small glasses. As it turns out, my friends were just waiting to see if I would run into the furniture. I didn’t disappoint them.

I don’t remember a lot from that night in Krakow, but I’m told that over the course of the evening, I did each of the following:

--Decided that pants were improperly designed and took my jeans off and put them back on backwards, in the middle of the street.

--Shouted at a stranger, “those aren’t letters! You made up letters! Who the hell do you think you are?” while gesturing angrily at a billboard in Cyrillic.

--Did my part to reject obnoxious American stereotypes and overtly flirted with every woman within 17 kilometers.

--Stumbled into a McDonalds at 1:30 in the morning and loudly ordered a “royale with cheese,” then went into the bathroom and fell asleep on the toilet.

For my friends, it was a night to remember, and for me, it was the most embarrassing evening of my life. I will say this, though—for someone who was doing their first drunk walk on Polish cobblestones, I think I hung in there pretty well.

Flippant Flamingo #7

2005-07-16T17:17:00.000-07:00

I am embarrassed when I stand naked in front of one person, ten people, a hundred, or more. I’m not embarrassed by my nakedness. What I am embarrassed by is the fact that everyone else is embarrassed, turning away, turning red, refusing to look at me or acknowledge that I am standing in front of them, exposing myself.

I usually end up doing this once or twice a week. What can I say, I’m a glutton for punishment, and refuse to lie.

I am in a very uniquely embarrassing position in today’s America. I am loathed by both sides of a very heated argument, and unless I am willing to acquiesce to one side or the other by omission or outright denial, I end up right where I started- standing naked in front of a room full of others embarrassed by me.

I am, in a world that seems to be very dichotomous between “straight” and “gay,” the middle ground. Kinsey would qualify me as a three. Many religions call me a sinner. Many heterosexuals and homosexuals admonish me for “not making a decision.” Researchers barely recognize the existence of me and those like me in their studies of “non-heterosexual lifestyles.” Even those who are supporters are often confused and embarrassed to admit that they do support me.

I am a bisexual.

I am not waiting to make a decision. I am not trying to figure things out. I am not halfway on my way to coming out as a lesbian. I am, pure and simple, attracted to both sexes, and everything in between. I find no embarrassment in this or in proclaiming this.

However, I see in the disgusted looks at Pride celebrations, the akward silences when an unsuspecting grandparent asks “so, any boyfriends?” when my current relationship is a girlfriend, in the frustrations of significant others that I won’t “commit fully,” bad jokes that end with horribly bigoted punchlines, (usually told by those I thought of as accepting), the moniker BUG (Bi Until Graduation), and even in the badly worded questions like “soooooo….. you’re……… like………… into both?!?”

Acceptance of homosexuals, gay marriage, transsexuals and cross-dressers are a wonderful movement and should get as much support and celebration as is possible. However, every time I end up saying the words ‘actually, I’m bisexual”, essentially stripping myself naked in front of them, I see the embarrassment that the reality of my sexuality reappears in the eyes of my friends, my family, and strangers.

And I am embarrassed that they are embarrassed.

Tenacious Tiger #7

2005-07-16T15:43:00.000-07:00

May 28th, 1994 -- A 42-year-old Flanagan man died Thursday afternoon after the truck he was driving hit a bridge abutment two miles northeast of Flanagan.

It's a date I should never forget. I've already shared the horror I felt that day with you all. But to me, embarassment isn't always some humorous moment for the world to see. Embarassment is also shame. Disgust. Embarassment is one of those things that makes you feel like you're trapped in some room and all eyes are on you, making you feel like you're less of a person for having done something. In my case, my most embarassing moment is having not done something.

My father's death was one of those life altering moments when your predestination receives a massive electric jolt sending you skewed on a new path. Eventhough my parents had been divorced and I only got to see my father two weekends a month, he was still my dad, and like many growing boys, he was my idol. I wanted to be a farmer because my dad wanted to be a farmer. And I wanted to have curly hair, with a little bald spot on the top of my head (my dad called it his "solar panel"). I just wanted to be my dad.

So when he died, I didn't know what I was going to do. On May 28th, 1995, my sister and I went and visited his grave and cried together. We spent some time recalling some of the fun times we had with him. Like, when we were little--and I mean little--we would often take my dad's socks each morning that he was going to wear to work and chuck them from our living room out into our enclosed patio about 30 feet away. Why? I have no clue at all, frankly, but it was fun, and it was our little morning tradition. And my sister and I talked about the times when we would meet our dad at the local coffee shop (there was only one in town) before school each Thursday so we could get donut holes and see my dad (Thursdays were 25-cent donut hole days). Eventhough it was likely against court orders, it was something I loved doing and will always remember.

1996 rolled around and my sister and I went out to the grave again. Finally, the mound of dirt in front of his headstone was getting some nice thick grass on it. We cried some more because that dense, green grass reminded us exactly how long he'd been gone.

1997 came and went, and although we remembered to visit him, my sister and I were both busy doing things in school.

And then it happened. In the middle of June of '98 it dawned on me: we had forgotten altogether about Dad. I just sat in my room that day and bawled. I couldn't believe it. For 11 years, my father was all that mattered to me in life. And poof, just like that, I had forgotten about him. Some people have told me that it's just me "moving on" with my life. But that's not what I want. I don't want to "move on" if that means forgetting who my father is. For Pete's sake, all I needed to do was take a single day to remember my father. To say that I was embarassed is an understatement. I was furious with myself that I could just write off my father's legacy only 4 calendar years after his death.

And then in '99, I forgot what my dad sounded like. It sounds so silly, I'm sure. But your parents' voices are some of those things that should be hardwired into your brain by the time you're five years old. If you're sick at college, just hearing that ever-so-familiar voice over the phone is instantly soothing. But in '99, it becaume quite apparent that I didn't know what he used to sound like anymore, and I cried some more.

Embarassment is one of those things that has two motives, I think. It serves to shame you at first, but more importantly, it's a lesson to you. After the summers of '98 and '99, I started making a special note of that date so I can wake up and say a short prayer for my father. It's my own special way of remembering who he was, and who I hope to be.

Ferocious Fox 7

2005-07-15T22:07:00.000-07:00

Do you remember what you considered embarrassing in Jr. High and High school? I do.

Truth or dare? . . . Truth . . . What's your most embarrassing moment? . . . This one time my top fell off at the pool.

Embarrassing moments become less funny and more personal, or so I have found, as you become an adult. Embarrassing moments become humiliating moments.

*** *** ***

We walked into the airport. I was stiff and afraid; meanwhile, he seemed comfortable with his hand resting on my lower back the way it had a million times before. We approached the ticket counter to check me in,

"your bags are over weight" the woman informed us.

"It's fine," I felt like I had screamed but it came come a hushed whisper.

"Excuse me?"

"Just check them," I felt my voice crack as I thrust my card at her and at the same time I felt his hand press harder into my back. She took my credit card and did just that. I could have left the bags.

We walked toward security and he pulled me close against him. Kissing me hard, a good bye. He whispered in my ear, "I can still forgive you. Stay." I turned away and walked so slowly it hurt toward the security check point. I never looked back.

"You are going to have to take off the sunglasses," the security guard said. Unfeeling I pulled them off, and he dropped my ID. "Please don't say anything... Please God just let me through . . . He's right there," I prayed that my eyes conveyed how important it was that I get through the gate. It must have worked because I next remember walking through the metal detector. It beeped but no one stopped me. I died the moment I was on the other side.

I was four hours early for my flight. I pulled myself up the stairs and turned left to the coffee shop. I was shaking. "Venti non fat iced latte," my voice more than cracked, it broke. The woman made my drink and then told me the price. This time I dropped the card. My hands quaked so badly they wouldn't pick it up. She walked out from behind the counter and picked up my card, "don't worry about it". I couldn't say thank you.

I walked toward the gate. I knew I had started bleeding again. I could feel it under my tights. Half way down the hall I froze unable to take another step. The coffee cup slipped from my hand and I gave in. Panic slammed full force and I wept sucking in air as thought I had been trapped underwater for days. I didn't want to keep breathing.

There was no slow coming to terms, there was just the cliff that you fall off of when your adrenaline stops. Then there was pain. Not heart break pain, real pain. The kind of pain you feel when your jaw is out of its socket. The kind of pain you feel when you lift your skirt and see your thighs in a spectra of colors you've only seen in the blue section of crayon boxes. That kind of pain levels you. I remember that pain.

There was a beautiful black woman watching this happen. She ran over to me, "do you need help?" "Don't touch me," I screamed crawling away, "God please don't touch me." She sat down on the floor and pulled me into her lap. My whole body wracked with sobs I could no longer hold back. She held me and cooed, in a way that only a mother would know, until I calmed, "do you want me to call an ambulance, the police?" I started to panic again, "please no, I just want to go home." She nodded. I needed to go home.

She took me into the bathroom and helped me clean up. I remember her eyes brimming with tears, and then little else until I got off of the plane. The last thing she said to me as we parted company was "God loves you, he'll take care of you." I attempted a smile. I think you should know that God died 12 hours ago.

*** *** ***

What's the most embarrassing moment? None of what happened that day or even the night before. The most embarrassing moments I've ever experienced were the looks of pity. The 'oh you poor thing' moments. The reassurances that everything would be fine. Being pitied is the only thing I still believe to be truly embarrassing.

TKO Question #7

2005-07-15T18:21:00.000-07:00

TKO Question #7 [Personal]

What was the most embarassing moment of your life?

Post due by noon central time Sunday.

Updated Schedule

2005-07-15T18:15:00.000-07:00

TKO #7 post due by Sunday at noon CNT
Vote #7 due by noon Monday
TKO #8 post due by Wednesday at noon CNT
Vote #8 due by noon Thursday
TKO #9 post due by Saturday at noon CNT
Vote #9 due by noon Sunday

Wordy Woodpecker #6

2005-07-15T10:04:00.000-07:00

Let us not kid ourselves that Bush will appoint a moderate to aviod a firestorm. A pro-choice nominee would face the extreme wrath of the relegious base, and they are hungry. After Congress failed to intervene in the Terry case, many on the religous staked the Supreme Court as the final line; if the President blaks them here, they severly cut their number. What will actually happen to the court decisions will likely be rather small. Instead of O'Conner, the reigning swing vote will be Kennedy.

They call him Flipper, Flipper...

But the most important impact will be the partisan birth fest that will result, and the effects on 2006 and 2008. Assuming the nominee is Janice Brown, for the sake of arguement...

Instapundit will appectionatly link to a number of blog entries that accuse Democrats of racism with "Heh. Indeed.", but will instantly called liberals who call him out as shrill.

Ann Coulter will accuse liberals of trying to keep blacks "on the plantation" and when faced with angry comments in response, she will act like a victim and claim their anger makes them crazy and unable to debate.

Hugh Hewitt will claim that liberals are anti-Christain for opposing a justice that wants to incorporate the Bible into law.

David Limbaugh will take it a step further, comparing liberals to Nero for savage anti-Christain bigotry.

Move America Foward will act outraged that liberals are opposing the President... DURING WARTIME

Sean Hannity will argue that liberals shouldn't play politics with judical nominees by confirming her immediatly. Alan Colmes will meekly argee.

And all the while, the news media will claim that the Democrats are planning to "Bork" the nominee and will ask in online polls "Is it appropiate to Bork nominees, especially during wartime?"

I'm not bitter. No way.

Ferocious Fox 6

2005-07-15T10:03:00.000-07:00

For me nothing will change. I figure that Bush will appoint some closed-minded conservative and those of us who support liberal social issues (abortion, right to die, etc.) will feel ostracized. Welcome to Utah everyone.

Sassy Snake #6

2005-07-15T09:58:00.000-07:00

I like my Supreme Court Justices to be super heros.

Defenders of the weak and innocent, destroyers of bad precedent.

Sandra Day O’Conner was not a super hero. She made some good decisions (School District 47J v. Acton [even though she dissented}), and she made some horrible ones (Bush v. Gore to start). At least she wasn’t a master of the Dark side (think Rehnquist and Scalia here).

It’s just to bad that the overwhelming tendency of the Bush administration is to hire ideological conservatives who mask their activism behind the lie of strict construction. Its a good way to construct a force of super villians who are appointed for life, but it kinda sucks if you aren’t one the people that the founders deemed valuable.

When I fall asleep, Sandra issued decisions like Thurgood Marshall or William Brennan. But in the morning, she is still just Sandra . . . not the worst, but far from the best.

I’m just sad that her replacement will likely be far worse. One day, I hope the Supreme Court returns to its roots as the Justice League. Until then, lets just call them the empire.

Flippant Flamingo #6

2005-07-15T07:58:00.000-07:00

Sandra Day O’Connor has already been forgotten.

WHAT? You’re saying. But, but, but….

But here’s the deal ladies and gentlemen. Sandra Day O’Connor’s appointment was special mostly because she is a woman. She was a great justice, a swing vote, and is overall a wonderful person. When she was appointed, it was hailed as a keystone in the women’s rights movement.
Yet our government is still run, overwhelmingly, by White Anglo-Saxon Prodestants. 99% of the current discussion about a replacement goes along the lines of “if he appoints an ultra-conservative woman, there is no way the Democrats can say anything” or other such comments.
The fact is, Sandra Day O’Connor was one that wanted gender to be a non-issue, on the court or anywhere else. And yet we remember her for being the first woman. We ask if her replacement will be a woman. We (as in a large majority of Americans, and a large majority of the lawmakers) don’t remember her stint as a justice for what she would have wanted.

Therefore, Sandra Day O’Conner has already been forgotten.

How about the next Justice is chosen not on what’s between their legs, but what’s between their eyes?

Tenacious Tiger #6

2005-07-14T21:41:00.000-07:00

I could honestly care less about the resignation, appointments, deaths, assassinations, or "good hair days" of Supreme Court Justices. The law is nothing but politics. It is not an objective lens to cast fairness and truth among the masses. If justice is blind, we should have no questions about how Judge X's resignation would/could/should harm the rights of women, or bolster the agendas of environmental activists. Justice is not blind. In order to gain a seat, you must be friends of the Reds or the Blues. True legal fairness does not--nor will it likely ever--exist.

If the new Justice sways the court in a conservative favor, then not much will happen. Decisions may be handed down that reverse Roe, for instance. But along those lines, it will galvanize support and spur action against said decision. In five years time, Roe would likely be reinstated. Wash, rinse, repeat. The law is a pendulum. Pulling back the weight further and further merely guarantees a larger upswing on the other side.

It's just all a matter of when your life coincides with the upswing of your choice.

Daring Dragonfly #6

2005-07-14T20:36:00.000-07:00

Sandra Day O’Connor’s retirement is important for several reasons. First, she was the first woman appointed to the U.S. Supreme Court. A rather impressive achievement for a woman who, after graduating third in her class at Stanford, could only get a job as a legal secretary.

And yeah, she’s been a key swing vote in a lot of important 5-4 cases. But I’m sick of all the hysteria typified by such comments as “Ladies, get your abortions now.” The fact is, Roe isn’t going anywhere. Even Thomas, arguably the most conservative member of the Court, has said that they aren’t going to challenge the core holding of Roe. So let’s lay off the hysteria. The fact is, any of the key opinions of the last five or so years aren’t going anywhere. It’s just too soon. And Justice Kennedy is still around, and he’s been trending fairly liberal the last couple years.

The much more interesting question is, what’s going to happen with the Court. Since Chief Justice Rehnquist announced today that he isn’t going anywhere, there’s going to be huge pressure on President Bush to appoint a conservative. After all, he campaigned on appointing people like Thomas and Scalia. And with the Chief sticking around, there’s no compromise to be made. But at the same time, there’s a huge pressure to replace O’Connor with another woman. And that makes the pool much, much smaller. Priscilla Owens is out, because she just went through a messy confirmation, only getting through as part of the compromise.

The current front runner to replace O’Connor is Alberto Gonzales, although Bush is getting flack from his base because he’s pro-choice, and from the left over the Guantanamo Bay memos. Until the President makes his appointment, it’s going to be very hard to see which direction the Court will go in. But Roe is safe.

Creative Cardinal #6

2005-07-14T18:47:00.000-07:00

5-4 cases O'Connor was key in dealing with civil-rights law: http://www.aclu.org/court/court.cfm?ID=18623&c=286

My money is on the Ediths, but my friend is certain it'll be Lutwig or Gonzales. I nominate my Star Wars Stormtrooper pez-dispenser. It'd probably use logic that's easier to follow than the twists our Court sometimes applies now.

Reasonable Doubt
Don't rage against the jackal-bellied white man-god spewing hate.
There's only one thing to do for our nation and that is slither on twined, fiery bellies,
Begging that the law not be strangled in five, clawed hands.
Ash-mud fills their white corridors and my mouth is full of dust while I'm crying.
It's all crumbling wrong. It seems like there should have been another way.

Where were you when the sky fell down? Where were you when fine print filled our rivers with cyanide?
The blood of the martyrs flows down the black robes of the gavel-crowned
The blood of the babies who coughed and flickered and died.
They never meant to leave our sky yellow and flat like old newspaper,
They never meant to close our polling machines to only the rich and the white.
They never meant to deny anyone the ability to open yawning lips
But somehow, our constitution flew out the window
A frail paper crane.

In liberty, we refuse to be packmules for your babies.
In liberty, we refuse to let HMOs dictate our death.
In liberty, we made democracy into government by the people
Their skin the color of splintered rainbows, hands stretched into the sun.

Do you remember when we freed the detainees from their chains?
Lifting the locksmith and demanding a dawn?
Do you remember the cracking knuckles of the executioner who was stopped
In the precise moment the black, handicapped boy was going to die?
Long ago, we sang when our gay sisters and brothers finally raised babies
But now we spit at a moon's sniggering pus.
And you tell me that this doesn't matter. That all of these topics pale in comparison to who Paris Hilton fucked last.
Forgive me if I am less than intrigued.

There is some hope, at least, because the faithful will linger
Raising frail and free candles to hold back the night.
The shelter of voices trembling with emotion
We will not be brought down by the likes of you.

Precious Panda # 6

2005-07-13T14:03:00.000-07:00

Thinking out of the box

I think Dubya will nominate some Butterbean look alike and that not a whole lot will change as a result. Sandra D. was one of six votes to preserve Roe in Casey, so abortions will still be safe. Most other big decisions lately except for Lawrence went conservative on 5-4’s anyway, so I really don’t think her resignation will have as big of an effect as many fear. That said, I have some suggestions for nominees who would make up for in hilarity what they lack in legal knowledge:

1) One of those really smart Apes that Jane Goodall taught to use sign language

Advantages: Every time Scalia references another justice in an opinion, she could be trained to hurl her own shit at him. The opinions of Justice Coco would be shorter than the average Thomas concurring, consisting mostly of “thank you” and “cookie.”

Disadvantages: Holding a gavel would be awkward.

Things to consider: How she’ll fit into a robe, whether or not constantly stroking her doll would get in the way of hearing cases, where her tire swing would fit in the court room.

2) Roberto Mendoza

Advantages: Easy and quick confirmation. Everybody loves The West Wing! Get ready for a privacy rights bonanza with Mendoza on the bench!

Disadvantages: Mendoza has a bit of a temper and could fly off the handle and beat the bejesus out of poor old Rehnquist should a discussion become heated.

Things to consider: How he will wind down after a controversial ruling given his physical inability to drink alcohol. If he could balance his duel role as Selena’s father and Supreme Court Justice.

3) Gizmo from the “Gremlins” series

Advantages: He could hum his opinions in that really soft, melodic tune. Justice Gizmo could also fire matchstick arrows at Stevens with his paperclip bow.

Disadvantages: What if he got wet? What is he was exposed to sunlight? What if somebody fed him after midnight? If you think about it, isn’t it always after midnight someplace? Does that mean that little Gizmo has NEVER EATEN ANYTHING? I’m not so sure an anorexic Gremlin is the sort of role model our children need on the bench these days.

Things to consider: Gizmo is small enough to be fired out of a potato gun.

TKO Question #6

2005-07-12T12:04:00.000-07:00

TKO Question #6 [Political]

How important is Sandra Day O'Connor's resignation? What's going to happen now with the Supreme Court?

Remember, while this post is indended to be political/social commentary, any format of answer is acceptable.

Post by Friday at noon. Do not begin posting until Wednesday at 2:00 PM.

Ferocious Fox #5

2005-07-12T11:45:00.000-07:00

Her eyes were swollen and his voice was amused.

"You know it is supposed to be fun?" he said.

"I know that, but I am so frustrated," she replied, "everyone is better than me and I can't think of anything. I am going to look stupid."

"L, you will not look stupid and even if you did . . . No one will care."

Sniffling she answered, "but I care. I was so excited for this and Marie works so hard to run it. I feel like I'm letting people down. I just can't think of anything to write this week."

She lit a cigarette and curled up on the park bench leaning in to the phone. "So how's the hurricane?"

Giddy Giraffee #5

2005-07-12T09:54:00.001-07:00

Her eyes were swollen and his knees were starting to shake struggling to hold his weight. The water they had been forced to drink all day was retained in the body, giving both contestants a puffy slightly marshmallow look. It was obvious that fatigue was finally setting in. It would only be a short matter of time, before one of them cracked. The only question was who would go down first.

The rules of the game had been simple. The last contestant to let go of the car, got to drive it home. The game had started early that morning with 25 contestants. Throughout the day they had been submitted to the torture of cups of water, no bathroom breaks and polka music. Gradually people started to let go. Some from boredom, some from hunger and as the hours passed, some from no longer having the physical strength to stay standing.

After nine long hours the game had finally been narrowed down to the final two. The torture techniques had been halted, nature was taking it course. Eventually one of them would cave to the pressure of the bladder, or the ache of the stomach or the burn of the muscles. It had become a battle of the sexes, male against female, who could handle the pain.

The last two hours had been marked with a resolved silence. The loud tick of the moderator’s clock, counting the minutes by echoed in the air. The pair had just stared at each other, she would give him the evil eye and he would reply with a cocky little wink. When the silence was finally broken it was done in a sing song, childish fighting kind of tone.

“You should just give up, ya know. I could go on like this forever.” He gave her another stare down and continued, “No point in sticking around if your just going to loose.”

She just shook her head and sweetly smiled at her reflection in the passenger mirror.

Another hour passed by.

“Ah ha” he shouted. “I can see it in your face, your about it give up. Might as well no way your going to win.”

Again no reply from the lady, only a smirk that would put Mona Lisa to shame.

Another hour slowly dragged by.
And then another.

Both contestants could no longer keep their eyes open. Their legs were screaming to sit down. He was determined to out last a female and she was determined to win. When the moderator announced they had just passed the 13th hour mark, He broke down.

“Fine” he huffed, his voice laced with exhaustion. “You win. I can’t take it anymore. Let’s just go home.” His hand dropped from the hood of the car and he took a step back.

With her remaining strength she raised her arms into a victory pose. She proudly strutted to the other side of the car and wrapped her arms around her defeated husband. “Oh sweetie,” she cooed, “look at the beautiful car I just won.”

He just looked at her, too tired to talk back. Too tired to care and almost too tired to ask, “Darling, I don’t understand it, how can you possibly have the strength to survive this?” Rolling her eyes she gently kissed her competitor on the cheek.

“Honey you forget, I’ve given birth to three children. I can do anything.”

Creative Cardinal #5

2005-07-12T09:54:00.000-07:00

Death on the Drina

Gorazde, Bosnia. May 22, 1992

Her eyes were swollen and his hands tried to cover them but the whites just seemed to bulge out around his fingers. My mind told me that it wasn’t possible, that it was just a trick of the light because his hands were shaking so hard. That didn’t change the fact that it looked like the eyeballs could explode. So white. I didn’t even know eyes could look that way. Empty. Whitewhitewhite.

This is my mother, I tried to tell myself, but it was like trying to tell myself that rain is made of cheese. I couldn’t reconcile her manicured nails resting gently against our kitchen tiles, her black hair sliding out like a shimmering oil slick against a blue-eyed ocean… I couldn’t reconcile that image with this pale apparition, this pitiful corpse. All the grace was gone from her now. She was never dance to The Beatles again. This is my mother, I thought, not believing it. She’s dead. My father is trying to shut her eyes and failing.

He shook himself slightly, as if trying to remember where he was. Blood still flowed from her skull even if her heart had forgotten how to beat. I tried not to think too much about the pink and gray pieces smeared across my father’s blue jeans. He bowed over her body, lowering her to the ground as if she was made of glass. As always, he answered my thoughts. “I know she can’t feel anything,” his throat was making a strange rasping sound. “I know it doesn’t make any sense. But…”

“Shh,” I told him. I closed my eyes. “This isn’t a day for sense.”

I hadn’t believed the refugees. Everyone knew that they were driven mad by gunpowder. They told me that the chetniks made a grandfather eat his own grandson’s liver at gunpoint. The other girls told me about bloated bodies floating down the Drina from Foca, their castrated, limbless bodies tangling with the weeds. My father never let me go down to the river and so I had never quite believed it. “You’re too young,” he whispered. I didn’t know if he was talking to my mother or me.

“Not too young for some.” I knew what happened to girls caught by the chetniks. There was a cold feeling in the pit my stomach. “I don’t want to die, daddy.”

My father shook himself. “We must get to the river.” He hesitated for a moment. The tears followed the crevasses of his face, dripping down to mix with his wife’s red blood. “You won’t die, Sudija.” He was trying to sound certain for my sake. The sniper bullets struck the stone corner with showers of plaster, booming like fireworks, and we cowered behind the buildings. I thought about the refugee woman who had taken shelter in our basement. She wouldn’t come out, and whenever she spoke her wrists clenched and she rocked back and forth. “They cut out his eyes,” she whispered, trying to grab my collar but never really looking at me. “Why didn’t they kill me, too?” She was probably still there, curled deep in her own filth.

“I won’t let them catch me alive, father,” I told him. He nodded slowly and pointed to a kitchen knife which mother had taken. It wasn’t much of a weapon, more like a talisman that she had grabbed off the kitchen counter when the shelling started. He held it like a sacred relic before sliding it in his belt.

“We just have to get to the river,” he repeated. “We’ll be safe there, I’m sure. If we stay here, we die. If we die, better to die on our feet and running.”

I didn’t remind him that the Drina was where they dumped the bodies in Foca. It didn’t remind him about the stories of the Chetnik armies, waiting to slit truckloads of refugee’s throats on the bridges.

My father took my hand. “Come on.” His mitten was warm and sticky. And we ran.

The street was empty. Tall, shattered buildings rose beside us like scabbed tombstones, bare and burned. I remember later that the foreign reporters and their t.v. cameras wanted natives to show them damaged buildings. The villagers just laughed coldly, pointing all directions at once. Laughter like ice.

Yes, I remember…

The moment froze, a stain on cold air. For an instant, I was falling forward. The muscles in my right hand snapped, making a sick, melon-cracking sound. I cried out, my bare fists slamming the pavement, my body jerking as I fell face-down in the dirt.

Snipers. The rain had finally broken and the dust became the mud. Maybe they’ll go away if it’s raining.

My hand… I let myself look down the fingers that had gripped my father’s just a moment before. I couldn’t even feel any pain, but I looked away quickly. Damp spots. Bones splayed in jagged directions. You wouldn’t think that hands could look like that, you wouldn’t think the laws of nature would let them.

The cold numbness was half from that, half from seeing my father lying bent on the ground. Wouldn’t the Chetniks be happy? Two Muslims with one bullet? My father was still breathing, his eyes twitching, agitated. Blood oozed out around the tail of his shirt. I didn’t think the wound was fatal but he was pale as a sheet and his teeth clenched twice.

“Go,” he hissed at me. “Go on. Don’t worry about me.” One bloody hand held out that kitchen knife, the one my mother had grabbed right before we ran into the night. In the lightning, it suddenly looked like one of the chetnik’s crosses.

“Father, you’ve got to get up,” I whispered to him. I crawled on my belly over the tracks of artillery, the scars the shape of bear-paws crushing stone. “Father, I can’t make it alone.”

There was another crack and plaster chips flew by my left ear. I couldn’t help screaming. Men laughed on the hilltops, their jackal cries blending with thunder. “Father…”

The knife flew the few feet between us, landing in the dirt. The handle was smeared with the blood of both my parents and I wanted to vomit until my stomach was clean again. I wanted to vomit for the grandfather who had to eat his grandson’s liver, vomit for the little girl who had a bullet pulled out of her forehead without any anesthetic, vomit for the greasy stains on my father’s blue jeans. Vomit for the blue in my mother’s eyes.

“Run, Sudija,” my father whispered, his hand still outstretched. “Fly away, little bird. Don’t let them have you.” Another bullet cracked by my elbow, slamming pavement. I was whimpering worse than the refugees ever had.

God help me, I ran.

Flippant Flamingo #5

2005-07-12T09:26:00.000-07:00

In memory

Her eyes were swollen and his fist was red. You looked from one to the other, but didn’t want to say anything. After all, you were just the bank teller behind the glass.

Her cheek was bruised and his face was scratched. You noticed both, but didn’t ask about it. You’re just the police officer called to deal with the fender-bender.

Her nose was broken and his arm was bruised. You couldn’t ask, because company policy states that you “never get involved.”

Her eyes were shouting for help and his burned with hatred. You looked down to count their change into his hand.

Her frame got thinner and thinner, while his continued to grow. You told her she needs to take better care of him, make him happy, because your religion says the marriage always comes first.

Her belly got larger, and his shouting calmed. You were the product of his hate, but she loved you all the more for your innocence.

Her screams of pain drowned out his insistent questions. You give her the painkillers, and coax her through delivery, because he won’t come near her.

Her breasts are sore from breastfeeding; while he approaches the crib with a look of tenderness you imagine he gives her every morning, you're just the nurse watching over their baby.

Her scars aren’t healing correctly and his smile gets bigger every day. You ask her about them, because it’s your job, but accept the excuse she gives you.

Her stomach contracts in pain and his eyes are only for the baby. You don’t see her run outside to throw up because you’ve learned to ignore “that couple next door.”

Her face is serene with perfect makeup and his eyes have a tinge of red. You hear him whisper in the baby’s ear “I love you, and your mother never did.”

You finally speak up.

Wordy Woodpecker #5

2005-07-12T09:03:00.000-07:00

Her eyes were swollen and his hands were trembling, as Felix’s heart was filled with revulsion toward both himself and Alexia, the school’s social queen, as all the kids on the recess playground turned to stare at him and the scene he had created.

The ensuing brief moment of silence was all the time Felix needed to fully recognize the scorn directed by all toward him. He was being judged for this moment is isolation of all others. He still felt the sting on his fist and the sting from Alexia’s revelations. But this was of no matter to him at this moment. He was a disgusting monster who physically attacked a girl’s on the provocation of words. Just words. To himself, he was now a disgusting thug.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me.

Felix soon found himself sitting in front of the middle aged principal. A slender man who always took pains to dress as well as possible, the principal, Mr. Dawson, could nonetheless make students tremble with his scowl. Mr. Dawson was normally a kind hearted fellow, which made is scowls every so much more guilt inducing. And Felix faced that scowl as he tried to explain his actions. But it was for naught, for as soon as Felix uttered the words “she said”, he was cut off. That was enough information for Mr. Dawson to condemn him.

“What she said is irrelevant. How…dare…. you assault someone. Can’t you remember that…

Felix didn’t have to listen to what Mr. Dawson said after that. He already knew what was coming.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me.

As Felix lied in his bed, he could not help remembering the irrelevant words of Alexia. She had gone to those Felix considered friends, and threatened complete social isolation if they did not stop associating with me. And given her status in the school, these threats were credible. Felix could not forget that wicked smile as Alexia revealed what she had done, promising that he would soon have no friends. He could not get that smug grin out of his mind. But he was the worse person. He was the brute that threw the punch.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me.

The next morning, Felix really didn’t want to go to school, but he had to. He soon learned what was the story that every other student had heard. Supposedly, he had asked Alexia to be his girlfriend and punched her when she refused. He didn’t bother trying to expose the lie; he knew he had no credibility left. True to Alexia’s promise, he had lost his friends, and his chances at making more.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can more than hurt me.
They destroy.

Sassy Snake #5

2005-07-11T20:09:00.000-07:00

Her eyes were swollen and his back was covered in bloody scratches. The sex had been fantastic.

Daring Dragonfly 5

2005-07-11T19:55:00.000-07:00

Her eyes were swollen and his heart went out to her. Her she was, at her best friend’s wedding, and yet she couldn’t help but cry. She tried to hide in the corner, but he found her anyway. He had seen her earlier, when the bridal party was having their pictures taken. Even then, amid all the smiles, she seemed sad. The smile hadn’t quite reached her eyes. And so, he slowly approached her.

“Excuse me, Megan?”

She looked up. “Yes?”

“Hi, my name’s Ted. I noticed you earlier.” God, that sounded so lame. “Why are you crying?”

She sniffed a bit and used a napkin to wipe her eyes and nose. “It’s just….I mean, I’m happy for Julia, and all, but…..” She trailed off.

“But you wish it was you.” It was half a question, half a statement. She just nodded in response. “That’s okay, Megan. It’s natural. I’ve been to tons of weddings and all the single girls feel that way to some extent. Ever heard the expression ‘Always the bridesmaid….’?”

She smiled a bit. “Yeah. It’s just so tough. Julia, me and the other girls are all best friends. Have been for ages. And now, I’m the only one left without a husband. Do you know what it’s like to see everyone get married, but never be up there yourself?”

He chuckled a bit, holding up his left hand. “You see a ring on this finger? And if you think you’ve been to a lot of weddings….” He let his voice trail off.

Megan blushed. “Oh that’s right….you’re a wedding photographer. I forgot.” She giggled a bit.

He grinned. “Yeah. So don’t you tell me about watching other people get married. I do it for a living.” He offered her his hand. “Now come out of that corner. You’re needed on the dance floor.”

Megan hurried out with the other girls to gather at one end of the dance floor. Julia, the bride, was making her way to the opposite end, the bouquet held tightly. She turned around as the DJ counted. “One…..two….three!” The bouquet went flying through the air, and so did Megan. They came down together, and Megan’s eyes shone with a light that had been missing earlier. Ted smiled and dazzled her with the flash from his camera. As he walked by her, on his way to shoot pictures of the groom removing Julia’s garter he whispered “Well, I guess you’re not always the bridesmaid….”

Tenacious Tiger #5

2005-07-11T17:59:00.000-07:00

An Alternate Reality

Her eyes were swollen and his voice was sharp, focused, and vengeful. Years of infidelity came spewing from the mouth of the man she thought she loved.

"I fucked a flight attendant when I went on that business trip to Vail back in '96, and she was better than you could ever hope to be."

The room started spinning and she just kept thinking to herself, "who is this monster?" Back at NYU, her friends always warned her that she couldn't change him. She just took it in stride. "The only reason they would say things like that are because they're jealous of us," she would say to herself so often that it practically became her personal motto.

"And oh yeah, at that costume party back on campus in '92, your old roommate and I fucked in the bathroom while you were dealing with Cindy vomiting on the floor in the next room."

Cindy had been in their wedding and was one of her closest friends at school. She cried even more now as it became aware that her life had been some cheap reality television experiment and she wasn't aware she was being filmed. "How many people knew about this behind my back," she kept asking herself.

"That one time you went back to your uncle's funeral, I spent the whole weekend in our apartment together with the bartender from down the street."

"You've got to be kidding me," she said as it became aware that she could trust no one in this city. Suddenly she felt alone. She moved to this city for him. She gave up on friendships and relationships elsewhere all because she loved him; all because she thought he loved her. Even their neighborhood bar was in on the secret. "They must think I'm an idiot, aloof to what was going on behind my back," she thought. She didn't know who to trust; she didn't know anyone's phone numbers to call ; she didn't know who to turn to. Her life revolved around him and he demanded her full commitment.

She was so alone. No friends. No family. Her heart was aching with the pain of the lies and the depths of the newly found emptiness.

In one swift movement, she whispered "Lord protect me" and stepped off the ledge.

Precious Panda # 5

2005-07-09T10:12:00.000-07:00

The Road Not Taken

Her eyes were swollen and his arm was in a sling, but all Rob Layne could think about as he stared at the two teenagers in his office was how long the Momba would be out of commission.

“That’s what you get for screwing around on the tallest and fastest rollercoaster in the Midwest,” he said in his somber and authoritative voice. Even when lecturing his employees, Rob still managed to sound like a commercial. “That sort of behavior isn’t something we endorse here at Worlds of Fun. We’re going to have to let you both go. Don’t worry though, assholes like you will fit right in at Six Flags, so something tells me you won’t be out of jobs for long. Now GET OUT.”

As the teary-eyed teens were leaving, Rob was reminded of his own tearful exit from something he loved seven years earlier. It was then that he left the world of forensics that had been his home for over a decade to pursue a career as a Worlds of Fun Theme Park executive full time. Swiveling around in his Italian leather chair, Rob looked at all of the pictures hanging on the wall and took stock of his life.

He knew he was what the world considered to be a phenomenally successful person. When he returned to Missouri seven years before, Rob quickly demonstrated the initiative and creativity that ensured his fast rise in the Worlds of Fun Corporation. His “Spinning Dragons in Spin-City” project—building three rollercoasters in Central Park and one on top of Madison Square Garden—made the company billions. Now President of all North American and Southeast Asian parks, Rob made roughly five million dollars annually and he was only 33 years old. Add to that his partner of over six years Kenny Chesney, whom Rob has “turned” shortly after moving back to Missouri, and he was a pretty happy camper.

Still, Rob couldn’t help but feel that he was missing something from his former life. Sure, he had money and cars and a 55th level Paladin on World of Warcraft, but part of him secretly longed to be back in the debate community. Sometimes, when he would look into the eyes of his country music singing beau who was hot enough to make his teeth sweat, Rob wished he could get up at 4:30 in the morning and drive a 15-passenger van to some Godforsaken hole in the wall town and listen to poorly structured inherency arguments all day. As Rob walked over to the bar in his office and poured himself a drink, he realized that he really missed all of the goofy bastards that he coached and wondered aloud what might have been had he not chosen his current profession.

For a moment, he regretted the choice he made. But only for a moment. Whistling the tune to “Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy,” Rob picked up his drink and headed back towards his desk.

Earnest Elephant #5

2005-07-09T02:06:00.000-07:00

Her eyes were swollen and his watched her heart break. Sitting in a parking lot next to the house that was home to so much of their love, she spilled out her heart. Reasons she loved, reasons she hurt, reasons her heart was shattering. There's no pain more real than a broken heart. She felt stupid for loving his snoring at night, so loud sometimes she couldn't sleep. Felt stupid for loving his inability to carry a tune, and how he loved to sing anyway. The girl with swollen eyes and a broken heart hates to cry in cars. It's too much of a reminder of pain; it bears thoughts of cancer, a first love lost, a second love lost.

For a moment she flashes back to a different parking lot, lit by a neon blue cross. The night was like some twisted confessional where the priest was a past love, and her sins were caring too much. There, in that car, she realized what it meant, what it felt like, to be alone. Scared of the future, of the lump in her mother's breast, she clung desperately to his arm and cried, but truly sat there alone.

Now, here, in this car, her eyes were swollen and his eyes were searching for a cure to the pain. Too young to love, they sat separated by the one thing that kept them clinging to one another. He thought of nights when he held her in his arms and the rest of the world faded away. Long bus trips by her side, they'd write secrets to one another on a pad of paper or her new laptop. He still loved the way she looked in that glow. The only thing he hated was how she looked when she cried and how it broke his heart.

He never thought he'd feel this way again. Sitting in this car, he identified her feelings. Searching her eyes as she purged her love, he remembered. He didn't like cars either. It made him think of a backseat, and a face he'd never forget. Of how he'd sold his soul to her that night, a sale with no return.

Back in the car, her eyes were swollen and his guilt was painted all over his face. As she sat in the driver's seat, her hands upon the wheel, she thought back to the loving things he'd said. She could picture in her mind a note from the bus where he confessed

"I don't think that I would make it for very long right now without you. Even more than the fact that I couldn't, I wouldn't want to. I refuse to attempt to imagine what I would be like not to be able to walk up behind you and wrap my arms around you and kiss your neck. It would make life virtually unlivable. I want to be with you, and only you, and from now on, and for as long as I can be with you I want to be with you. I love you."

thinking of that moment started the tears all over again.

And there they sat. Her eyes were swollen and his love was lost, to a list of things he needed to accomplish before love was really an option. He got out of the car and watched her drive away. Knowing she'd be losing sleep tonight, he climbed the stairs to his bedroom and went to bed alone. Waiting for his roommates to fall asleep, he pulled his comforter over his head and layed alone with his thoughts.

And now his eyes were swollen and her image was imprinted on his mind.

TKO Question #5

2005-07-08T09:54:00.000-07:00

TKO Question #5 [Fiction]

"Her eyes were swollen and his ..."

Use that as the start of your post. Go from there as you please.

Do not begin posting until tommorow at noon. The post is due by noon on Tuesday. This is a schedule change because I will be in route to Hawaii on Monday. I REPEAT. Do not start until noon tommorow (which is when the vote is over) and post before NOON CENTRAL on Tuesday.
Happy writing! PS: I know this is harder, but you all made the first cut and are quite talented. You also have four full days to think and write.

Wordy Woodpecker #4

2005-07-08T09:46:00.000-07:00

It has often been said you can’t fully understand what is truly valuable until you have experienced a time without what is valuable. Having been somewhat of a loner in years past, I can understand how each of the little things involved with being in someone’s company is truly valuable. Being with a friend does not make a meal any tastier, a movie’s actors perform any better, and coffee doesn’t get any tastier or more caffeinated with a friend. Yet we feel compelled to perform these actions with a friend or acquaintance. Why is this the case?

One of the major “little things” I enjoy with others is the verification of thoughts. Consider a comedy club. When you are among the crowd, even the tamest of jokes tends to get you laughing. But if you are alone watching the performance on TV, you find yourself laughing only at the funniest of jokes. The performance of the comedian is the exact same, but I would find myself clearly having a better time at the comedy club itself. When in the company of other people, every small laugh verifies the thought in my head that the joke was funny and makes me less likely to be embarrassed at laughing at a “cheesy” joke. Sure, one can say this is irrational, but this is an irrationality built into our subconscious. And instead of shunning the unavoidable irrationality, one should embrace it and greater enjoy the little things. Moreover, the verification of thoughts can act as a great salve to frustration over events past. To know that others have gone through what you have puts your predicament into perspective, and allows you to realize that you aren’t alone, in more than one sense.

Another “little thing” I enjoy with others is a sort of mutual happiness. For some reason, observing people happy tends to make oneself happy. Especially when I know that I have caused the happiness, I just feel good. As they say, smiles are contagious. As a nonbeliever, I do not believe that I will be rewarded by my good acts by being sent to heaven; in fact, if there was a heaven and hell, I would be most likely sent to hell for being a dirty atheist. Or maybe purgatory, aka God’s version of the bureaucratic DMV which makes hell seem like a nice place. So it certainly is irrational that I would feel happiness for bringing happiness to others, but I do. And much like for the verification of thoughts, this unavoidable irrationality is not to be shunned, but embraced.

For many years, I demanded of myself that I would be purely rational. Since the movie remains unchanged regardless of who I bring, what should I go along with anybody? But then I realized by cold calculations forgot the irrational, but important, positive feelings associated with being in someone’s company. And to try to ignore these feelings is, in a word, irrational.

Giddy Giraffee #4

2005-07-08T08:56:00.000-07:00

I have 488 little “things” that make my life happy. Mind you 488 is an approximate number, but the official count has to be pretty close. If the doctor’s calculations were correct I have a +/- 4% buffer zone.

I lost skin pigmentation on the front part of my lower abdomen when I was 13. The area affected stretches from hip to hip and at the largest point is about three inches tall and at the shortest maybe a half inch. This area was completely albino white, until about 3 years ago when I started taking medication and skin pigmentation began to slowly return. My pigmentation returned in a spotted, dotted, speckled – insert adjective of personal preference – pattern. Simply put these tiny little things, these spots make me smile, but it hasn’t always been the case.

I used to be mortified of my markings. Any situation that makes a 13 year old pull her pants down repeatedly in the doctor’s office can be a hard thing to handle. Combine that with the fact that my mother gave permission to have my condition photographed for research and you might be able to grasp the intensity of my spot complex. I refused to wear a two piece swimsuit, low cut jeans were out of the question, and on several attempts I bought fleshed colored markers to see if I could fix the problem myself.

Surprise, Surprise, makers didn’t work, and gradually I came to accept the fact that my spots were permanent. (unlike the promise on the marker package.) For the most part, I did a good job at hiding my disfigurement. These few inches became completely taboo, no one got to see them and absolutely no one got to touch them.

The first time I realized I couldn’t hide forever was about a year ago. I was with a guy who was very special to me, as our relationship grew, I knew that eventually my shirt would come off. My spots would be exposed and I was certain that this meant the end of our make out sessions, dooming me to a life of being a virgin forever, in which no one would find me physically attractive, eventually leading to death- alone, bitter and spotted.

When the moment finally came I laid back on the bed and asked if I could show him what I was so afraid of. Dramatically I revealed my forbidden 3 inches. After what felt like and eternity of silence, I slowly opened my eyes. What I didn’t see was a look of disgust, I didn’t hear was a shriek of terror, he was smiling and from what I could tell laughing slightly on the inside. Slowly he leaded over and tenderly kissed my spots.

His acceptance of my greatest insecurity was life altering. Following his example I gradually came to accept me. After I worked on loving my spots, I moved to my thighs and then my elbows. My body never changed my attitude did. Physically I’m not perfect by any means, but when I was finally able to loose the chains of insecurity and release the weight of anxiety, I became happy.

I am a unique, exciting, beautiful person. My tiny little spots are a manifestation of this. For the first time ever I am a proud owner of a two piece swimsuit. If you see me at the pool this summer notice my smile, then look a little closer, if your lucky you’ll be able to see my spots.

Flippant Flamingo #4

2005-07-08T08:52:00.000-07:00

Cellulite. The radio is screaming at me that cellulite is the “unattractive lumpy-appearing fat that gathers around YOUR thighs, hips, and butt!”

“Yup cellulite is definitely a check” I think, turning around in the mirror. “Thighs, check. Hips, check. Butt, double check.”

This has become a morning ritual- no matter how tired, how bleary-eyed, how depressed I feel, I force myself to stand in front of this mirror for at least five minutes, completely naked and without reserve.

My breasts, well, they are a shape Vogue would definitely not approve of. I came to terms with this yesterday, along with the scars from years of self-hate that crisscross them in a checkerboard pattern. I’ll deal with those tomorrow.

Last week, it was my neck and ears (newly pierced, after I could handle drawing that much attention to my face). I tried to come to terms with my nose, round as it is, but just couldn’t bring myself to do that. Luckily, my eyes don’t need anything except the contacts. I like my eyes. They change color, from hazel to green to brown. My eyes, uneven as they are, are my best feature. I think.

My feet, which a friend once called “Hobbit Feet” are… well, I can’t really change what they are. They’re big, they’re slightly wider than normal, and they take the brunt of my everyday abuse. No problems there, except for buying dress shoes.

This is what I do every morning. I have for the past month, and will for the next year. Why? Because I am happy with who I am. Every roll of cellulite, every bit of extra padding, every inappropriatebulge, the “extra curvy” parts of myself make me smile. The advertisers will never put me on the front page. There are plenty of men and women who look at me and think to themselves “thank god I never let myself go like that!” but after 20 years of hating who I am, taking every new pill possible, restricting what I ate down to mere 100 calories a day, and binging on 10,000 a day, I have decided I’ve had enough.
This, this is what makes me happy. What makes me smile in the morning. The knowledge that others don’t see this about me- that I deconstruct every small imperfection, because I know it is those imperfections that make me beautiful.

Benign Butterfly #4

2005-07-08T08:43:00.000-07:00

The warm wriggling baby in my arms that coos my name (at least tries, "butt'fly")...The little girl with sunset red hair and skinny arms eating homemade doughnuts with me in her kitchen...The smoking auto mechanic who wears too much CK-One and took me to high school prom...The girl with the bright eyes and a funky sense of style that wrote me notes on cute stationary...My square dancing partner for Grandparent's Day with eyes the color of an ocean bay that politely dosy-doed me...The beautiful woman who can always make me smile but doesn't know she's gorgeous behind the layers that depression built...The charming rogue who taught me to play video games...The sex-on-the-stick girl who flirted with everyone without even speaking...My father silently fixing my car at 3 AM without a complaint...The indie boy with the curly hair who promises to play for me

The hundreds of people in my life who've shared their love with me...They are the simple things that make me happy and make an everlasting imprint on my heart. It's funny; Life makes you leave some people behind but your memory never will.

Brainy Badger #4

2005-07-08T05:16:00.000-07:00

Pfizer up 3.25 -- SELL. Sell 10000 shares of McDonalds short, Geoffrey hinted at a bad profit report coming. Wal-Mart's cracking the Brazil market, recommend moving it to a Buy/Hold.

Sharon wants to go up to the lake this weekend, says she has something important to tell me. Do I have time? And she's so moody, dammit. Doesn't she understand? Jeez, if I can just make a couple more big hits, I'll get promoted and not have to work the fucking Pit anymore.

Takeover rumor for NWA, swtich it to Hold and see if it kicks up. Wait, American Airlines thinks it can pull that one off? No way, not enough cash reserves and stock value shaky. And the regulators would have a moose. NWA still a Sell.

Sharon thinks I spend too much time in the Pit. She thinks I enjoy it. Gotten it all wrong, as usual. The Pit is for money, nothing more. Get the money, get out of the Pit, simple as that. Then spend more time at the lake, if that's what she wants, whatever. Maybe even be able to afford that lake house. Or maybe we can flip it -- cash out quick for a easy 100k.

Toys-R-Us down 2.15 -- damn yuppies stopped having kids, along with everyone else -- Sell. Raytheon's got yet another big contract, Buy. Cenex hit by refinery fire, Sell -- wait, BP-Amoco is going to make a buy-out offer -- HOLD.

She keeps talking about starting a family. Yeah, that would be nice, but who the hell has time? Geoffry is only going to promote one fucking person out of all 67 of us. This Pit's too fucking crowded, I gotta take a breather and hit Starbucks in a second. Shit, I'll just stop in Saturday morning and work the exotics in the Russian market, or maybe India. That should impress Geoffrey. Ah fuck, that means we'll have to put off the lake. Sharon will just have to understand that its really for her.

Medtronics up 1.40, increased medical equipment sales -- the bright side of ageing boomers -- Hold. Disney down 4 -- Eisner's such a fuck-up -- Sell...

Sassy Snake #4

2005-07-08T05:13:00.000-07:00

In the orchestra of dysfunction that is humanity, I’ll be damned if I’m going to play second chair.

I have this theory that everything is ridiculous. It starts at a five. And it only goes up. And there is no upper limit. Every situation is ri-god-damn-diculous. Some people are disturbed by this theory. And they should be. I laugh at inappropriate times, at inappropriate things. Most of the time, it hurts to bad to do anything else.

I’ve been well trained. Terrorism, Dave Chappell, Tsunami’s, Monkey’s, Earthquakes, the Special Olympics- preferably with shiny graphics- is just another thing to consume. Pain is the new diamond, and who doesn’t like diamonds. Fox News is disaster porn. And everyone slows down for car accidents. Someone might be, like, totally dead.

The pain isn’t the funny part, it’s the reaction that is really hilarious. If our buildings fall down, we bomb Afghan weddings (they aren’t the target, just “collateral damage”). When someone is critical of your administration, you reveal that their wife is a CIA operative (but certainly not “knowingly,” that would just be malicious [or a crime, but I'm not cynical]).

Being serious, is sooooo last decade. We are the hip internet savvy masses of the future. Our disaster porn is more real and immediate than anyone else’s. And it’s ridiculous. So why not laugh.

It’s true that I have some serious problems. But in this orchestra of dysfunction, who wants to play second chair?

Earnest Elephant #4

2005-07-08T00:31:00.000-07:00

waking up
falling asleep
laughing
cooking
smiling
drinking
eating
crying
mourning
greiving
playing
sitting
talking
not talking
contemplating
looking
singing
driving
riding
watching
learning
next to you.
with you.
at you.
near you.
you.
loving you.
just that simple
period.

Daunting Dolphin #4

2005-07-07T22:09:00.000-07:00

Happiness is loving your job

I have loved them all, each in my own way. No one can buy love. But at least you can rent it from me and the others like me. We exist on the fringes of society- not illegal in this day and age, just illicit. After all, with so many people crowding this planet, there will be enough people offering this service to band together and protect each other. It’s advantageous for everyone to just make it legal. It’s a public service, when looked at rationally. Overpopulation and crowding demands operations like mine; it gives people hope that a slightly better future could exist.

We exist in the little black and white photographs in the back pages of certain magazines. Our numbers are written inside the doors of public bathrooms. Screen-names and tantalizing ads pop up unbidden when people stray onto graphic websites.

Men usually. But not always. It just seems as though men are willing to pay for the personal touch. They don’t simply go out and purchase the proper equipment when they can’t find anyone else to take care of them.

I know why they come to me. And I still love them. I have loved every man and woman whose shadow has darkened my door. I know that they want more than their own weak hands. I know the despair. I know that they cannot bring themselves to communicate with those that they truly love. They won’t ask a loved one to fulfill their dark desires.

They will ask me. They will ask me to lay them back, to get comfortable. They want me to listen before I start with the more technical aspects of my job. Most women apologize. They feel bad that they cannot find the release they need on their own. Most men don’t actually apologize, but the shadow of guilt in their eyes says enough. Nearly everyone who lies down enjoys feeling the weight of responsibility drop from their shoulders. It’s in my hands now.

I love them all. Each client is unique, even if the process is fundamentally the same. A few ask to be blindfolded. Some want to drink first, others want a cigarette waiting for them. Every once in a while some of them want to be tied down. They all get what they want. But it leads to the same place eventually.

They lean back and relax under my professional hands. I slowly slide off their shirts, speak in a soothing voice and inject the potassium chloride. I’m happy that I can offer the services and the attention to detail that people need.

One more loved one gone. 16 billion to go. They come to me knowing that our overpopulated world will be slightly better for their children if they leave. They come to me when the stench, noise and sheer press of humanity gets to be too much. They come to me for peace.

RIP

---------------------------

I will admit that this doesn't address the question very clearly. But getting to write what comes to me is probably what makes me the happiest.

Ferocious Fox #4

2005-07-07T20:55:00.000-07:00

Upon reading the prompt it took all of a second to call to mind the little thing that makes me happy...

...those pink fluffy things in the trees along the drive.

It took another 15 minutes to figure out what they are . . .

...Google: "pink fluffy flowers". Return search (after 4 clicks): mimosa.

It took 3 days to decide that I really didn't need to write more than . . .

... the pink fluffy things in the trees on the drive make me happy.

Daring Dragonfly #4

2005-07-07T19:17:00.000-07:00

(With apologies to Julie Andrews)

A great book, an old friend, a cute looking puppy.
Some cold milk, and cookies, and maybe a guppy.
A classical concert, that’s heavy on strings.
These are a few of my favorite things.

The Simpsons, the Griffins, the Bartletts, a saga.
Curtis and Briscoe and old Chairman Kaga.
Watching the A-Team, ER and Wings.
These are a few of my favorite things.

When I’m lonely,
When I’m tired,
When I’m feeling bad.
I simply partake of my favorite things
And then I don’t feel so sad.

Creative Cardinal #4

2005-07-07T15:35:00.000-07:00

I always picture him playing a trombone, his long, sweet hands drifting across the brass with the carress of a lover, swaying in and out in bliss-inspiring rhythms of jazz. I will see him this way forever, even if I've never had the pleasure of watching his black curls brush the crest of the mouthpiece... even if he hasn't picked up a trombone in years. Still, he is my band nerd. There is something resoundingly musical in boy's gentleness, and when you find yourself trusting one, it's like all the cherubs of the world came down to sing to you at once.

He tried to sing to me once. I think I shoved a bowl of doughnuts in his mouth.

The screen door clicks and he is gone, back to the party. His lips will taste like rum later. A friend puts her smooth hands around my shoulders, holding me close so that she can whisper in my ear: "He's one tall glass of water." I don't know what it means, but it still seems infinitely hilarious. Her laughter, much more graceful, has the texture of bells.

Even the wind that grabs her cigarette smoke is close to orchestral. In the fading twilight I look into her eyes and see them glimmering like indigo. Color contacts, making them seem like her irises have been replaced with delicately carved jewels. A creature from the creased pages of my fantasy novel, somehow coming and talking and laughing with me like I'm deserving of notice.

They all think I'm deserving of notice. This thought makes me pause a moment. It's still somehwat...unnerving.

Her hand is gone, gone to rolling another cigarette and pulling up a wicker lawn chair in a garden full of bamboo and co-op compost. Her toenail polish is neon green, like color of a radioactive tree frog. Her boyfriend is away from the summer and she resumes a conversation about something infuriating he said over the phone but I can hardly listen. She has hair the color of Mondays and tender, laughing lips that tear me up inside when she kisses my cheek. Sometimes, she sits on her porch, one hand stroking the neck of an out-of-tune guitar. The moment is a picture, but more so. I'm waiting for the frame to drop, for the shutter to click, for the thumbtack to stab into us and afix this night to somebody's bulletin board. Friend, I think to myself, when did I get good at making friends? She takes a long drag on her cigarette, silhouetted against the last strands of trembling daylight. There's a poem in this day that I'm not adaquate to write.

These are the moments that I treasure most in life, moments frozen on the damp tips of twined cloud fingers that treat every fallen sunbeam like another playground slide. This feeling passes, of course. It always passes. She steps inside and I am left alone on the porch, my bare feet wriggling. Some disgustingly repetitive technofunk drifts out the window and I know, I just know, that he's trying to dance. This thought makes me groan a little. But I don't mind, not really. It's enough to know that his hands will be waiting when the night is gone.

Somewhere, in my mind's eye, my man is playing his trombone. Jazz, just for me...the thread that connects us through the distance of a door. Someone comes out again, smiling. "Come on," her voice is a whisper, "They're all waiting for you."

Happy Birthday, I tell myself, and I step inside.

Tenacious Tiger #4

2005-07-07T14:32:00.000-07:00

We were sitting in the living room, waiting to go see the latest movie at the Crescent Cinema. My sister sat at the computer playing a game that let you explore the human body. My mother was changing her clothes after a long shift at the hospital. And I was watching a sports trivia show on ESPN. It was a gorgeous day; lots of bright sun was billowing between the slats of the blinds. School was a few weeks from being finished and I was already gearing up for a fantastic summer of trips to the pool and riding my bike. Goodbye 5th grade; hello 6th grade.

WAP WAP WAP WAP WAP WAP WAP WAP WAP WAP

The knocking on the door was so fierce, the picture of Bobo and I slid off the end-table from the vibrations. The door flung open seconds later without any signal of permission to enter. My grandmother, grandfather, and stepbrother came through the door. And I saw it immediately: my grandmother had been crying. Her eyes were puffy and surrounded by rose colored bags, and her mascara was gloppy as she obviously re-applied on the drive to the house. My grandfather had this frightened, distant look in his eyes, and neither would make eye contact with the three of us.

"Norma, what's going on," my mom asked.

Grandma just looked at my sister and I, and started crying. Violently. My parents had been divorced for maybe 5 years and my dad had re-married and moved to a town a few miles away.

"It's Daryle. He was in an accident and work. And. And."

I knew it already without her even saying anything. My heart stopped. The room started spinning. My body was preparing itself.

"And. And he didn't make it. I'm so sorry."

My sister immediately ran to my mother with tears slipping off her cheeks before she was fully wrapped in my mom's arms. I just slumped back on the couch, tears welling up in my eyes, and I couldn't say anything. I couldn't stand up, I couldn't understand what was going on. An accident? Accidents are tiny, he should be fine. Accidents are like mistakes, you can fix them. He can be fixed. This isn't happening to me, what are you talking about Grandma, let me call Dad and I'll tell him that I love him and everything is going to be okay, right? Why is everyone crying, and why are they staring at me?
----------
It was the hardest experience of my life. I, today, am a product of my father, and I live my life in honor of him. I never got to say goodbye to him, and I never told him that I loved him the last time that I saw him. I always, always urge my friends and family to tell your loved ones how much they mean to you as often as possible. Call your boyfriend just to say "I love you" during a busy day at the office. Call your grandparents at night and tell them "Thank you for the pancakes when I was 5." Whatever you need to do, do it.

It's funny, though, because now that I'm out off college and in the real world, I find that history is repeating itself. My favorite shaving cream is the same kind my dad used--Brut green-can shaving foam. My favorite socks are the socks that I would always steal from my dad's fresh laundry--they were big and fluffy and could fit perfectly over my seven year old arms. And my favorite holiday is Halloween--I would always dress up as my dad for Halloween, boy was I cute. From now until eternity, every time I shave, put on my shoes, or take my kids trick or treating, I will always remember my dad. My favorite things today remind me of my father, and how much I miss him. I am--in essence--becoming my father. And I'm damn proud of it, too.

Precious Panda # 4

2005-07-06T12:16:00.000-07:00

:-)

Things that make me happy?! There are just so many! Mr. Miagi and Ken Jennings tend to make me smile. I’ve been known to grin while jumping on a trampoline. Using “post script” instead of p.s. at the end of letters also fills me with warm fuzzies. And there’s always Euro-Disney, sacre blue! However, if I had to narrow it down to a few small things, they would be:

--My kick-ass immune system. I have the Arnold Schwarzenegger of disease protection systems, meaning that my anti-bodies make homophobic jokes and sexually harass germs before killing them. IT’S NOT A TUMOR! Bring it on, Cholera, I’ll take you and your stagnant pool of a home on any day!

--Elevators. I don’t know what I would do without my sloth boxes! Well that’s not true, I would walk up and down stairs a lot, but who wants to do that? I mean, unless your former slam-dunk champion Spud Webb?

--Mullets. From 1985-1990, I rocked a mullet. I rocked it so hard it hurt. I’m fairly convinced that in retaliation for me causing my mother a lot of pain during childbirth, she made me into her walking fashion disaster when I was too young to know any better for her own amusement. Those pictures, especially the one where I’m running through the sprinkler with “Mondale-Ferraro 84” t-shirt on, always make me smile.

Post-script: Saved by the Bell re-runs also fill me with giggles and kittens!

TKO Question #4

2005-07-06T10:16:00.000-07:00

TKO Question #4 [Personal]

"Money will not make you happy, and happiness will not make you money."

- Groucho Marx

What are the little things in life that make you happy?

Post due by NOON on Friday! You may begin posting immediately since there is no waiting period for the vote.

Remember, you may choose whichever format you wish inspired by this prompt.

Vote #3/First Cut

2005-07-06T10:01:00.000-07:00

Vote #3 was not needed due to a lack of posting by some contestants.

I "trimmed" the fat by removing players first who had not posted: Saucy Sealion & Curious Cheetah (& Silly Seal was removed earlier)
Then I removed the players who had only posted once (so had a minimum of 20 pts): Arty Ant & Rowdy Raccoon
Last, I removed the player who had only posted once on time (and thus had the most pts of the remaining players): Mysterious Monkey

Everyone else's votes have been cleared. You all begin this week on equal footing.

Wordy Woodpecker #3

2005-07-06T09:39:00.000-07:00

Patriotism has always had a strong influence in politics, especially in America. Political parties try to associate their chosen policies with patriotism and get furious when their patriotism is challenged, considering it the worst form of a low blow. But what exactly is it? Patriotism is commonly defined as a love for one’s country. Yet this is highly vague. What exactly is loved about the country, and what kind of love is it? Furthermore, while patriotism is considered a virtue, nationalism is considered a vice. To fully understand what it means to be a patriot, one must be able to understand these various distinctions.

To start off, let’s consider if a descriptive love is necessary to be a true patriot. Descriptive love can be thought of as an enjoyment of the current properties of, much like loving cheesecake. So a descriptive love of one’s country would be a belief that one’s country is beautiful, filled with intelligent people, has an intelligent leader, and other such things. Is this patriotism? In order to have a meaningful definition of patriotism, the answer must be no. If the economy goes on a downturn, or if a city gets heavily polluted, it is implausible to think that one’s patriotism would decrease in either case. Worse, since opposition parties tend to believe the current party in power is weak on a number of issues and that there are several unaddressed problems in the status quo, requiring a descriptive love of one’s county to be considered a patriot would in effect yield opposition parties unpatriotic. This is not patriotism; this is nationalism. The original American patriots, those fighting for independence, certainly recognized the weaknesses of their might and prestige, but certainly weren’t unpatriotic. So, when Newsweek ran a story on the weakening of American prestige in its international edition, they weren’t being unpatriotic. Instead, they were merely observing an event, something that should be free more normative influences. Patriotism should not and can not be reduced to mindless cheerleading every minute detail of ones country.

Since patriotism is almost universally considered a virtue, it would make sense to assume that the love of one’s country is normative. Normative love is the sort of love that is felt when one works for the object of their love. Thus a normative love of one’s country is actively working to further the interests of their country. While this does capture the normative nature of calling someone a patriot, it requires much more specificity. We certainly don’t associate going to work as patriotic, even though it indirectly helps the economy and thus the nation. Patriotism is defined by adherence to the countries value’s and working to sponsor them. But this too needs refining, as one is left to wonder what exactly a country’s values are. Are they the current beliefs of the populace, or are they the founding values of the founders (aka old dead white guys)? Appealing to current values may seem like an appealing choice at first, but that definition suffers a fatal flaw. Because a country likely has multiple different sets of values, the “current” values are generally defined as the values of the majority. But to argue that one should always work toward the current values falls into the trap of the tyranny of the majority. One’s obligation to the country does not include obligation towards values they don’t share, even if those values are in the majority. To illustrate with an example, they majority of Americans are Christian and work towards Christian values. But it is wrong to say a non-Christian must work towards Christian values in order to be a patriot. Such a belief is not patriotism; it is mindless nationalism.

At first glance, using the values of a country’s founders seems equally flawed. Why should one be bound by the views of men who lived centuries ago? But there is a clear distinction between these values and the values of the majority. While the values of the majority encompass everything from religion to politeness, the founding values of a country are generally few and specific. And in successful democracies, the founders, anticipated certain changes in popular beliefs, allow certain aspects of the law to change based upon current values. In America, laws following the common will can be passed only if they follow the founding values given in the Bill of Rights. So in America, patriotism is the pursuit and furthering of freedom of expression, justice, and individual autonomy. Patriotism is not relegated to a particular party, but shared by members of both parties. This is what we remember and celebrate on the 4th with fireworks and (for many college students) lots and lots of alcohol. We hold up symbols like the flag, but we must always remember what that flag stands for: freedom.

Brainy Badger #3

2005-07-06T09:03:00.000-07:00

Saddam raped his wife's sister.

It wasn't Saddam himself, of course, but whenever the Feyadeen came trolling through his neighborhood, shouts of warning would rise up, "Saddam is coming!" A convoy of expensive foreign cars would roll slowly by and an arm would extend from a partially-lowered window, gesturing towards one of the women that was scurrying for hiding. The black clad troops would leap from their truck, seizing the woman for the Colonel's nightly entertainment. Upon her return in the morning, she was usually dead by her own hand before sundown.

His wife's young sister had not been one of these random targets, as if that made it any better. Mahmood had been a history professor at Baghdad University, attempting to drill some measure of perspective into young minds narrowed by decades of Ba'athist political doctrine and growing religious extremism. Eventually, one of his students took umbrage at Mahmood's attempts at discipline, denouncing him to the Feyadeen as anti-Saddam. Within a week, his sister was defiled and dead. While dropping off her empty-eyed, still-walking corpse the sergeant sneered, "this is your warning".

When the Americans came, Mahmood served as a translator, making him a natural target for the flood of Saudi zealots appearing on the streets, often right under the noses of the Americans, who couldn't tell them apart from Iraqis. They were there to kill Americans, but killing those who worked for the Americans was a highly enjoyable bonus. After the bombing, Mahmood convinced a symapthetic American captain to help him obtain a refugee visa to the United States.

A year later, as he waited in a hospital among wounded former American soldiers for the harried Veterans Administration plastic surgeon to assess his burn-scarred face, he noticed a disturbingly familiar name on the TV screen. Something had happened at Saddam's Abu Graib prison. As he watched the story and saw the eerily familar pictures, fear gripped his heart -- these were the same images that the Feyadeen used to post when they particularly wanted to shame a victim. But now, the leering image in the foreground was a female American soldier.

He followed the story obsessively, tracking it through investigations, congressional debates, and reports of trials on CNN. He found a measure of hope -- at least the Feyadeen had not been punished when they committed these crimes. At least the Americans saw that it was wrong.

But nonetheless, he prayed day and night. He begged Allah to bestow His blessing upon the United States. Let her not become Saddam.

Benign Butterfly #3

2005-07-06T08:54:00.000-07:00

'pA-trE-&t : one who loves his or her country and supports its authority and interests

'Patriot' means oh-so-much more now. Americans have managed to manipulate the term so much like a little ball of clay that it's picked up flakes of dirt and glitter that are now stuck in its soft underbelly.

'Patriot' now means the seemingly fearless soldiers who travel to strange countries to defend our way of life and leave behind greiving families who just want the war to end. But it also means the crass men that brutually rape native women in the nations they symbolicly penetrate with their pointed guns. 'Patriots' are the citizens that dutifully vote in every election because they believe it's their responsibility. 'Patriots' are the objectors that refuse to participate in a system rigged so that the rich white guys hold all the dice.

'Patriots' are the politicians that staunchly defend every move their President-heir makes with a sharp accusatory tone to dissenters. They're standing in the streets, in the god-damned cold so sharp it freezes their snot solid, to protest the actions of their so-called leader. They're the rich white folks in my subdivision that purchase a hundred plastic American flags on the fourth to put in everyone's lawn (to prove, I suppose, that our neighborhood loves America). 'Patriots' are the family that wakes up, spots the plastic-patriotism-on-a-stick, and wonders, "when did I authorize that litter?"

'Patriots' are soccer moms who guzzle oil in the SUVs and buy a dozen magnetic ribbons to assure everyone in traffic that they do indeed support our troops. They're also the people to spring up on the internet selling out their car decor that reads, "I support the magnetic ribbon industry." 'Patriots' are the suburban family with a pair of beautiful twins and another on the way that spends the fourth at the local park to watch the fireworks display. They're the poor Dominican "family" made of a mother and her two sons who work triple-shifts on the holdiay to scrape up some extra pay at the higher rate.

'Patriots' are me and you. They're everyone in between who tries to define themselves as an American. The clay once milkly white is now dotted with so much debris it looks like its been rolled across the dirt.

Giddy Giraffee #3

2005-07-06T08:41:00.000-07:00

My dearest wife,

Do not cry for me. Know that I am doing what is right. Serving my country has been the greatest feat of my lifetime. By accepting my upcoming mission I know I will die, but it is to rescue my country. There is no greater honor.

Raise our child with a proud heart. He will not cry for losing a father. He will not be jealous of other children. He will know of my sacrifice. He will hear of the great legacy, the men who were brave enough to die.

As I prepare myself for battle I am given strength for I know the destiny of our country will be great. I leave you to protect the homeland and I die with the admiration of my fellow officers. I am not afraid to die, I am a patriot. I fly with your picture tucked to my chest so my spirit will know where it needs to go.

Think well of me and know I am gone for our country. Feel the honor that comes with my sacrifice.

In the name of family, in the name of country, in the glorious name of the Emperor

Gokigen-yo!
First Lieutenant Masanobu Kuno

Kuno was a patriot. He served his country with pride within the Kamikaze Special Attack Force, Unit Yamazakura. He successfully completed his one way mission on October 24 1944. His target was the USS St. Lo (CVE-63).

Sometimes we forget that being patriotic doesn’t always mean we are right, and being a patriot doesn’t mean we fought on the winning side.

Flippant Flamingo #3

2005-07-05T13:47:00.000-07:00

It struck me last night while I was folding laundry what, exactly, Patriotism is.

Patriotism is that comfy, washed-a-million-times pair of undies.

Follow me here.

Those undies have been with you through good times and bad- when you are sunburned, when you are lounging, when you are working day and night to finish. When you heard the bad news. When you celebrated the good.

Sometimes, you’re a little embarrassed about those undies. They’re washed out, faded, and perhaps have a few small holes in them. So, you push them to the back of your drawer; hide them in favor of the lacy, silky new ideas. After a while though, those new ideas just get scratchy and uncomfortable. You’re left alone, and not sure where to go. And then you realize that it was those cottons that really give you comfort all along, just waiting for you to come to your senses.

Now, there are those without those cotton undies. They claim to “go commando” or wear the fancy ones all day, every day. But something about them feels… fake. You almost can’t trust someone who can’t admit to, in some way, loving those cotton underpants.

I don’t think any military on earth issues their fighting men and women satin panties and boxers. They just don’t make sense. Of course, the ‘ol cottons are reliable and worth fighting for.

You can’t tell just by looking at most people what underwear they are wearing underneath. It is only in how they carry themselves, present themselves to the world, that you can make a guess. Sometimes, it’s exactly who you’d expect. Other times, you would have never guessed.

Even the material those panties and boxers/briefs are made of say something about Patriotism. It’s been through a lot- taken a lot of beatings, and helped America grow into something better than it’s previous incarnation.

You’ve got millions of choices about what those cotton undies could look like, but at its base, they’re all the same.

So, ladies and gentlemen, wear your cotton undies with pride. Let them be your own choice, but know that the person sitting next to you probably has some form of those same undies on.

Creative Cardinal #3

2005-07-05T10:45:00.000-07:00

They told me to get out of their country, just because I opened up my mouth to speak. I wasn’t deserving of a place betwixt the waves of amber grain. They told me to get out of their country, and I asked them, why is it theirs more than mine? I pay my taxes, I vote, I just happened to vote wrongly. They shake their heads sadly and look away.

Did you slash your feet at Valley Forge? Shoeless, toes dipped by ice? Maybe you were Washington, sipping wine from a silver glass in a mansion while your troops slept on tents and starved. So don’t tell me I’m not a patriot. You don’t know the meaning of the word.

Did you sign away your rights, your life, just to slide over on a rickety boat only to find out that the American dream was an excellent public relations ploy? Are you in the North Marinas, making three dollars a week, trying to sell your kidneys just to get by? Did you even know that there are people in America trying to sell they kidneys just to get by? Then don’t tell me I’m not a patriot. You don’t know the meaning of the world.

Did you die at Han’s mill, chased across the nation by the tearing, tarring mobs of Missouri, who’s governor said it was okay to execute you just because of your religion? Did they throw you in jail and give you meat to eat, only to find out later that it was a leg of dead, human slave? Skipped that part of the history books, did we, the part that tells you that Presidents and Governors sometimes do wrong. Never tell me I’m not a patriot. You don’t know the meaning the world.

The ink I carry is my blood and tears, the pen eroded with the salt I sweat. Maybe being a patriot isn’t defined by birthright or nationality, maybe it’s one of Pat Buchanan’s worst nightmares. Who were the true patriots in Germany in WWII? The ones that danced because their government sang, or the ones that ran the railroad that saved some Jews? They wrote later that it was the little things in torture that hurt the most; when someone in black tore their teeth out one by one.

So don't tell me I'm not a patriot, just because I say something you disagree with. You don't know the meaning of the word.

Precious Panda # 3

2005-07-05T10:27:00.000-07:00

Triple Axel

“All I’m sayin’ is that if Nancy Kerrigan were still around, she would kick Michelle Kwan’s skinny ass” my brother Patrick shouted as he tossed me a baseball on our front lawn.

“Not a chance…Kwan is like a Power Ranger on skates. I seriously believe she’s going to be around for a while,” I said, firing the ball back to him.

This was one of many hypothetical sports discussions Patrick and I had growing up. I have four siblings but he is my favorite. Pat is six years older than me but it never seemed to matter when we were kids. Well, it usually didn’t matter. I remember once, when he was 16 and I was 10, mom and dad left the two of us alone when they went away for the weekend for their anniversary. Patrick told me to shut up and stay in my room all night since his girlfriend Julia was coming over. I did just as I was told, and spent the next two hours playing Super Mario Brothers 3, but I eventually got bored and decided to sneak out of my room and have some fun. Pat and Julia were curled up on the couch making out while watching the movie “Ghost,” so they didn’t notice me quietly crawling behind them. When I blew an air horn I had smuggled out of my dad’s office right over their heads, Patrick jumped eight feet in the air. The look on his face was priceless, and was worth the pummeling he gave me later.

Oddly enough, I only saw that expression on his face one other time—when he got the call telling him that his unit was being deployed to Iraq. When he left, his daughter Shannon was two months old. He missed her first word (dad, ironically), her first steps, and countless other precious moments that occur in the first year and a half of life. Although he was and remains personally against the war, Pat never once complained about being sent away. As he put it, “my country asked for my help.” I love him so much. Patrick came back last fall, and one of the first things we did was play catch on the lawn.

“Kwan has NINE U.S. Championships, Pat. NINE. All I’m sayin’.”

“She was hit in the knee with a pipe and still got the silver. What does Kerrigan have to do before you’ll say she’s better than that little poser, kill Godzilla?”

Daunting Dolphin #3

2005-07-05T09:01:00.000-07:00

West of Asadabad

Oh, say can you see, by the dawn's early light,

Please say you can see me, please.

What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming?

I know that I probably shouldn’t be using the remains of a flag to signal,

Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight,

But not much is left after a Black Hawk goes down.

O'er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming?

At least the flag is still with me; I have a hope now.

And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air,

I’m surprised it survived, really, after that crash. I'm surprised I survived.

Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there.

In the early morning sun, the flag will be visible to a rescue party.

O say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave

The wind will snap the flag to attention, and they will see me.

O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

They have to see me. They won’t leave a soldier behind.

Please don’t leave me behind.

Ferocious Fox #3

2005-07-03T19:01:00.000-07:00

Peter H. Krusi- United States Navy, MIA 03NOV67 in South Vietnam.
Arthur F. Crawford- United States Air Force, KIA in World War II.
Thomas J. Beauclair- United States Navy, Killed in Training 30AUG83.
Rufus K. Pepper-Army, KIA 1862 in the Civil War.
Ivan Indzhov- United States Army, KIA 27DEC03 in Iraq.
Oliver Brown- United States Army, KIA in World War II.
Timothy O. Keeling- United States Marine Corps, KIA 9JUL04 in Iraq.

Earnest Elephant #3

2005-07-02T00:39:00.000-07:00

She’s never been very good at organizing, even though that’s why she’s here. Someone who admired her put her in this director position for all the wrong reasons, but she accepted the challenge. Her concert had gone off without a hitch; both bands showed up and played well, and everyone who attended enjoyed their performances. Even the adults who crowded the sidelines seemed to enjoy the punk music. The decorations were all being set up as she stared at him.

She forgot all about her duties as the ceremony began. Walking forward, holding the tattered cloth, her eyes were asphyxiated on his. Deathly afraid of messing everything up, she focused on the green uniform identical to her own. He wore a hat, a beret, which covered what she knew to be a balding head and accentuated the white hair on either side. What had always seemed like cold blue eyes glazed over in the warmth of the heat of the bonfire before him. He stood rigid and proud, chest swelled to match a heart filled with pride.

A messy rendition of “Taps” was played by another on a bugle as is proper. It was a peaceful moment of beauty, the combination of horn and crackle of fire. The symphony crescendoed as the melody of tearing cloth was added. The first red strip was added to the flames, and still she watched her friend. The first white strip was added and his chest swelled with more pride and a deep breath. Slowly, each strip was added and still she watched him through the fire. Thirteen strips, and as the fire retired the old tattered flag, a solitary tear, followed by many tears began to stream down his face.

Others began to leave as the fire died down. One by one they filed out, but she continued to watch, amazed and admiring. Painted in his tears, she saw for the first time what she always thought he’d been lacking. Revealed in that fire was an unbridled passion, an undying love for what she realized was the only thing that had ever truly loved him back.

Daring Dragonfly #3

2005-07-01T21:32:00.000-07:00

What does it take to be a patriot? It takes love of country, but not blind adherence to a slogan or mantra. Being a patriot often demands sacrifice. You don’t necessarily need to sacrifice yourself on a battlefield, but you should respect those who risk the ultimate sacrifice, even if you don’t agree with the war they are fighting.

During Vietnam, it was all too common to curse the soldiers coming home for their role in a war no one wanted to be a part of. While things aren’t quite as bad today, oftentimes people forget to oppose the war, and instead oppose those fighting it. I, for one, do not agree with the decision to invade Iraq. I think there were other priorities in the war on terror that should have been pursued first. I think there were plenty of justifications for invading Iraq, but I don’t think the administration used any of them.

While I may not agree with the war, I support the troops who fight it. I do not blame all of them for the actions of a few bad eggs. Yes, bad things happened at Guantanamo Bay and Abu Gharib. But the excesses of the few do not justify a condemnation of the many. The military has taken steps to punish those who were responsible for these depredations and while we may continue to question the policies that led to these mistakes, we should not assign blame to all those who wear the same uniform.

I do not blame the brave men and women in uniform who daily risk their lives thousands of miles from home. They are attempting to bring just a fraction of the rights that I enjoy every day to people who have long been under the boot heel of a tyrant. It’s extremely dangerous, and largely thankless. What does it take to be a patriot? I believe a sincere “Thank you” may be enough.

Mysterious Monkey #2

2005-07-01T19:22:00.000-07:00

img #1: darkened bathroom
img #2: horseback riding in a mountain
img #3: crack dealer arrest
img #4: cubicle

It is dark.

In the background, a phone is ringing and a receptionist is answering; the clock is ticking at fourteen dollars an hour. But in here, in the bathroom, it is dark, and little salt-water droplets are dripping. Do I miss her? Yes. But I am beginning to realize, too, that this will change me forever.

"Horses aren't stupid."

This is what he tells me: it's to make me less afraid. Horseback riding along mountain cliffs is scary, especially to a fraidy-cat 10-year-old. But the horses, my camp leader says, aren't dumb, and won't just run over the cliff. I'm glad I was young enough to believe that, before I got a hundred self-administered lessons in self-destructive nonsense. Clearly, what the horse needed was a girl horse he was crazy about. Then he'd run right over that cliff, probably caught by a ... well, nevermind.

The newspaper vendor asks me: what did he do? She means the black man, being arrested by three white police officers on bicycles. He is meek, and poor, and our left-center (or just plain left) sensibilities tell us it is racism. The newspaper vendor clucks her tongue at the way the justice system works, and says that all that poor man ever does is ask for money. Doesn't bother anyone! I agree, quietly, not mentioning that I know for a fact he's selling crack.

"Take it down."

This is the directly-stated message of the manager I've got, who is talking to me about pictures of a girl I've got in my cubicle. I think they're nice; the conservative, Illinois-located workers think they're scandalous. I take them down and replace them with many others. I don't get invited back, of course, to work there next summer; so I go to work someplace else, with a darkened bathroom that locks. Just as well.

Tenacious Tiger #3

2005-07-01T11:52:00.000-07:00

-----
Dear George,

I don't know how to go about writing this, nor why I am, really. I guess I just feel bad for you. Many nights when I leave work, I cry for you; for who you are, and for who you used to be. It's just sad. I've watched you for more than 15 years, now. 15 years, 3 months, and 12 or 13 days at last count, give or take a leap year. I've never been good with those leap years.

I've watched as your memories started to fade. First it was simple things, like who the President was at the time, or what day of the week it was. Then you started to forget why you were here; and finally, who you were. And for that I cry.

I cry because of what you've accomplished in your ninety-four years, and I just can't fathom why no one ever seems to give a damn. The new girls just laugh and point at what you've become. "He's drooling, stupid old man," they say. "I bet he pisses his pants." And you just sit there, completely silent as usual, because you don't know who they are, and you might not even understand what they're saying. I don't know, anymore. But I remember the days gone by. Secretly, you've always been my favorite, Georgey.

You were always our story teller. You would tell the other ladies and me about your days "in the trenches" as you called it, over in Germany, about how you would take on entire platoons of men without a single drop of sweat exiting your brow. Our own personal Rambo! And you told us about that time you lost your cousin. You could tell something was wrong in the air. You had grown used to the scent of hot lead and blood interlaced with the sweat of men. But when the shot rang clear, you could just feel something was wrong. I couldn't imagine the horror you felt that day.

And you would always tell us how you were the first one to reach all of those captured children. "I just shot the damn hinges off the door," you would always grumble to us, like it was en event as worthy as picking up a gallon of milk on the way home from work; what modesty you have Georgey! Then I wonder at times how many people's lives you've touched, and I get nauseated thinking that they have all abandoned you.

I remember so vividly the last time your children came to visit. Christmas of 1994. You still talked then, but the only words you said that day were "Who the hell are these people, Judith. Call the damn police." I just wish your family knew you as much I did, or even that they cared to know.

But I want to let you know that there is one person that will never forget you, Georgey. I love you for who you are, who you were, and you will be throughout eternity. We'll miss you.

Sincerely,

Judy
-----
And with that, I folded the tear-drenched letter, smeared ink and all, and wedged it into an envelope I had in my desk drawer from when the Hallmark went out of business. On the way to the short service, I wondered what would have happened had George not bought that little plot of land in the cemetery decades ago. I guess the girls and I would've pitched in, maybe the local VFW would've helped us, too. I dunno. There were only 4 people at the service: the local chaplain, Doris and I, and a 20 year-old kid that I suppose worked for the city (although he just leaned on his shovel and smoked the whole time--what respect kids have). It was quaint; the chaplain read a few passages, sang a short hymn, and asked if anyone wanted to say anything. Nope, we just stood there. I taped my letter on top of the cedar box, whispered a short prayer, and it was slowly lowered into the ground. And again I cried. No family, no friends; just a few old women from the nursing home. Best of luck, Georgey.

Original Owl #3

2005-07-01T11:22:00.000-07:00

(First let me say that the posting in rapid succession is due solely to my lack of internet connection at home, and my inability to regularly access it at work. I'm doing the best I can to keep up, I figured jumping ahead a bit might help.)

Patriot. Patriot Act. Treason. Heretic.

One of the reasons I have such a love for words is because they're malleable and dynamic, morphic and solid, all at once. Words have the power to inspire and tear to shreds, but sticks and stones will break your bones, and words can never hurt you. Patriot is a word that is both terribly overused and completely misunderstood, so this particular TKO really interests me.

A Patriot is a person that loves her/his country. But is a Patriot one who stands by America the Brave at all times and puts her/his faith unwaveringly in the leaders of our great nation? I'm sick to death of the assertion that patriotism is founded on blind devotion and the "hear no evil see no evil speak no evil" mentality that seems to pervade education. Patriotism to me IS faith and it IS love, but it is also bravery. It's the faith that your country--your leaders--can withstand your criticism, and it's the knowledge that such criticism stems from how much you love your nation. It's scary to stand up and ask questions, but to me it's scarier to stand by and just blindly believe that things will be okay if we just smile and go with the status quo. Patriotism is having the guts to open your mouth, get off your ass, and make a change if you believe one needs to be made. Patriotis rock the boat because they recognize that even waves that make people uncomfortable are better than floundering in stagnant water.

Original Owl #2

2005-07-01T11:04:00.000-07:00

Sluicing through glass, leaning right, leaning left, peacock plumes fan and frame her sleek, fluid bodies jump and glide down icy ridges, plop plunk ploosh into teal depths framed in windows packed with onlookers gleefully watching the animated antics onstage as lean bodies writhe, sway, rock to the beat of a thousand hearts sharing the heat, sharing the grass, sharing the experience of pure emotion set to pounding rhythms as people pack together hoping for one short breath of fresh air sliding across a forehead beaded with sweat, eyes heavy with contentment and exhaustion, millions of green tiny arms supporting the weight of limp bodies sprawled beneath the stars that glow brighter than the sun reflected off of the water that stretches ahead, unsuspecting, unaware that any second it'll be sliced through and cast aside, another casualty of strong legs and an expensive water ski.

TKO Question #3

2005-07-01T10:10:00.000-07:00

TKO Question #3: [Political/Social]

And I’d gladly stand up next to you and defend her still today.
‘Cause there ain’t no doubt I love this land God bless the U.S.A.

-- God Bless the USA

What does it mean/take to be a Patriot?

Responses:

Original Owl
Tenancious Tiger
Daring Dragonfly
Earnest Elephant
Ferocious Fox
Daunting Dolphin
Precious Panda
Creative Cardinal
Flippant Flamingo
Giddy Giraffee
Benign Butterfly
Brainy Badger
Wordy Woodpecker

Benign Butterfly #2

2005-07-01T09:46:00.000-07:00

In the summer, it’s easier to forget the winter. I will never be able to erase the scars that linger on my skin as a forever-reminder of their bastard father. The sweltering days make it easier though to forget cramming my babies into the icy car with the broken heater and lying to them, mommy’s taking you on a trip, and doing my best to hide my pink swelling skin that their daddy made.

In the summer, it doesn’t matter if you’re a poor single mom hiding in a shit-town in Iowa because you’re just happy to not be there. I watch my children climbing trees and dangling like monkeys with their browned skinny arms and dirt-stained hands. I'm so thankful that their alive somedays I can't help but cry. I give them cups of frozen kool-aid and tell them they are Popsicles. They eat them under the shade of the giant oak tree and let the sugar water drip down their tiny chins and puddle on their feet. And I pray, they'll always stay so innocent.

In the summer, I dot lemon juice in their hair, hold your eyes tight, so it gets blonder than the corn. They kids drink from the tea jar I leave sitting in the sun until the tea bag turns the water a deep dirt brown. I watch as my babies splash in the plastic kiddie pool because we can’t afford air conditioner and it’s too damn hot in the house.

It’s hotter than hell in the summertime but I’d live in hell to escape that winter.

Wordy Woodpecker #2

2005-07-01T09:32:00.000-07:00

The fire of change. At the forge, fire can transform unrefined ore into works of art. Before the fire, the ore is nameless, shapeless. But in the end, it stands as a truly refined piece. With fire, the weak, flimsy metal of iron can be transformed into hardened steel. Summer for many is an opportunity to refine themselves into who they want to be. With newly found freedom, one can refine one’s skills in the task of their choosing, from work skills to sports skills. And in the end, like steel, they become stronger.

The fire of Phoenix. In Greek and Egyptain mythology, the Phoenix was a marvelous bird that lives for 500 years. At the end of its life cycle, it builds a nest of cinnamon twigs and ignites it on fire along with itself. But out of the ashes, a new Phoenix arises from the ashes. To Egyptains, Greeks, and even early Christains, the Phoenix symbolized rebirth and resurrection. Summertime is a unique opportunity to resurrect what has been lost, from old friendships to old hobbies that couldn’t be continued during the other seasons. With the ability to escape the normal environment to tropical beaches, one can even resurrect parts of them within their new, if abit temporary context.

The fire of warmth. From ancient times to modern times, fire has brought warmth to dark and lonely nights. It brings comfort to those who need it, and provides the most warmth to those that become closer. Summer is a time where one can enjoy even the smallest of things with another. And like a fire, it gets warmer the closer one gets.

The campfire. The quintessential image from camping, as person among person rest their weary knees and bask in the fire and the stories of their companions. At the campfire, the fire of change burns, as people get valuable insights from each other. At the campfire, the fire of Phoenix burns, as old friendships are resurrected and become stronger. At the campfire, the fire of warmth burns, as people get closer from learning more about each other.

Sassy Snake #2

2005-07-01T09:24:00.000-07:00

This summer he bought a Che Guevara t-shirt. It was time to be a revolutionary. And he heard Che was a socialist.

This summer was going to allow him to try something different. He would change the way his life had sucked, develop a sense of fashion, maybe even dye his hair. It was all going to be different, and this summer was the time for it.

His Che t-shirt replaced the litany of hooded sweatshirts that he wore as armor against a world that he still hadn’t figured out in his 20 years. He knew he was cool, ‘cause so was Che.

For years, he believed in the monotony of the everyday. Where Winter, was Fall, was Spring, was Summer. His golden thread was pain and impermanence.

Through Elementary school, he rolled with a group of close knit friends. They spent everyday together. His best friend was a kid named Nathan, and they were going to be zoologists. They fanatically spent nights with each other and wrote reports about animals. Their motto was, “It’s always worth a try, except on Christmas Eve.” Which allowed them to have a lot of sleep overs.

But the summer during their transition to middle school, something changed. Maybe it was his new glasses, it could have been his new braces, it could be some shit that is unexplainable in its mystery. All he knew, was that Nathan fucking disappeared from his life over the course of that summer.

His life was full of losses, and summer had its fair share. But this summer was going to be different. The first morning of summer, he woke up and went running. He didn’t run for very long, but his focus was on the future. Eventually, he would run for miles every morning. He got back and did push-ups, and crunches, and pull-ups. Not very many, but the present didn’t matter- it was all for the future.

He was going to be famous. He would appear on reality television. Everyone would coo over how cool he was. How hip he had become. He wouldn’t be awkward anymore, he would be a well adjusted revolutionary. His grades would improve, and his bills would get paid. Because this summer it was all going to change.

He took to carrying around a composition book. He would fill it with the quips, insights, and stories he collected. Eventually, he would write a book. A primer in changing the world. In grabbing your own destiny and running with it.

The summer continued, and the composition book spent more time on his desk than in his pocket. He eventually sacrificed running for more sleep and a few more cigarettes. Don’t worry he told himself, tomorrow I’ll start again.

Because the present didn’t matter- it was all for the future.

He still wore his t-shirt with pride. He was still going to be a revolutionary. Because this summer was going to be different. This summer everything was going to change.

Soon, the hoodies reentered his clothing rotation. Fashion was something for supermodels. And dye was so expensive.

He felt like a failure. And he was right. Tragically hip, a dystopic vision of the comodified world, where credibility is sold in t-shirt form. But none of his oh-so-awkward posturing was the point. What mattered was that summer had allowed him to snap his golden thread. Now the monotony of the everyday was working in his favor. He just had to keep trying.

There is a chance that what he will become is everything that is wrong with what he idealizes. Archetypes always have flaws. But for the first time in his sick, sad life . . . he has something. This summer everything IS different. It might be tragic, but for now, it's good.

Brainy Badger #2

2005-07-01T07:58:00.000-07:00

Natch.

"I think it's time that you got a job and started paying off your bills," my mother had said. By "bills", she meant the tattered green accounting book she had maintained since I was 6 years old, detailing each and every broken lamp and disciplinary fine that had accumulated in a rather modest childhood. The total was around $70 dollars, a veritable fortune to a 14-year-old living in an economically depressed agriculatural area.

So off I went, on my hand-me-down bike (a girl's bike -- natch again), through the mosquito-infested Iowa summer seeking employment bailing hay or de-tassling corn. Hay paid better, but I secretly hoped for a de-tassling job simply because it was easier. In the days before genetic manipulation magically eliminated the problem, rural teenages were paid a penny apiece to cut the pollen-producing tassels from the top of young corn stalks to prevent pollenation and the rise of disruptive "volunteer" corn plants in farmers' fields the next year. A day wandering through a field with scissors just sounded better than trying to throw hay bales that weighed half as much as I did.

Trouble is, the long-standing depression in the farm economy and the growing presence of large agro-corp factory farms really cut into my job prospects. Most doors that I knocked on never even opened and the one's that did usually revealed only a poor retired farmers' wife who had long since sold or rented the land to a larger farming operation.

Ultimately, I wound up seven miles away in town, playing video games surreptitiously and hoping that no one who knew my parents would see me. It wasn't so much that I feared trouble for playing video games -- though that would definitely ensue -- but rather that if my mother found out I had money, it would be quickly confiscated to pay the Debt Book.

I almost never had any money. Lawnmowing at summer cabins for rich people down by the lake eventually replaced the failed agricultural job hunt as a source of income but, like an early introduction to confiscatory taxation, the Big Government of the Debt Book always gobbled it up right away. And as my rate of income increased, so also did the rate of disciplinary fines levied against me in the Book.

Natch.

Earnest Elephant #2

2005-06-30T21:42:00.000-07:00

He used to bounce me on his knees when he told me his stories. His great adventures in the great orange truck with electrical tape apholstered seats stealing lunch meats from grocery stores and jackhammers from construction sites. We'd take a walk around the market, ending up at an Italian restaurant that seemed more like a diner, with plastic sparkling red booths and stools and silver edged tables. As I slurped my spaghetti and scoffed my meatballs, he grinned at my "sugu" covered face thinking he was showing his little girl off. But staring up at his balding head, like a sun between two clouds of white hair, I knew that he was sadly mistaken; I was the one showing him off. He was my best friend, and when we were finished eating, we'd walk the market again.

We'd approach my favorite fruit and vegetable stand and I'd jump to climb my way to the top. Past the juicy strawberries and plump tomatoes to the top of the rickety wooden boxes to the top of the mountain. A five-year old princess at the top of her castle and two wise wrinkled hands pick me up by the waist and spin me down. The freedom of the air through my hair and a dizzy tummy makes my spirit soar. Oh how I miss summers with Papa and Uncle Joe.

Years later, I sit around an old table, slurping on a beverage instead of spaghetti with a smile-covered face, recognizing the mischevious twinkle and sagelike personality in my friends. Friends, family, fun, and freedom are the keys to my happiness.

Creative Cardinal #2

2005-06-30T15:00:00.000-07:00

Summer Girls

Blonde California girls sauteeing on a windshield
Their sweat sliding between ripe breasts in a way that it never does mine.
There's something about their slenderness that makes me want to smear them with salsa
Crunch them between my teeth to the tune of a mariachi band.

In the Summer, everything smells just a little bit like BBQ sauce
And marijuana smoke. Somebody sucks a bud the color of dank jade.
Meanwhile, I sit innocently on my parent's plaid picnic blanket
Pretending I'm not looking at the girl who looks nice reaching for her frisby.
I wish you'd clutch me with that enthusiasm, sweet cunt-sister.
She doesn't see me looking. Probably just as well.
My parent's words hum like bumblebees so I turn away. I mumble something.
"That's nice, honey."
The strawberries in my mouth are firm. They burst like red blood vessels.

The lightness in everybody else just makes me feel a little heavy.
It's the season for laughing shoulders to be clutched by soft, smiling elbows and pinched hips,
And obscenity. It's a custom. We say things on our cell phones that we never would in the snow.
"So, you know, like," [a girl passes, ribs constrained by red fabric] "we were just friends." Pause. "Just hanging out. Chilling out, talking, oral sex, whatever."
She laughs a little at something the other says.
"Yeah, exactly. I don't want any of those complications."

I've discovered that there are two kinds of women in the world:
The kind for whom bikinis mold like chocolate syrrup
The kind who can pull off freckles without looking eleven
The kind who, after diving for a volleyball, can get up without sneezing sand.
Then... there are the rest of us. We are the awkward ones.
Hustling back to our corners, we are contrite in our petrified shadow:
The kind who look better swathed in layers of fur and felt
The kind for whom red roses pierce their eyes painfully as a bad mushroom trip
The kind who have secret dreams that make them shiver, late at night.
[I never meant to objectify you, girl, but I never meant to break my lime-green umbrella either. Clumsiness is in my nature. I do apologize.]
I feel more visible under sunlight, thrown on a microscope slide.
It's unbearably awkward, in its way.

Sighs echo around my cold shower like fruitflies buzzing...
[I dream of watermelons]
God, I miss the half-thawed mud squeezing between my toes.

Daunting Dolphin #2

2005-06-30T13:23:00.000-07:00

The bustle of the farmer’s market swirls around me. I can see piles of fresh fruit waiting to be hefted and groped. Mounds of cantaloupe and heaps of peaches shelter me while I let my hands move of their own accord. I find the right one. It gives in slightly to my probing pressure, hinting at the inner softness, but the flesh is firm and the skin unblemished. With a smile of triumph I claim it as my own.

Later, after the scent and sounds of the farmer’s market have been left behind, I run the cantaloupe under cool water. The contrast of the cool water and the searing heat makes me want to run under the sprinklers as though I were still a child.

The knife slices into the cantaloupe and the scent pours out. The musky scent of the cantaloupe makes the hot air as heavy as perfume, sweet as honey. The smooth flesh of the fresh fruit melts in my mouth. The flavor lingers in the corners of my mouth, the sweet wild taste coloring my words. My hands drip with the juice. It pours down from my fingers and pools in the hollows of my wrists. I raise my hands to my mouth lest I loose any drop of sweetness.

I lay on the grass outside. The shadows and sunlight chase each other across my body as the wind blows through the trees. The bowl of cantaloupe sits next to me, empty. A bee lands on the bowl, enjoying the juicy remnants that even I could not salvage from the bowl. This is summer. It is the fresh fruit and the scents and the cold water splashing, shocking me into recognizing the heat around me. It is the grass and the sun flickering on my pale-winter skin.

Tenacious Tiger #2

2005-06-30T13:03:00.000-07:00

7/13/42 -- They finally let us join, after all these years. I'm being sent to Moton tomorrow to start our introduction and basic training. I never would've dreamt of the day they let a black man fly a plane. And the 4th was great; it was a nice time to see my family before I leave. Cheap gin, sticky smoked sausages, and tangy lemonade. I'm gonna miss it all.

7/22/47 -- Hottest day of the year, today. I woke up around 3am and could see sweat beading up on Charlotte's back, reflecting the flashing MOTEL sign out the screen window. We were stewing in the heat last night, the only thing hotter was Char's breath on my neck while she slept. We need some rain.

8/12/50 -- We sent Michael off to his first day of school today. Charlotte broke down in the car and we had to wait to see him wave out the window before we could leave--even though we'd be back in 3 hours. I can tell already, he's born to be a football player like his dad. Char can't bear the thought of her boy growing up alone; so I've been exhausted these past few nights. She's an animal.

5/15/53 -- Charlotte and I went to Massey Hall tonight, downtown. Hot, sticky, blazing jazz was the vice de la nuit. Parker, Gillespie, Powell, Mingus, and Roach spent the night with their eyes shut, strings of notes being spat left and right . Rings of smoke hovered near the rafters as rich white men kept hitting on young white girls. Near the back, with Char and I, Rita and Tony danced 'round; bourbon in one hand, a sweat-drenched palm in the other. Booze, love, and bebop; these are the nights I live for.

Daring Dragonfly #2

2005-06-30T12:43:00.000-07:00

Memories of Summer

That lilting, catchy, wordless tune. Running to dad and asking for money, then tearing down the block with the other kids chasing the white truck. Holding up a tiny fist full of quarters and pulling back a fudgecicle. Laughing and smiling and ruining my appetite, just like mom always said I would. And the smiling face of the tall man in the white uniform leaning out to make a young boy’s dreams come true - these are the memories of summer.

Warmer weather and shorter hemlines. Less clothing on the girls I went to school with. The last days of the semester, when the girls would lay out in the quad, or by the dorms in their bikinis working on their tans. Halter tops. Short skirts. Flip flops – these are the memories of summer.

Trips to the beach with family, spending way too much money on fireworks. Hunting for the perfect log to build a beach bonfire on, setting up camp around noon when the town’s fireworks display was set for 9:30. Watching people set off flares in the dark, and dodging fireworks that tilted on their side after being lit, diving for cover and hoping no one got hurt – these are the memories of summer.

The smell of lighter fluid. Watching the little briquettes turn from deep black to white and grey. The dark black lines of the grill on the meat. Corn on the cob. Hamburgers. Hot dogs. Chicken. Ribs. Bright red barbeque sauce that tastes of honey and spice – these are the memories of summer.

Flippant Flamingo #2

2005-06-30T12:33:00.000-07:00

His life began in the sixties, but unlike others of his generation, he had a determination to work hard. Always the first one awake, the last one done for the day, he made it his duty to make sure everyone made it to school and home again safely, no matter how cold it got, how deep the snow, or rowdy the kids.

Finally, in his teens, he took on a summer job, shuttling campers, CITs, and a few adults to 4-H camp in the mountains. He saw plenty of the flirting, playing, and teasing that normally happen when summer enthusiasm meets an attractive peer. It was, however, a 16-year old CIT and a 21-year-old archery instructor that caught his eye. It took a few well-placed jostles, but two years later he watched with a grin as the bride and groom were chauffeured up to “their” 4H camp. Then, one year, he was suddenly pulled out of service. “Too old” he was told. “Too many years of hard work.”

Despite this forced early retirement, he did his best to be as active as possible, to keep everything in good working order. Then, one day, the news reached him that that young bride and groom now had kids of their own, and were looking once again for someone like him to take them camping every summer.

He jumped at the chance. And when the bride and groom realized that he was the very same school bus they had met on, it wasn’t even a question. They bought him on the spot. First to go were all the old school-bus benches and uncomfortable driver’s seat. Then came wall-to-wall carpeting, a working bathroom and kitchen, beds, even a genuine La-Z-Boy chair for the driver to relax in. A new coat of brown and tan paint, and what had once been a nameless school bus was now The Brown Rose, a custom motor home that had gotten a second lease on life.

Summer after summer, it became a tradition that the family cleaned out the bus, restocked it’s small pantry with the makings of s’mores and Dutch-oven meals, then took off for parts unknown. Trips to Yellowstone, to campgrounds, family reunions, even a few long drives to Oregon. The Brown Rose was a fixture at practically every campground he visited. The deck on his roof served for hundreds of nights of stargazing (and a few GOOD water fights), the awning rolled out over the sleepy family while they took naps in the provided shade, or hid from the relentless rain. The kitchen helped create hot-cocoa (maybe with a bit of peppermint schnapps) for those cold winter nights, and even Brownie, the family dog, had a comfortable spot to sleep.

Then, slowly, as the kids left, the Brown Rose slowed down. For a year, and then two, the family simply didn’t have the time to clean him or take him camping. Instead of weeks in the mountains, it was weekend trips to cities.

Then, just a few months ago, The Brown Rose was offered a third life. The couple’s nephew, always a free spirit at heart that understood the desire to get out there and keep going, offered to take the Brown Rose as a river shuttle—to haul white-water rafts and their enthusiastic guides up and down any decent river they could find. The couple happily agreed, and the Brown Rose is once again shuttling generation after generation on their summer adventures.

Not too bad for a big yellow school bus.

Precious Panda # 2

2005-06-30T10:42:00.000-07:00

Bee all you can be.

It was June, and for Arun Ashymana, that meant two things: it was summer, and it was time to defend his Scripps National Spelling Bee title again. As he boarded the 747 non-stop to Dulles International, alone, Arun tightened his grip on his first class boarding pass. As he massaged the paper between his fingers, he smiled, and thought to himself “one more time, one more summer.”

Since winning his third spelling bee title a year ago, Arun had become about as high profile a celebrity as a 14-year-old speller can. As he de-planed, Arun stopped to sign autographs in the jet way, his trophy an impediment to those trying to pass. In the distance, he noticed a sign that read: Arun Ashymana, Fort Worth Star-Telegram, Fort Worth, Tixas. Climbing into his limousine (L-I-M-O-U-S-I-N-E, thought Arun), the driver asked where his parents were. When Arun didn’t answer, the driver commented that he seemed quiet. “You spelled Texas wrong on the sign” Arun quipped. “I don’t expect genius from someone whose career has leveled out driving teen spellers around, but come ON. Five letters, hoss. Can I keep that sign? My parents will love it.” When the driver handed the sign back and rolled up the dividing window with distain, Arun said quietly, “one more time, one more summer.”

The Hyatt was covered in Scripps Spelling Bee paraphernalia (P-A-R-A-P-H-E-R-N-A-L-I-A, Arun whispered to himself), and while the other contestants seemed taken aback by the display, Arun wasn’t impressed. He had been professionally spelling since he was 11. Cockily, he strutted through the lobby wearing a shirt that read “I’m from the The SC: Sub-Continent,” a parody of his India heritage. Despite his confident appearance, Arun was an emotional wreck. The truth was that his parents didn’t make the trip to Washington D.C. because it all seemed boring to them at this point. Arun would win, pay for another year of college, and be home in time to compete in the annual Punt, Pass and Kick Competition, in which he placed 3rd last year. They didn’t know that Arun was very hurt by their absence, or that he vowed to take the gloves off this time around with no one to hold him back.

Arun breezed through the first four rounds, spelling quickly and confidently. After all, he had studied his first two words, “pharisaical” and “arbuscle,” just weeks before the competition, and “pruritus” was so easy he felt embarrassed spelling it. After he laughed aloud when a skinny white girl misspelled oligopsony, she started to cry even before she was ushered off the stage. Everyone around Arun was glaring at him by now, so when round five rolled around, he felt no reason to not say what was on his mind. Arun closed his eyes and smelled the microphone before asking, “does it come from a Latin word meaning, ‘I’m the best speller in the room, no one’s close?’” Then he quickly fired out “lederhosen” and sat down before anyone could respond. Feeling his chair was familiar. As he reclined in it and started to doze off on stage, Arun thought to himself, “one more time, one more summer.”

The next morning, they were dropping like flies. A girl from Connecticut went down on “edulcorate” while a Mexican boy from Arizona dropped on “glockenspiel.” Before a girl named Laura from Tennessee was about to spell, Arun said behind her, “you will NOT spell this word right…you’re going to panic and choke.” He was right. She screwed up “argillaceous” and earned 9th place. By the time Arun was one of only two spellers left, he had successfully made 15 different children cry. When he shouted at his final opponent, “You’re going to fuck this up and we both know it…just take your free t-shirt and go back to Indiana” live on ESPN-2, the judges—and the audience-- had finally had enough. Arun was disqualified and the 2005 Scripps National Spelling Bee was awarded to Kelly Margowitsky, representing the Birmingham Post-Herald, Birmingham, Alabama.

Thinking of his absent parents, Arun leapt off the stage and grabbed the trophy, sprinting out the door. “One more time, one more summer” he shrieked, laughing hysterically and knowing his summer had finally started.

Giddy Giraffee #2

2005-06-30T10:04:00.000-07:00

Summer means tan lines
Solid stripes across my thighs
I’m not a zebra

Bikini you bitch
Suck in tummy, thinking thin
Screw this, swimming sucks.

Ode to my hotdog
Yellow mustard oh so good
5 inches of joy!

Working on my tan
Lazy, sprawling, soaking sun
Why am I so red?!?

Ferocious Fox #2

2005-06-30T10:00:00.001-07:00

summer in pantoum*

Memories, like stars, fall down;
visions of what could have been.
Dreams formed in a childhood town;
the parents away sipping their gin.

Visions of what could have been:
lying on a floor to watch the fan
(the parents away sipping their gin)
and "playing house" as a grown up man.

Lying on a floor to watch the fan.
A woman moistened by the touch of a hand.
And playing house as a grown up man.
An illusion of romance never bland.

A woman moistened by the touch of a hand;
on a beach brought alive by the seagulls cry.
An illusion of romance never bland;
a tryst of a season like a firefly.

On a beach brought alive by the seagulls cry
time dripped slowly from a lemonade pitcher.
A tryst of a season like a firefly --
summer always left her lovers richer.

Time dripped slowly from a lemonade pitcher
puddles so deep one wants to drown.
Summer always left her lovers richer.
Memories, like stars, fall down.

_________________________________________
*Pantoum: a poetic form made of a series of four lined stanzas (quatrains). The line pattern is as follows: First Quatrain 1-2-3-4, Second Quatrain 2-5-4-6, Third Quatrain 5-7-6-8, and so on. The final line in the final quatrain is the same as the first line of the poem. The rhyme is abab in each quatrain, so the lines rhyme alternately.

TKO Question #2

2005-06-29T20:24:00.000-07:00

TKO Question #2 [Fiction]
"Summertime and the living is easy
Fish are jumpin' and the cotton is high"
-- Summertime

What four images say summer to you? Relate them together in prose/poetry/whatever-suits-your-fancy.

Responses:

Ferocious Fox
Giddy Giraffee
Precious Panda
Flippant Flamingo
Daring Dragonfly
Tenacious Tiger
Daunting Dolphin
Creative Cardinal
Earnest Elephant
Brainy Badger
Sassy Snake
Wordy Woodpecker
Benign Butterfly
Original Owl
Mysterious Monkey

Earnest Elephant #1

2005-06-29T18:18:00.000-07:00

I always felt like the ugly duckling. I never wore glasses or had a severe acne problem, but I was never a girl the boys looked at, unless it was to poke fun. I was identified as intelligent at an early age, and it was the source of most of my teasing. My best friends were books and a couple of other quiet people who enjoyed books.

We read mostly fantasy and when Madeline L'Engle's Wrinkle in Time I was prepared for your average fantasy ride. Immediately, however, I identified with mousy-haired Meg and her unique little brother Charles Wallace. I quickly read the entire series, and fell in love with A Swiftly Tilting Planet. As grown-up Meg communicates with Charles Wallace, I realized more and more about myself with every page I turned.

Meg revealed that I wouldn't be a loser forever, that I could make the transfer from ugly duckling to graceful swan. That everyone can find their Prince Charming and have their own version of a happy ending.

Wordy Woodpecker #1

2005-06-29T09:37:00.000-07:00

On a family vacation to the Dominican Republic, my father handed me a book with the comment that it was the kind of book you just couldn’t put down. Having slaved through numerous English courses, my first instinct was that this was a dirty, dirty lie. The last book which, according to the teacher, was the kind of book that can’t be put down that I read was Moby Dick. After slaving through chapter after chapter devoted to such intellectually stimulating topics like how to properly gut a whale, I began to associate the words “a book you can’t put down” with “a book that is unentertaining, but damnit, I had to read it, so you will too!” As so, I took my father’s description of Ender’s Game, the book he handed me, with a grain of salt. But I began to read it anyways, if but to satisfy my father. And then I got hooked.

Ender’s Game grabbed my undivided attention so easily because the thoughts and actions of the characters are so realistic, especially that of Ender himself. I identified with Ender very quickly based upon my middle school and high school experiences. During those years in particular, students always seem to fit other people into a neat classification scheme. People are defined as jocks, nerds, preps, Goths, etc. and they are trapped within their label. I was the math nerd. No matter what I did in school plays, no matter how many sports I play, no matter how much how many hours of flying time under my belt, I was the math nerd. Nearly everyone’s interactions with me revolved around the fact that my identity was the math nerd who took classes 4 years above grade level. From acquaintances, to teachers, to even my friends, people assume the qualities of the stereotype into me. Rather then attempting to know the real Wordy Woodpecker, people chose the easier path, viewing everything I did as actions of a math nerd. In the book, Ender too faces this dilemma as he is classified as the greatest military strategist who would save the world. Nothing other then that identity mattered.

The reactions and internal conflicts concerning this crude categorizing of people in the book is also closely mirrored by own experiences. I wanted to be known for who I am and not just some idle construct that my identity had been forced into. As long as I was getting high marks in math, my identity would always be the math nerd. This got me thinking about how that I could escape this if only my math ability no longer stood out and that I was at the level of the majority of the people around me. While I resisted it, the temptation to underperform if but to escape the identity the school had forced me was strong. In the book, during the climatic scene where he is given a task that seems impossible, he goes through a similar internal conflict. He too saw that underperforming could finally allow him to escape all the expected associated with the identity that was imprinted onto him.

The human brain, by design, is one that always is trying to find patterns, even when they don’t exist. All too often, people find themselves categorized into a mere façade of what they are; an empty stereotype that misses the nuances of each person. But rather than attempting to deliberately escape this façade, I learned to stay who I was. While this may allow others to quickly classify me, I can know that they are some who can see past the label and know me, without me having to change who I am. And your true identity is the one thing that must be never given up.

Mysterious Monkey #1

2005-06-29T08:09:00.000-07:00

The Chronicles of Narnia is an allegory. It is, actually, allegory in the mostest classicalest sense: it is a direct retelling of certain parts of the Bible. Lots of people know this; not everybody figured it out when they were eight.

In the same way that the torturing and killing of Aslan serves as a narrative element to retell the execution of Christ, my slightly-too-early understanding of the allegorical nature of the Chronicles retells the experience of my entire childhood. My mother always told me I was two years ahead of myself intellectually, and a year and a half behind emotionally. Thanks, mom; but it turned out she was right.

I finished The Last Battle (where everyone goes to Narnia permanently, because Narnia is actually Heaven and the world has ended) and sat and thought for a little while. I told my mom, "I don't think this is just a fantasy book. I think it's about God and things too." And she said, "Um, well."

Figuring out allegorical references did not make it any easier to relate to my friends at sleepovers, few of which I was invited to; nor did my superhuman powers of fantasy-book analysis deliver any attention to me from girls in high school. So imagine my surprise when I realized the other day that I'll actually have a date to The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe when it premieres.

Brainy Badger #1

2005-06-29T07:24:00.000-07:00

Being chosen last for playground kickball is actually only the second most humilating experience of nerd childhood. The worst is being a subject of a "trade of liabilities", when the self-appointed captains of the teams begin to bargain, "I'll take her if you'll take him." When other people continuously refuse to recognize value in your existence, you start to believe them. That makes it all the more powerful when you encounter a different view -- one where the nerd saves the world.

Maybe its a need to overcompensate by replacing untouchable status with transcendant hero, but Andrew "Ender" Wiggin in Orson Scott Card's Ender's Game always wins. Always. And, more importantly, Ender always wins because of his intellect and never because of his puny physical prowess. Further, the consequences of Ender's battles couldn't be more important -- any failure, any loss might result in humanity losing a war with an enemy with whom negotiation, and even basic communication, is impossible.

Of course, its science-fiction and well beyond any situation that is likely to occur in anyone's daily life. Science-fiction books like Ender's Game are part and parcel of the nerd mystique, right? But, once we stop chuckling, we can realize that there are reasons beyond mere escapism for some people's obsessive attachments to games like Dungeons and Dragons and genre like fantasy and science fiction. In these alternative worlds, the anti-intellectualism and petty violence that pervades school-age life in our modern society melts away, replaced with powers and abilities of the mind that give socially crippled young people hope that there may yet exist real-world analogues that will bring them meaning, respect, and even -- like Ender -- victory.

Original Owl #1

2005-06-29T06:51:00.000-07:00

It was like living in a dimly lit room that I didn't realize was dimly lit. Having always been there, having adjusted to shadowy light, I had no idea anything brighter existed. But then a light came on, revealing doors and hallways and stairs, all leading to a new kind of consciousness to which I was just being introduced.

I was 12 years old when I first discovered a concept that would forever shape and mold my ways of thinking, learning, and being. I was 12 years old when it first hit me: Reality is fluid. There are no concrete constants, no real black and white. Shades of grey surround and enthrall us, sometimes leading us astray, sometimes showing us the beauty and horror of unadulterated truth. Reality is what you make of it, and people are remarkably creative animals.

Robert Cormier's novels all have a tendency to stretch the mind and question "normalcy," but none does this so thoroughly and completely as "I am the Cheese." The story of a boy confined to a mental institution who has no idea that he's not living his life free and unfettered is one that not only confused and distressed me, but also one that introduced me to the fascinating practice of psychology. Whether you believe it to be an art or a science, the study of "why" in reference to human behavior is something that has entranced me for nearly a decade.

Rowdy Racoon #1

2005-06-29T03:07:00.000-07:00

Late one evening long ago, I approached my mother demanding to know why she hadn’t placed me in dance or gymnastic lessons as a toddler, so that I could be world famous and rich at the ripe old age of 15. She looked hurt, as any mother would when their beloved child accuses them of bad raising. And for good reason, by that point in my life things had begun to fall apart in a big way. Was I blaming her for everything that had happened to me? I know she often blamed herself. I love my mother though, and that, also for very good reason. After a few moments she raised her head and looked into my fiery eyes. With a voice smooth and strong she said “I taught you to love reading, so you could choose for yourself how to devote your life.” Then with slightly more uncertainty she looked away and finished, “I thought that would be enough.”

It was.

The problem was I wasn’t choosing how to devote my life, I was barely even living it. At the age of 15 I was in removed from school after a suicide attempt for “emergency psychiatric consultation.” I let the things that happened to me, well, happen to me, and nothing more. At 17 I dropped out of school and ran away from home. I wouldn’t fight for anything, even my sanity, and I had no pride in myself.

My mother’s words came full circle that year in a passage from To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee.

“I wanted you to see something about her.- I wanted you to see what real courage is, instead of getting the idea that courage is a man with a gun in his hand. It's when you know you're licked before you begin but you begin anyway and you see it through no matter what. You rarely win, but sometimes you do.'"

Atticus Finch was referring to Mrs. Dubose, a little remembered character from the novel who painfully weaned herself from her addiction to morphine as she approached death. She was determined to die dependent on no one and no thing besides herself and her God.

As difficult as life seemed, I began to fight, inspired by this fictional character. I am a strong and courageous woman, and I was able to put my life back together better than it had ever been before. There are countless examples and touching stories I could relate about the next few years of my life, but the bottom line is this; My mother was right about a lot of things. She was miraculously and wonderfully right when she said reading allows you to choose how to devote your life. Devote your life to fighting for good and equality, loving others with a perfect and devoted love, finding your Prince Charming or simply being the best you can be. Do so with pride and strength, change the world, and see it through no matter what… you rarely win, but sometimes you do.

Arty Ant #1

2005-06-28T22:58:00.000-07:00

I have often believed that everyone one has a root within their soul that is the core of their desires. This root can be created through life struggles, epiphanies, or even a good book. My root was always to be accepted and treated equal. Acceptance and equality, the kind of blend even more perfect than Chirac & Schroeder, Bush & Blair, or even Manmohan Singh & Sonia Gandhi. You probably sense sarcasm in the last sentence and if so you would be correct. Unlike most desires, i know mine is a life long journey that may never be accomplished, and it all started with one trilogy.

It was third grade when i begin to embark upon the imaginative world that would change my life forever. At that point in my life, i had already read several books and was accustomed to hiding in my room for days at a time, scrolling through each new world that the authors would reveal to me. In this case, the book was not singular but actually a trilogy entitled "The Tripods" by John Christopher. The story was unusual for me because it was science fiction, which is something I rarely read. I had always been more a fan of fantasy or suspense, but Science fiction...well, this was uncharted territories for my imagination. The book came to me at a very important time in my life. Since kindergarten i had been ridiculed for my height. My mom, to this day, believes most of my lack of self-esteem was rooted in the fact i was teased from the moment i stepped on a playground. Imagine being only in kindergarten, knowing nothing of life, and being teased and mocked for something you could not control, did i mention it was a private Christian school? After years of transferring schools to no avail, i chose to immerse my life into readings. Books could not hurt me and books would never mock me, they were accepting.

The prequel to the trilogy entitled "When the Tripods Came" was about tripods coming to Earth and brainwashing people. The plot was not what changed my life, it was, as it always is, the characters. The main character along with two other boys set on a journey for freedom, for all. This was the first thing the book resonated in me, the idea of equality and everyone being free...to be themselves. The side character Beanpole had the greatest impact on my life. He was a tall skinny pimple faced NERD. To me, he represented all of the outcasts in society. He was the embodiment of a loser. Yet, the other two boys accepted him and looked at his heart, not his external features. I used to fantasize about what my life would be like if all my friends could do the same.

To this day, I can't help but shed a tear of joy remembering how happy i was when later in the series the NERD would get the girl, and help save everyone from the alien invasion.

It was that first book and the nerd that created a core of desire to be accepted and live in a society where everyone was equal. No matter what happened in my life, whether it was suicidal attempts to drug addicted parents to average old rejection from the opposite sex, i knew that no matter how much i wished to cut the core of desires out from within me it would never happen.

Books like "The Tripod" would never allow it, and neither would Beanpole.

Benign Butterfly #1

2005-06-28T17:20:00.000-07:00

Even though I was only ten, I knew that my friend Natalie was a little weird. She wouldn’t let our Barbies be professional ice skaters – she wanted them to be strippers. It made me feel funny but she always let me play with the brown-haired doll even thought I knew it was her favorite. And she did have the camping trailer so I let it go.

The last night I ever spent at her house, her mom took us to the grocery store. She told us we could pick whatever snack and movie we wanted as long as we were quiet. I chose the food – a package of raw cookie dough that we later ate even though we burnt the cookies. She chose Salem’s Lot for our movie. It’s the 1979 tale of a vampire epidemic in a small Northwestern town.

My mother hadn’t even let me watch PG-13 movies yet. The hottest scene I’d ever watched was Prince Charming kissing Sleeping Beauty. The scene in Little Mermaid when the chef chased Sebastian with a butcher’s knife was the most violent thing I’d ever seen. And of course, I’d never seen a scary movie.

But my mom wasn’t there to tell me no and Natalie’s mom was too interested in the latest issue of The Inquirer to care what we’d picked. She let us watch the movie in her bedroom alone. We huddled in her bed only a few feet from the screen.

I was scared. Terrified. So frightened I’m not sure why I didn’t wet my pants. Natalie at least pretended to be brave so I tried to hide the fear consuming every hair on my body. The vampires growling with their milk-white faces and blood-red lips looked so close to me that I was certain that they’d reach out and grab me. When I needed to scream, I stuffed my open mouth against a pillow to hide my yelling. I wanted to die because I knew that was the only way I’d forget what I’d seen.

After the movie, it took me hours to fall asleep. I kept hearing vampire claws scraping at the window and I could feel hot vampire breathe on my neck. Finally, when I heard was sure Natalie has fallen asleep, I sobbed until I too fell asleep.

When I came home, I told my mother. I knew she’d be mad but I hadn’t yet learned to keep secrets from her. She brushed my hair behind my ears and told me it was okay. It was just a movie, it’s not real. And yet, I didn’t believe her.

Salem’s Lot rocked my world. It shattered the perfect picture of life that my parents had so carefully built. The world wasn’t so rose-colored and not every movie ends with happily ever after. That’s when I started doubting everything my parents had told me. Maybe all dogs don’t go to heaven. Maybe Santa doesn’t really have eight reindeer. Maybe my face won’t stay that way.

I can’t remember my fourth-grade teacher’s name, but I can still remember the shrill scream of the women attacked by the vampires. My perfect world has been infected with hundreds more blemishes but I’ll never forget the first pock on that image. And I am still scared shitless of horror films.

Daunting Dolphin #1

2005-06-28T15:05:00.000-07:00

They were always a bit worried about me, really. It was the combination of speed and lethargy. My mind seemed to race, but my mouth couldn’t keep up. I slurred and stuttered and got so excited that I would bounce on my toes until my hair fell into my face and no one could see my face. I was a little mop on top of a chubby little body, not a student.

My siblings were never this way. They sat quietly and read, even if my older sister moved her lips and used her fingers to track the words until she was 10 or so. They were good readers, good students and good speakers. I garbled all of my words so badly that no one outside my family knew what I was talking about. And I couldn’t really read.

To be fair, I could read enough to justify my place in the first grade. That’s not really saying much, but I did know the alphabet and I had a pretty good grasp on the idea that spelling was not optional. On birthday presents I tended to sign my name backwards and used capital letters as decorative elements whenever I fancied. At least I knew that letters meant something.

I hated reading, though: I couldn’t sit still for it. Even now, if I read something I find interesting or amusing, I hope I’m in the room alone: I cannot prevent myself from interrupting others to share lines like “he screamed like an angel that had just discovered why he was on the wrong side.” Back then, I never read far enough into a single book to find lines like that. Lines that seared across my mind and made me want to pick up a paintbrush (until I figured out that I can’t paint; now I reach for my pen and paper).

My mother did her best- I had the entire Boxcar Children book set in all their insipid glory on my shelf. My siblings had loved them. Each night I would pretend to read before I went to bed. Instead I wandered off to explore the edges where my mind curled back onto itself. It was easy to get away with it in school. Few teachers were willing to mentally translate the slurred and stuttering speech into something comprehensible.

It didn’t last. Work with a speech therapist toned down one line of miscommunication, and the stories about what happened to liars prevented intentional miscommunications. I had to learn how to sit still long enough to actually read or face my teachers’ wrath.

I was lucky. I found the right book at the right time. We were allowed to choose any book we wanted and bring it into class for individual reading time. As a first grader, these tended to be simplistic books along the same lines as the hated Boxcar Children books. But I found the right book: in the dusty and slightly creepy basement, hidden among the rest of the beat-up old books I found a slim volume entitled Shadow Castle by Marian Cockrell.

It was fantasy, of course. It was like a daydream that had been written down by someone who had mastered the strange arts of spelling and capitalization. It was perfect. I devoured it and demanded more. I could communicate now and I knew what I wanted. My teachers wavered between excited and bemused until settling on placation. They recommended books and allowed me to read what I wanted.

Shadow Castle did what nothing else had been able to do, and I learned how to sit still and read. I learned how to read because I found books that let my mind explore in the same bizarre places it took itself naturally. Eventually my enjoyment of reading expanded, and I could stomach the idea of reading assigned books. Shadow Castle was lost in the shuffle.

I spent years looking for another copy of that book. Without the internet, an out-of-print not particularly popular book was difficult for a child to find. I didn’t get my hands on a new copy until I was in high school.

It was terrible. The book was absolute drivel in a way that only saccharine children’s books can be. It’s on my bookshelf now. It has pride of place between Macbeth and Never Let Me Go. I read it every summer.

Sassy Snake #1

2005-06-28T10:06:00.000-07:00

In case you missed the press release, god died many years ago in a tragic accident.

I’m not talking about a hunting mishap, when your best friend realizes that your blood doesn’t match her hip hunting vest. Heavenly Father died in a construction snafu, and it was his own damn fault.

I first fell in love with God when I was in 5th grade. That was the year that God got all up in my shit. I was filled with Christ love, and I was loving it. Those hymns were so cool, and I was fascinated by the mystery of Sunday service. Lots of people all united around a common cause. A veritable patchwork quilt of humanity, so long as humanity was white and upper middle class. Plus, Jesus was ripped.

I read through the bible with ferocious intensity. A book a night was my required reading but it could snowball when I got really into it. And what’s not to love: murder, rape, incest, masturbation, and whores just to start. The bible was full of indecency, and my family was just impressed that I wanted to read it. In 5th grade it was the little things that I took pleasure in.

Despite these early religious predisposition, my love of church quickly diminished when my parents decided to get divorced. My Mom was to tired to convince me and my brothers to attend Church, and I became and ETC christian (Easter, Thanksgiving, and Christmas). This attendance was even lower when I spent time with my Dad. His love for God was pretty much on par with his love for my mother, and considering he called my mom the bitch of 3rd Avenue, that’s not really a lot of love. Granted, I don’t think he ever poured gasoline on the Church’s lawn, but he could roll with hateful invectives against the Church for quite some time.

After a few years, I decided to reenter the halls of dogma, mostly because of the youth group director. Christ the King Lutheran Church (ELCA) had decided that it was time to increase outreach to the youth community, and had hired two new directors. Ashley was a cute, but Landon was HOTT. Ironic vices reconnected me to Jesus.

Sadly, my hot Texan youth group leader was short lived. He returned to Texas a few short weeks after I began to regularly attend. But Ashley was pretty awesome. The only odd thing was that youth group was more of a eat at Denny’s kinda group than a “talk about god” institution. One night she tried to teach us about humility, and the last supper, by getting us to wash each others feet. That quickly died when James and I put sardines in her shoes. Luckily a trip to Denny’s quickly eliminated any animus.

Thus, my relationship with God was one of convenience. Jesus got me food, and I went to his meetings. It worked for me, but it really didn’t build a lasting relationship with a higher power. God was dead at this point, I just didn’t know it yet.

My senior year, I acquired the fire. Or at least I went to a conference titled “Acquire the Fire.” This conference was when I first realized that God had died. At this conference I went to session intended to talk about other religions. In this meeting, it was posited that other religions come from a dementing of the word of God because of the collapse of the Tower of Babel. When God destroyed the Tower of Babel he decided to let the world collapse into a myriad of languages and different cultures. The person running this group session claimed that other religions emerged from the ashes of natural chaos that comes from a large variety of languages.

I came to a different conclusion. I decided that when the Tower of Babel fell, God buried himself beneath the ruins. My friendly, entertaining, vengeful God accidentally killed himself in a horrible construction accident. If God is the one TRUTH, he requires a common language in order to be realized. The vagueness and ambiguity of language renders any attempt to reach a common truth and useless pursuit in intellectual masturbation (Not that intellectual masturbation isn’t fun, several of us, including our gracious host are debaters after all). The collapse of the Tower of Babel signified the death of univocal truth, the death of metanarrative, and the death of God. At least that’s my freaky literal truth of the bible interpretation.

Dear God,

Why did you have to let Nietzsche be right?

Love,
Me

Creative Cardinal #1

2005-06-27T14:44:00.000-07:00

To insolate something down to a moment a word a thought that changed my life… it’s asking too much of me. It’s like demanding I remember when I first tasted rain. I was raised on literature. My mother sat me on her knee and read to me soft stories form the Bible or from 101 Dalmations. Or the “Very Hungry Caterpillar”… That used to be my favorite. And there was a squished book that I liked to chew on, something about a sleeping turtle? Mommy read the story to me so many times that I memorized it and pretended to read the story out loud to her. There are pictures of me proudly “reading”, the book upside-down.

Actually, you probably think it’s kind of silly but my morality and identity was sculpted, in a large part, by Dr. Seuss. Come to think about it, everything I am can be collected into some thoroughly ludicrous rhyme. For example, I have spent my entire life searching for the magical, whimsical place of Katroo, which is my own personal Xanadu (From “Happy Birthday to You”). It’s a wonderful world where children have parades in their honor, breakfast in bed, and everybody is loving and kind for you. No one pushes you down at recess and makes you eat mud. Okay, the part of me that is a critical adult responds to “For Birthday luncheons as a rule/We serve hot dogs, rolled on a spool,” with enraged protests over animal cruelty, heart attacks, and the glorification of consumer culture as the ultimate good. YOU CAPITALIST BASTARDS! But inside my non-pretentious heart, there is a part of me that snickers, wanting nothing more than to pulp all the endangered bird species’ eggs together for my selfish delight. Mmm… nothing sounds better to me this moment than some Scrambled Eggs Super! (ala Peter T. Hooper). It’s akin to the part of me that wants to be the first person taken into space for the purposes of tourism. A rational part of me says that sightseeing on Jupiter has got to be really bad for the environment of good ol’ Mother Earth (all the fuel expended and poisons released into the environment and all), but if someone offered me a ticket I’d be there in a heartbeat. And to have sex in zero-g? Damn!

Anyway, lucky for a world that has enough ruthless dictators already, the hedonistic side of me is tempered with other values I have inherited from the Good Doctor. For example, I have a rather annoying twinge of conscience that was imparted to me directly by dicta on justice from such works as The Five Hundred Hats of Bartholomew Cubbins. The greatest unfairness of the world is that some people suffer for something that’s not their fault. Bartholomew was going to be killed just because the universe decided that he was going to wear a hat. It wasn’t his fault that he was wearing a hat, in fact, he fought the hat. Nevertheless, he was going to be punished, and that was anything but moral. My lack of love for authority figures can be drawn from the people in Seuss’ books that impose such silly laws. Why should anyone obey a king who would kill somebody just because they wore a nice hats? (speaking of which, I wonder if that’s where I got my love of shopping and accessories…some of those be-gemmed, be-feathered hats were pretty rad.) Who would obey a leader that called down the Oobleck? You could say that Bartholomew was the first inspiration for all my later, civil disobedience (we both have a kind of tame, mousy style, looking at the world with big, wide eyes, confused that it is quite so ridiculous as it has turned out to be). Oooh, I almost forgot to mention the ruler from Yertle the Turtle… now there was a tyrannical regime if ever I saw one!

And wouldn’t it just be the awesomest thing ever if there was a LGBTQ parade where everybody wore stars on their bellies? Sneetches & Other Stories taught me about equality. We’re not that different, after all, and even before I sensed the queer tendencies skimming through my own blood I recognized that there were rights that everyone should enjoy, regardless of the minutia of sexual orientation. (Speaking of those “Other Stories” was anyone else totally freaked out by the wandering pants? That scared the shit out of me when I was little.)

Of course it’s ironic that my very-Republican grandparents gave me my first doses of liberalism in The Lorax and the The Butter Battle Book, but to go into the political ramifications of those stories are obvious to the point of tedium. Let’s face it, Doctor Seuss has got to be one of the greatest pamphleteers on the planet. His propaganda indoctrination skill is unparalleled, so subtle that there are no calls by Republicans to cut his funding or schools trying to ban his works. That’s what I want to be as a writer—I want to impart and justify my values in logical, reasonable fashion, so quietly it becomes a definition of you from the inside-out and not from some methodic preaching.

I wish I lived in Katroo. I wish things were that easy. I wish that people didn’t forget my birthday, that I had a chocolate cake ten-stories high with peppermint frosting, and that everyone would see each other as cuddly, furry little creatures worthy of acclaim of themselves. I still love reading Dr. Seuss and all those childhood stories, call it nostalgia or sentimental or whatever. I have a dream, and it comes straight from the pages of the books read to me at bedtime.

Soft, soft… turtle creeps.
Hush, hush… turtle sleeps.

Giddy Giraffee #1

2005-06-26T18:22:00.000-07:00

It happened when I was in fourth grade, age 10. It had been such a dreadful year. It was the year of the big move, my mom’s 2nd marriage, my 1st time testifying in court and above all it was the year of a no lace, no frills, no tiny pink rosebud, plain jane training bra my mother insisted I wear.

I remember the precise location of my life altering book. Third floor of my grandparent’s house, in the office, back wall bookcase, fourth shelf, 6th book from the left. It was jutted out a few inches as if it was jumping off of the bookshelf. In all the hours I’d spent pouring over this bookshelf, I’d never noticed it before. I knew right away something was special about this book. It was old, worn out and smelt funny.

Sitting cross legged on the floor I examined my peculiar find. It was red leather bound, weighed at least a ton and had more pages than a bible. Barely visible were these light scratches on the front cover, READ AND DIE. I slowly traced the words with my finger, then completely disregarding the warning label opened the book to an ear marked page.

Last night I had sex with Daniel
Twice

Simultaneously I yelleped, slammed the cover shut and turned around to see if anyone else was in the room. I stuck my head into the hallway just to make sure I was alone then slowly re-opened the sex book to page one.

My name is Marlene M. Remele. My friends call me Molly and my stupid brothers call me pigface. This is my journal.

I giggled silently over pigface because I know what it is like to have brothers. I turned my attention back to the first name. Marlene M. Remele. Hmmm. Slowly it dawned on me Grandma M must stand for Grandma Marlene and this must be her journal and *gasp* she had sex with Daniel, *gasp, gasp* twice! I wanted to know who this Daniel person was and more importantly my 10 year old mind wanted to know more about the, you know…. S word, but I didn’t think my mom or grandma would approve of me reading this journal. It took me .2 seconds to decide. I memorized the location of the book, threw it into the bottom of my backpack and ran downstairs putting on what I think is my most non-criminal face.

Over the next few nights I spent hours hunched on by bed with my flashlight reading the forbidden journal. I read about sex with Daniel, but that wasn’t the best part. In this massive book I read about my grandma’s first kiss, about how badly she wanted to go to school like her brothers, about not having a pretty dress to dance in, about how rough her hands were from picking grapes all day. She wrote a lot about grapes. She despised them; she dreamt about dancing in a country club and drinking wine. “I’ll be the one drinking the grapes, not the one stuck picking them.” She didn’t want to hold hands with Daniel, she was too embarrassed of her “field hands”.

Gradually the entries had more and more of a time lapse between them; sometimes it was 5 years between entries. She got married and started a vineyard of her own. I remember the shock of reading she was going to have a baby and hoped it was a girl. I literally clapped my hands with joy because I knew it was going to be a girl and better yet it was going to be my mom. On the next page my mom was born, and it wasn’t a happy entry.

“Birth of my first child a girl, my very own. I have nothing to give her. I have no pretty dresses and food. I can’t promise her life and I can’t give her cleean hands. I feel hopless because no matter how hard I try I won’t be able to give my child the things I grew up wanting. My child will be a feild worker. Like me, like mom, just like always.”

My Grandma went on to have many more children and do many great things. When my mom was 6 they left the vineyard and left California, driven by my grandma’s desire to find a better life.

Fourth grade, age 10. It was the year Grandma M died from cancer. Cancer is a slow, painful process. She was bedridden and constantly slipping in and out of consciousness for two months. Towards the end my guilty soul forced a confession. Sobbing, I grabbed her hand and explained how I stole the journal, but meant to give it back. And that I read it, but wouldn’t tell Grandpa D about Daniel and that I loved her and that I thought she was the most courageous person in the world. After a few moments of silence I told her something she already knew, Grandma I said, “I’ve never picked a grape in my life, I don’t even think I’ve ever seen a vineyard. And I’m going to go to college and I can’t dance but I have a pretty dress. We made it. You made it.” I can’t be certain she heard me, or she that she understood what I meant, but she was peaceful when she died. I believe it was because she knew she had given her family a better life.

This red, leather journal is one of my most prized possessions. Not only did it rock my world, but it is my world so to speak. It is the physical reminder of the sacrifices my family made for me. As a ten year old my chest swelled with pride for my family name. I will be fighter, a hard worker and a survivor; like my mom, like my grandma, just like always.

Flippant Flamingo #1

2005-06-26T18:13:00.000-07:00

Like most little sisters, I was a nosy little pest. My older sister, C, and I were constantly fighting- I wanted to be a part of her group of friends, be cool like her, hang out with all these high school guys that were friends of my brother, B, and thought of her as the little sister. I was just the munchkin that got in the way, or could be coerced to bring them food. Of course, by the time I was in middle school, my brother was in college, and when I was a freshman in high school, they were both attending college. I had spent most of my 14 years before entering high school trying to do exactly two things-- be like my brother and sister, and prove to everyone else I wasn’t like my brother and sister.

The funny thing is, I didn’t really know them. Sure, I lived with them before they left for school, but they were both their own clan that didn’t want me around. I spent more time with mom and dad. More and more my view of those two became caricatures- pictures with a few characteristics highlighted, exaggerated, and the rest slightly blurry memories of good times and bad.

One day in the summer between freshmen and sophomore years in high school, I was cleaning out one of the many random storage drawers in our house, and found a binder and a pile of papers. With nothing else in particular to do that day, I sat down to read. It turned out to be a collection of both of my siblings writings- a few essays B had written throughout his years in school, and almost all of Cs freshmen composition pieces.

The first page scared me. It began with a line about The Boxcar, a hangout place that I had just very recently been allowed into. It told what, to me, was a very intimate story of friends and family and moments in time that had happened in this place that I was excluded from. That one essay, just a page or two long, taught me more about my brother than I had ever thought possible. Suddenly, I was able to look through his eyes at what I had only seen selfishly. I read through paper after paper, about events and places and experiences that had shaped them. I had been there for some of them. Others, I hadn’t even known were happening. I saw all of these moments in new, and almost unbelievable ways.

As I was reading, I could feel the caricatures melting away, being replaced with pictures that were three-dimensional, complex, and almost beyond my understanding. In that day, those four hours of reading, I learned more about my family than I had in the last fourteen years. I had begun to understand not only why they were who they were, but that it was alright for me to define myself as more than not them. That day taught me that I could be myself, and not be afraid of it.

That binder and stack of papers, that book that only my family owns, was the most influential reading I could have ever asked for. It changed not only how I acted and thought and saw the world at that moment, but continues to do so today.