Share your creative writing and short stories

[m1469]

I thought it would be fun to have a creative writing and/or short story thread where each person submits a short story (or other creative writing) that is not directly based on a previous poster's story.  Each submission is to be complete on its own.

If you wish to make comments and critiques, please do so here :

https://www.pianostreet.com/smf/index.php/topic,10636.msg109391.html#msg109391
(thread for the purpose of posting comments and critiques on these writings)


Rules :

*Each person is writing his or her own unique story with a beginning, middle and end to fit within no more than 2 posts (3,000 characters, I think).

*You may make as many entries as you wish, however, no direct sequel to any previous story is permitted.

*Any style you wish

*(pssst... feel free to have a lot of fun)


Okay, you start... LOL - I am off to be creative and conjure up a short story, he he

[pianonut]

the piano lesson

it was a cloudy day.  the half hour had struck on the grandfather clock of the serious piano teacher's dreary studio.  the darkness of the interior was due to the pieces of furniture being big, dark, walnut wood.  it added to the immense feel of the bookcases.  except for the gargoyles situated at the corners of the room, there was no lightness. the curtains were drawn.

the musty smell dissipated when a bright, curly haired, somewhat shirley templish girl entered.  she smelled of springtime and her ribbons and curls shimmered and bounced.  never once complaining of the musty smell, tunafished (left over cans of catfood underneath the couch), baked beans odered piano room.  opening her book to page 10, she announced that she had practiced well for the week and was going to play 'the clock.'

she began to play sort of out of sync with her bobbing head.  the teacher could see she was making an effort to keep time, so he allowed her to to get to the second measure.  finally, in exhasperation, he put his foot down (clomp) and a huge puff of deoderizer poofed out.  coughing from his own attempt to stop the girl before she became set in a bad habit (syncopating a clock) - he reached out for his nebulizer and simultaneously sprayed and talked.  cough - no no - cough   here, this is what you must feel - and he made the girl listen to the metronome for 15 minutes.

in the meantime, he went and made himself a cup of coffee, drank it, and feeling quite happy again, went back into the studio.  not realizing, this girl was the kind right out of goldilocks and the three bears and had just made herself comfortable in his teaching chair and had fallen fast asleep.  the door bell rang, and the mother was asking how her daughter had done at her lesson and what was to be practiced the following week.  scared, and spitless, the serious piano teacher accidentally shut the door on the mother, playeed beethoven's fifth to wake the daughter, stuffed her books in her hand, and pushed her out the door with a happy smile.  she's doign wonderfully.  she's going to be a natural.  with that, he went and took a nap.     

[TheHammer]

I certainly do not have the time to write a new story now, so I just typed one I had to do for my English class last year. That was quite fun, I think the assignment was to write what one will do after school, or something along these lines. It was a homework, so I had written a story, which was, well, not quite remarkable. But I forgot it at home, and so I had to write a new one in the school bus in perhaps 25 minutes + school breaks. Our English teachers tends to react quite aggressive if one forgets such things ("Oh my, that is bad, I just wanted to test you today with this story. Well, I guess  0 points then..."). Here it is. If you have problems understanding the story, so had I when re-reading it . At the end I will write a short comment on what I think I wanted to say.

STORY
It was a dark morning, seldomly lit up by flashing lightnings and underlaid by grumbling thunder. I left my small car and crossed the muddy backyard, my heavy suitcase in my hand. While my coar wetted, I imagined myself sitting in the warm living room, reading an interesting book in complete silence or relaxing watching some soccer. But home was over now, and a wooden, obiously very old door stopped my dreams of careless comfort and the unimaginable greatness of irresponsibility.
Yet, I had to open the door, which I did, not able to avoid a screeching welcome, making me stop, breath twice and interiorly crying about my forever lost childhood.
I climbed the stairs effortfully, so that I heard my heart beat as well as my own accusations in my mind, when I stood in front of room 31 at last, probably the most rotten one in whole Berlin, in which I should now pass the years of university. My aversion against this room became physically sensible when the manifestation of my negative thoughts opened the door in shape of my future room mate, a (fortunately) distant relative, called Peter. As he was, was the room: generally dirty, particulary ugly, smelling like alcohol and vomit, the known mixture, and at last: nudity. And with this guy I should scrape my living...
Deadly despairation grew inside me, rose, clasped me and began to devour my most interior, while urgent urine pressure forced me into the unknown darkness.
My question for the toilet went down under cracking thunder, red eyes followed my ways to the not trustable looking couch. Heaviness came upon my mind, my eyes were dragged down again, and so they could not see what I felt and heard: Peter uttering filthy shreds of a nerv-racking speech, while the room, the unwished damned room began to turn around, making my wish for peace and calm become unbearable abd expelling all other thoughts out of my mind.
I fled into unconsciousness and left problems, drug-addictives and the nasty room behind me and flew through red skies and then, then I felt a hairy hand in my mouth. I opened my eyes, saw Peter's impure skin and noticed a thiny thing slick along my throat. Suddenly, Peter's voice I hadn't perceived consciously yet, being a mere whisper, became now a clear flood of cries, a storm of painful words. Simultaneously, the dark room became white everywhere, Peter leaving and transforming into a green fairy covered with flowers, marvellous colours shining bright in the light of three suns and my body exploding into a firework of stars...

I feel a punch in my belly. I look up, see a blurry figure, an old man. He is saying something, then he punches me again, punches me, fades away. Raindrops do hurt me,  but they aren't falling. I try to move but find the cold street much more pleasant than much colder reality. Someone shouts, but in fact I decide not to listen. I am not prepared for life, I won't be never. My decision, now unceasingly running through my dissolving thought: leave it.

END

COMMENT
Okay. I changed nothing, that is the original bus-version, so please forgive some grammatical mistakes. Also I am not quite pleased with several passages, e.g. in the beginning, where there are like 3 or 4 adjective-substantive phrase in one sentence.
Anyway, also I am not so sure about some images and metaphors I used, for example the "fireworks of stars" I don't really know how this sounds for a native speaker. On the other hand, I can say that there are some phrases which I liked quite when re-reading it. Seems as if I can work pretty well under pressure...

On the story: If you want to come up with your own interpretation, you may do not want to read further. Anyway, as I am not sure what I was thinking either that day, this is just a suggestion.
So, this guy is in the big city to go to university, and he misses his home and has now to settle with a distant relative, which does not seem to be best company (actually quite inspired by one of my real relatives ). So, he fades away after he enters the room. I would say I was thinking about a physical weakness, you know the stress or the smell.
Then he awakes, and feels tiny things down his throat. These are most certainly pills. Why Peter is giving them to this guy, I don't know. The guy has some kind of a drug vision (which, btw, seems a bit of a cliche, doesn't t?). And then wakes up on the street again. How does he come there? Oh, and he is hit by an old man, and probably dies on the street (that is just my reading).
I figured that perhaps I had a second plan story. I think that the complete first of the two paragraphes is a drug vision itself (up to fireworks of stars), the tiny little things are just a memory of the real drugs he has taken (because he can't cope with the new situation, going away from home).
Two things seem to say me this. First, tenses, the "vision" is in past tense, "reality" in present tense. Secondly, "my eyes were dragged down again". Anyway, if that is the true sense of the story, I must confess it is poorly crafted because it isn't very clear (I had some kind of this explanation in mind yet, so I quite knew what to look for).
In a revised version, I would perhaps try to make the thunderstorm much more similar to the other visions, and would perhaps rather follow the developments of feelings according to "normal" drug experiences: namely from exaltion to pain.

However, this was perhaps completely unnecessary, but, as you are the first ones to read this (yes, of course my English teacher didn't take me), I felt like explaining myself. Proof of my self-doubts, I guess....

[Waldszenen]

"A FROG CALLED FROG"


One day a frog went by the lake and ate a fly. He choked on it because frogs have no teeth and then he died.



END

[TheHammer]

Wow, Waldszenen, that was so deep, I am impressed by your skills!

The title alone: "A frog called Frog". How much is expressed by this? The longer I think about it, the more aspects I can find in it. First, the recursivity of this nomenclatur. The Frog already descripted by its name, this seems to induce a intensification of perception of nature itself. This tautology, frog=frog, lifts the frog to a new, lmost transcendental level of existence, thus making the frog "itself" the truth behind the story. We should keep this in mind.
Then, the first part of the story. Monumental, I might say, it starts with "one day". Oh, which simple glory, what easiness in expression to start such a complex work. "One", on the one hand, being the smallest whole number, you could also say, it represents the atoms our world consists of. So, here, we have this reference to he "microcosm", whereas in the title already the intangible notion of spirit of the world, that is to say,  "macrocosm" is expressed. This contrast (micro<->macro) was also a theme in Goethe's Faust, and I think we can draw further comparisons. Take then "day" for instance. What is not expressed by this word? Day means also, morning, noon, and evening, means beginning and end. This notion of a circuit in small scale, of course, correlates again with the "one". On the other hand, day always implies "night" and thus, we already are being pointed towards the tragic end of this epic. But let's look further. "a frog". That blew me away. Instead of a long-winded introduction, you come straight to the point. The frog is already symbol of the all-understanding spirit (do you mean God?) in contrast to human "day". Anyway, the frog "went by the lake". What a grand phrase, that sure can become a world-famous quote, as "to be or not to be". And it sure would be applicable on every day life's situation (Hey, I just "went by the lake". - Wow, you also know Waldszenen's works? I am such a grand admirer of his oeuvre.) What does the "lake" stand for? It is the life bringer to the frog, but doesn't it also represent the great "uncertainty" of life, everyone feels. Is this meant to be a reference to m1469's great curiosity, because, the frog definitely is an explorer, becauses he "goes", he actively changes his position towards this "uncertainty". On the other hand, one has to see the small word "by" also, the frog did not go "to" the lake, but only "by". That is, more in an indirect way. This can already be understood as a warning towards all too curious (beware m1469!). And then, the furious end of the first part: "and ate a fly". I love your way of connecting ideas, you sure are a witty guy, "and" I'd never been able to figure that one out. And of course, this gives the story the action it deserves, although, perhaps it is already too descriptive? Anyway, perhaps this is necessary to understand the great event. I think "ate a fly" on the one hand stands for life itself, escpecially the verb here. Eating or being eaten, the major principle of life. But then, on the other hand, of course also the arbitrariness of life. The fly, perhaps sitting in the sun, is suddenly in the mouth of the all-embracing frog (remember, the Frog is also the "notion of perception", the "universe" and perhaps even divinity in itself, all expressed in the title). This connection between life, death and God, has enough potential of tension to lead over the overwhelming resistance of the full stop you understood so marvellously to place here. The next part begins with the catastrophe, following the classical scheme of drama of Aristoteles, "He choked on it". What a powerful statement. The whole world seems to tremble under the impression of these words. He choked, all values, all notions seem to quaver and to fall into nothingness. Is this perhaps also a political statement, referring to the London attacks, or terrorism in general? Remember, the fly is at the lake, the great "uncertainty", and the fly surely is something strange to the frog, even dangerous. But is still necessary for the frog to embrace it, probably referring to the "openness of societies"?. Anyways, now, so to speak, in the 4th act, we come to the "retarding moment", an explanation, which possibly tightens the impression of a political statement: "because frogs have no teeth". Teeth, again such an ambigous term, it sure represents beauty, perfection, but on the other hand also predators, blood, violence perhaps. In which sense the metaphor of "teeth" is used here, possibly only the author can say. Anyway, the tragic end is, as usual with the output of such a talented writer, on the same high level of the complete story: "and then he died". Remark how in the whole second part, the frog (that is THE frog, the frog called frog) is replaced by the uncertain "he" and how there is only a reference to "frogs" in general. The "he" dies, but "THE frog" dissolves into the superior continuum of "frogs", and so you could also speak of Hegelian synthesis: thesis: frog as the representation of understanding, language, the world, antithesis: the process of eating, perhaps even something dangerous, eating in the form of violence, but, because the "frogs have no teeth" (See how THE frog is already to a certain extent part of the "frogs") all this leads into the synthesis of death, but also a higher level of existence (for the frog, and therefore for the universe itself!). This, of course, can also be applied to today's life as shown, and all of this in such a simple form, with such elementary means, I am inclined to compare this to a Beethoven symphonie, perhaps the 4th, which is, as we know, also called the "Frog Symphony". Did you have the jumping broken triads in mind, when you looked for your topic? Simply marvellous, of course, the Symphony isn't exactly ending so tragical, but we could perhaps change the ending (of the symphony that is, of course). Great job, and I hope you continue to let us enjoy your great talent! But please make your stories a bit shorter, I have hardly the time to read them.

 

And PS: pianonut and TheHammer, shame on you for wasting my time, you should definitely try to learn something from Waldszenen, I prefer him all the time. I mean, so much meaningless words, no context, no elaboration of the ideas, what is this all supposed to say me? Whereas with "A FROG CALLED FROG"  you sure have the synthesis of style, form, and content. I mean, you don't even have a title, Hammer!

 

[Aniam]

On the Train

Lee Masa stared out the train window and tried very hard to look inattentive. When she and her father boarded the train they had been discussing the origin of the skull cap. Their English conversation immediately branded them as foreigners and the two travelers next to them had apparently decided they could speak freely in Hungarian. One of them, on her father's left, was young and excitable. His thin brown hair stuck out in every direction and his angular face was never still. The other sat next to Lee and gave an impression of immense solidity. His clothes, skin, and hair were all gray and almost seemed to merge. His body never moved from its slouch but when Lee stole a quick glance at his face she saw his eyes shone and twinkled.

Hungarians never thought foreigners could speak their language, Lee reflected. But then she wasn't entirely a foreigner. Both sets of grandparents had been Hungarian immigrants. Her parents had spoken Hungarian to her at home and when Mr. Masa was posted to the American embassy in Budapest Lee quickly became fluent. She twiddled absently with the gold Star of David around her neck. The men paid no attention to the teenage girl staring out the window.

"I was so angry when I read that! Americans don't understand our country. They come here and think they can preach at us."

The train bounced the four passengers gently; they sat in two pairs of blue seats facing each other. The carriage looked very new with smooth off-white walls.

"Don't get worked up, Péter." The older man's voice was slow. "Calm down."

Lee glanced at her father, but he was peering through his spectacles at the paper, and didn't seem to be paying attention. His smooth brown hand gripped the pages gently so as not to wrinkle them. They were going to Debrecen for the day. Mr. Masa would attend meetings while Lee wandered around, hunting out the museums listed in the guide book. There was also a church tower in the center of town, the book reported, and you could climb it for a good view. She stirred restlessly in her seat. It had the fuzzy feel of an airplane chair and tickled her long hair with static electricity.

"Americans just like to see problems so they can fix them," Péter continued. "That article was rubbish."

Which article, wondered Lee.

"Which article again?" asked the other man.

Thank you, thought Lee.

"Bálint, don't you read the paper?"

"I skim it occasionally."

Lee thought she could hear a smile in Bálint's voice.

"It was a speech by the American ambassador. He accused us," Péter snorted, "of being anti-Semitic."

Lee could hardly keep from turning to stare at Péter. Instead she gave another glance at her father. Surely he couldn't really be reading that paper. Wasn't he interested? After all, he was the one who actually wrote that speech.

"Well," said Bálint, "maybe he was thinking historically."

"What the Germans did in Hungary was hardly our fault."

Lee's mind flashed back to her first few weeks in Budapest, before the enormous cardboard boxes with all their things arrived. She had always been home schooled and every time they moved to a new post summer vacation would last until all their books and school materials came. She spent the time dutifully going to all the sights in the city, climbing the castle hill, walking by the Danube, visiting the museums. And she had gone to the House of Terror. It's black awning stood out sharply in the bright sunlight that shone cheerily down on Andrássy Avenue. It seemed out of place among the old buildings and green trees. Although mainly devoted to atrocities perpetrated by the Communists there were also rooms dedicated to the Holocaust. The pictures and long lists of names of the dead sent shivers down her back.

"It wasn't just Germans," said Bálint. "We also…"

"Anyway," Péter interrupted before he could finish, "he wasn't speaking historically. He meant here and now. According to him we, you and me, all Hungarians, hate Jews."

"I doubt he said so in so many words."

"It amounted to that. And it wasn't true at all. We treat Jews the same way we treat everyone else."

That's not saying much, Lee thought. Hungarians were not very friendly on first acquaintance. Or even on second acquaintance. It seemed to her they viewed the rest of the world with suspicion, afraid lest anyone encroach on their identity. But despite this (Lee gave a slight nod) it was surprising how fond you could become of them. Their city Budapest was full of atmosphere and its state of ill-repair only added to that. Now that autumn was coming an air of brown and gray romance filled the streets and made her tingle with excitement.

Lee let her eyes dart over to Péter. He wore a brown coat and pinned on it was a little rosette in the colors of the Hungarian flag. Red, white, and green. Perhaps he was going to a rally? Her father turned the page of his paper. The speech Mr. Masa had written for the ambassador had caused a lot of discussion when printed in the papers and Lee was pretty sure he enjoyed the stir.

"I mean look at the position of the Jew in our society. How are they any different from the rest of us? In fact, they're usually better off. Take music for example. Almost all Hungarian musicians are Jewish."

Lee closed her eyes for a minute. The enormous Budapest synagogue rose in her mind. It was night outside but indoors bright lights shone down on the crowd. The wooden seats were high with smooth backs. And through all the building's decorations Lee saw repeated the Star of David, the star she wore around her neck. Both Jews and Gentiles were clapping loudly in time to the music. She could hardly see the klezmer band, just a sea of hats and prayer caps. As the singer's tempo got faster she could feel the rhythm pounding inside her.

Shalom al Israel…

"I was at the Music Academy last night at a piano concert." Lee opened her eyes at the renewed sound of Péter's voice. Sunlight was glinting on his glasses, making him blink. "It was András Schiff. Case in point. One of the greatest Hungarian pianists and Jewish. Our Jews belong to us, they're a part of us."

Lee wondered briefly what it was like to belong somewhere, really belong. To a place where you'd lived your whole life, perhaps. It was a shock coming back to the States from China last year. The teenagers she saw intimidated her. They were self-assured while she was diffident. Their conversation was hard to follow, full of references to pop singers and TV shows. It was frustrating trying to find a connection with them and with life in Washington suburbs. Her grandparents were Hungarian but her parents American. Her father joined the Foreign Service when she was five and they had left the States to return only on short visits. She had never gone to a real school. And then, she didn't like to admit it somehow, but going to a synagogue each week instead of church seemed to lay the final bricks to a barrier that she sometimes felt she could reach out and touch. The walls of the synagogue embraced her as one of God's people but closed out the rest of the world.

It was a relief to go overseas again where everyone expected her to be foreign, a stranger. Her parents had taken her to Budapest once when she was very small but she hardly remembered it. It rose before her a new world: shabby but beautiful. Many of the buildings were rundown and some still bore the damage done by bombing in World War Two. The lights at night along the river made her think of a Christmas tree.

"Our Jews belong to us," Bálint echoed absentmindedly.

Silence fell on all the passengers. The train slid rapidly through the countryside. Plains, trees, gray hills. It would take several hours to reach Debrecen. The open land looked to Lee tired and vulnerable. Like its people, she thought, always being invaded, always on the wrong side in a war. Trying to be apart but wanting to belong.

"I'm hungry," Bálint announced suddenly. "Let's go to the dining car and get some breakfast."

"All right." Péter stood up and looked over at the two Americans. The young man's gaze met the girl's dark eyes. His glance traveled downward and he stared for a moment at Lee's necklace. Her own eyes dropped automatically and caught the rosette on his chest. Red, white, and green. Not gold, gold was what the Jews had worn on their chests. Péter's voice came again, cold like the fall air outside. "Anyway, I'm tired of sitting here with these…foreigners. Come on."

Lee looked up. She gave a faint grin and nodded her head to them as they started off down the aisle.

[pianonut]

hmmm.  sounds like you're a writer.  and, you have a lot of facts.  though i don't think people that attend synagoge are shutting out the rest of the world.  Jesus Christ was a Jew.  if you read the bible carefully, in isaiah 53 it makes reference to Christ.  the same Christ who came and died and was ressurrected.  that Christ would die and yet see light (ressurrection).  as i understand it,  all of us (that see all colors gold, green, red, white)have jewelry today but added will be the 'treasure of heaven' - so far beyond compare to the little gems we call jewelry now.  and, there will be peace that trancends 'in-fighting' among jews/christians/muslims etc.  all people will be taught of God - so there won't be confusion.

all of the hatred will be in the past.  there won't be memorials all over the place to dead and dying - because there will be a ressurrection of the dead.  the 'winners' will be those (as i understand it) who accept Christ and his sacrifice to atone for sin.  no matter how much grief a sinner causes a believer, they cannot take away their salvation.  no matter how ugly a death - they cannot take away a beautiful future.       

[Aniam]

Hey,

I didn't mean that everyone who attends synagogue shuts out the rest of the world. I just meant Lee felt it added to her isolation from any mainstream society. This could have come from a different religion, but she happens to be Jewish.

[pianonut]

i understand what you are saying.  keep writing!

the sexy pianist

once upon a time, there was an extremely sexy pianist.  he was so sexy that, like dazzer, he attracted women like static electricity.  they would flock around his piano and scream whenever he played scriabin (i don't even know any scriabin, but from the forum i am guessing this is the sexiest music).  after the concert, everyone had hugs for him.  and, would often stick their hands in his pockets (leaving business cards, calling cards, basically any card that had their pic and their number).

the sexy pianist soon tired of all the attention and began to seek help for severe phobias.  he became afraid of women.  soon thereafter, he would finish a concert and then run out the stage back door before anyone could catch him.  jump into the limo and get a ride quickly to the airport.  this did not deter one of his fans, though.

she had secretly put an electronic locator device in his pocket and was tracing his route to the airport.  faking a left turn from a right lane, she 'accidentally' hit the cab.  telling the cabbie that her car was undrivable and could she get a ride to the airport, too.  of course, the sexy pianist was shaking his head 'no no no' to the cabbie (who neglected to look in his rear view mirror) and said 'yes, get in.'  in which case, she almost didn't (due to the sexy pianist reaching out for the locks on the doors) - but, being that she was quite fast - she jumped in and stared in awe at the sexy pianist.

being used to adulation, but not stares - he looked down, then out the window.  not to be dismissed, the woman scooted closer and kept staring.  finally, the pianist (only a mile from the airport) halted the cabbie, paid the sum, and jumped out - thinking he would walk the last mile.  this was a mistake.  the last mistake he ever made in his life (will this be a romance or a mystery?) the woman fan, also, jumped out, and claimed that she had his briefcase of music.  looking down suddenly for his music, she laid one on him.  then she told him that she knew many women liked him, but she was the only one who was smart enough to catch him.  he backed up and tried to turn around, but he was caught in a sort of y traffic pattern and he was at the center of the y.  forgetting all culture, manners, and so on, he started yelling 'fire, fire.'

as it happens, a firetruck just happened to be going by.  they aimed the hose at the man (thinking he was on fire) and sprayed him with 100 lbs pressure per square inch.  this blew him right into the hands of the woman (superwoman - no less) who then swooped up into the sky and told him she'd give him a ride home.  impressed that she was actually superwoman - he agreed to let her take him home.  no more. no less. end of story.

[m1469]

Mr Pigeon


Preening upon a parapet, Mr Pigeon with his bird's eye view, stole a glance toward a man wearing velvet, a cloak of royal blue.  A shank lengthed cloak it was, that velvet royal blue touched with pinnings of gold and silver, a shimmering metallic hue.  Mr Pigeon was a little bored this day, his wife out cooing with the kids, his thoughts went adrift toward humorousness as he puzzled over what to do's.  With a gallant and crafty swoop, he landed atop the head of that man who wore his cloak so proud, and from here our story begins.


Much to the surprise of our mischievous Mr Penguin... I mean Pigeon, the cloaked man did not react at all.  Instead he went about his businesses striding, proudly, feeling bewitchingly tall.  You see, our Mr Penguin... I mean Pigeon, provided roughly half a cubit of height, to this royally cloaked man's stature and Mr Pigeon, was not so sure as to what next he should do.  His plan had been to surprise and pester this man, wielding for himself his much deserved, comedic revenue but instead they just silently walked along.


"Excuse me, Sir" squawked an exciteable, womanly stander-by, "why do you wear a penguin... I mean pigeon, atop your head ?".


"Well," crowed the man, "dilly the 'do, skibbidy bat boww booo... I am a man with a pigeon on my head, because I am cloaked in the royalest of blue".  He tapped his toes and stomped his feet, as the people they flocked all around.  "Look at me everyone" he screechingly howled, "am I great ?  My greatness is drawing a crowd". 


He waved wildly his arms, swinging himself to and fro, content to display for his fans this flamboyantly, personal show.  His excitement, it raged and throbbed in his heart as he fluttered himself all around.  These people stood aghast at this spectacular sight as the man threw himself to the ground.  He wiggled about like a fish out of water as Mr Pigeon remained calm 'top his head.  He did a little break dancing twirling and spinning, then just simply flopping about, until left in the thoughts of the crowd flocked 'round, was not even a morsel of doubt.... he was a genius.   He stood in a flash and reached into his pockets, grabbing fistfuls of monies and cash.  He threw it up in the air and it flew all about, scattering itself into nooks and cranny.   In a frenzi the crowd, they all crouched down revealing many a fanny.  They pecked with their hands and picked with their fingers, to get a little green paper more, they clucked and they cooed as they lifted their fortune as this cloaked man opened his cloak door.  He was naked beneath this velvety blue cloak and he flashed himself for all eyes to see.  The crowd they roared with shreeks and screams, these were not quite calls of glee.


Mr Pigeon deciding he had his fun for the day, spotted a half-eaten croissant in the hands of a child.  While the flocking crowd had become swarmers and crazies, Mr Pigeon readied himself to move.  In a charming and dashingly low-toned voice, he bid these birds "farewell".  "Good luck with it all" he said with a beaked smirk, and off he flew toward his pastry.  He effortlessly plucked it out of this child's hands, as though it were nothing but ease.  He calmly flew up to his man-built perch and from here the people he could tease.   


Above the city streets, quietly he rest, preening upon a parape(s)t.

[ted]

Jimmy's Schooldaze (A Joycean Reminiscence)

By Ted Jones

Intransigenitally clockwise ran the way of the goodness, in the dear old dumpy days of Jimmy's insaucience. The way there was was the way there is and ain't no more. And what a shocking tapestry for all to eye-to-eye was the day the arrival at Jimmy school first at number one was. Thumpdown went the teacher and crumpdown went Jimmy and liedown went Marymummy with Bongodaddy. Wise old Nanniegran sungsong just yesterdreams about how it would be and that's the way it goes. No good never came of it and none would never neither. Mary's draws are so tight-tempered it's d&mn downright dangerlusty for anybooby crucifixes her when the tweeds come off.
Cap it all Jimmy ablaze the shelter-sheds. What a crunchtime! And what inflammatory suggestibles the headmaster came off with just in time too. And such sillyballs were coarsely stuttered as would be respiterated aeons down the line for all to smell. And in front of the motor-mower too! If that wasn't stuffed enough raindown on Drumday cost the mixmaster a leak. Trouble all started Grand-daddy Booby rude it in the dunny paper Jimmy and Mary were having a hairy. Embracing igominy him being a Justice of the Piss at the bridge club. Almost as bad as the yonks Bongodaddy drove us all in the Dilaptomobile to buy Mary a new banana. Don't talk to me about Mr Holditup! Said to Mary are we going to coopterate or are we going to capitulate or are we going to copulate? Nix, nope, nogfist, neverall! Never did go much on the octopus at the rooster show anyway. Jimmy with his tantrum and Bongodaddy with a tight one. All I could do to get my hand to it in the ghost-train with all that elastic and no buttons.

Dullday morning the hole in the class went outside to pee in the rain. The shavemaster scraped up the sums and Jimmy carried the digits. We all said our loudprayers over the Lord's speaker. Bongodaddy was still in bed with the budget when it came over the news Jimmy had a tinkle and a plop. Anyhow the bell for showtime soon flew by and we all exposed ourselves to the Queen Mother. The purpose of the penis was funereally eluxidated by the Nanniegran and the Dux of Edinburgh. The porpoise of the bag of raisins remaind rusty for many a strop thereafter. Which brinks me to the posture in the nick for the class party-pick. Caused no end of flagellation her with a bun in the oven saying what right Mary had when she'd fingered it herself for four hours with no bugger lending a hand. First time she ever upshut without a dicky-bird. Rooted it herself she did - her and Nannie's little Tom-Tit!

Good Gum! Don't bell me Jimmy's gone and got the music-mother in the hole for a year again! If it's not a sing-song it's a ding-dong! Bongodaddy'll hit the floor when he funds it. Straining his spuds on the squeakybed week-in week-out for nary a divvie. Epidiascopically pungent was how the last recorded concertina night wrote off in the write-up. It has come to my notice Mrs Ramsbottom. I'll give him his notice where the thingummy puts his whatsit!

Lunchday morning the babies helped roll up the sandwich ladies. Jimmy's having had his hole filled in the murder-house merely exacerbated the marmite meeting. Having a baby at her age! - and a fish pasting so greedily scrumpted and meticulostically spread was more than a body could butter. All sorts of complications and itchiness could bother the beetroot not to mention the size of the carrot. Lettucelaughs and cheesygrins and an ample bosom of luncheon stoppage constipated the jam session long before the bad boys' bags were into the good girls' boxes.

Just heard it on the gaumless. Bongodaddy's got the first leg of the bubble at the wrestling and Mummy's got a free ticket and a new date. Krushchev and Eisenhower are expecting a happy event and Polly Parsons did a sausage behind the incinerator.
I was just saying while the butcher cut it off the other day what a merrisome twosome nobody wasn't on knives and forks night. Jimmy upwent a trouser rocket, Listerine lit up a lovely and Bongodaddy banged his bulge. After the melting we all stood down and studied the bottle and watched Daddy Davey expostulate a crouchdown. We reliased a big bang and cascaded a Chinese candle only monuments before Uncle Lentil blew out his double-happy. Diddley Divey was tiddled as a farthingale (such embarrassings for his wipe-up!) Hanky-Panky and Hocus-Pocus tumbled a big one all down the burn hole and frighterised the Nanniegran (Pon me word!) Jimmy botherdated a lightup to Mortimer's purple whopper and soon the whole copulation ejaculated prematurewise, but then there occulated the mostest hideonormous fizzerflop (much to the conflagration under the Nanniegran!) and Dinky-Donkey dunk the dawk in the dark!

Teddy had a waspstung on the grapesquash while chasing a steeplejump up the tyrefart. What a hullibollicus! The Marymummy stuffed a bluebee on the stingbag but Teddy faintpuffed a footfat. Jimmy nettled a nasty prickrash during a bus-drivers' innings last Tumbleday and nesticated a rushbum in the horsepiddle. Three shillings went to buy us.

It's just aired on the witless. Daddy Davey's divvies have sunk a blockage down the lavatorials again. Mr Miasma was prostituted for homo-spotting with no licentiousness. Mr Dopeup dumped dead-down just before Plopday. The lice in tobacco's going higher up the spout from Moanday. Bongodaddy passed a pissdated cheeky one out the backdoor trots last Fly-by-night.

All of us had a bit of a Happysanta. Bongodaddy got three dozen studying bottles and a wipesack. Listerine got a knob for a hoseduck and I got an excuse for a turnup and an XOS lacyloose. Jimmy got a trueblue but jetted a scaryplane into the neighbours' dirtysoak and perished the rubberdangle. Listerine and Jimmy were jellypuke from too momentous a fizzypop suckdown. Daddy Davey got three flops and a showpoke and Uncle Lentil got three saddles and a rumpmount. The Nanniegran got a barbecue, a voucher for a new bosom and a chocolate finger. Grand-daddy Booby got a new bellowing bowl and a chocolate date. All in all for what I perceived may the lewd make me truly lustful.

Last Raceday was witnessforth to the stompdown orgiastics after the Campbells were coming inelastic. Such a torrid hoaryshout and a rose before so much a climactic screwed up the tickets we lusted. Auntie Mary misted the bauble and Uncle Lentil mastered the Bible. The Marymummy tooled a tall one and Bongodaddy enjovialled a menial fingerfast on the lemons in the next gruntstand. It shudder be seesaid if Lentil was looser with lace he was willing with whatshername. Missey Davey no never couldn't bare the bump of looking up lating for the horrorsplash.

Whole town talking about the singmaster showpopped a trouserbulge at Mrs Seeall during the descant. So good in the class yet so loose in the grass. Bit of a do-re-mi behind the accidentals if you pitch my phrase. Her at number nine wouldn't hear a bar of it. Wh0re at number four bored a year of it. Dotted his minim good and proper with no ties. Found her key signature in his corduroys. A sharp one in the flat with the organ and a natural at fingering on a grand scale. A virtuoso three moans short of a virgin.
Just touched it up the tactless ! Polar bear's had a rub-a-dub-dub at the zoob. Hippo's had a hop-on, lizard's had a lazy one, tortoise had a troublesome try and all the chimps were chuffed.

ZOO-DOOZ: ERRATA AND PUBIC NOTIFICABUBBLES
MATING TIME FOR THE ORANG-UTANS IS NOW 3:30 PM EVERY THIRD SUNDAY. PIES AND DRINKS ARE AVAILABLE FROM THE CANTANKEROUS. BOOKINGS ESSENTIAL.
THE ELEPHANT'S BOWEL MOTION HAS BEEN POSTPONED UNTIL THE SECOND WEEK IN SEPTEMBER TO COINCIDE WITH THE POINT CHEVALIER KINDERGARTEN FIELD-TRIP.
THIS WEEK'S QUALIFYING ROUND OF THE NATIONAL PRIMARY SCHOOLS "GUESS THE LENGTH" COMPETITION WILL TAKE PLACE OUTSIDE THE GIRAFFE ENCLOSURE AND NOT IN THE GOURAMI TANK AS PREVIOUSLY ADVERTISED.
HODGE-PODGE O410E SUGGESTIVELY DELIGHTS ALL MEMBERS TO FLOP OUT FOR THE SERVICE AND STUFFING OF THE PEE-TARTY CHIMPS.

[xvimbi]

Jimmy's Schooldaze (A Joycean Reminiscence)

By Ted Jones

Absofrigginlutely hilarious

You should publish this stuff. Seriously!

"showpopped a trouserbulge", oh my. (Wiping off tears of laughter)

[i_m_robot]

a man walks into a bar (how cliche, whatever)

he reaches into his pocket and pulls out an AK (possible -who gives a ***)

to make a long story short, there's blood and guts everywhere

and I have the unfortunate task of cleaning all this s***

[Waldszenen]

Wow, Waldszenen, that was so deep, I am impressed by your skills!

The title alone: "A frog called Frog". How much is expressed by this? The longer I think about it, the more aspects I can find in it. First, the recursivity of this nomenclatur. The Frog already descripted by its name, this seems to induce a intensification of perception of nature itself. This tautology, frog=frog, lifts the frog to a new, lmost transcendental level of existence, thus making the frog "itself" the truth behind the story. We should keep this in mind.
Then, the first part of the story. Monumental, I might say, it starts with "one day". Oh, which simple glory, what easiness in expression to start such a complex work. "One", on the one hand, being the smallest whole number, you could also say, it represents the atoms our world consists of. So, here, we have this reference to he "microcosm", whereas in the title already the intangible notion of spirit of the world, that is to say,  "macrocosm" is expressed. This contrast (micro<->macro) was also a theme in Goethe's Faust, and I think we can draw further comparisons. Take then "day" for instance. What is not expressed by this word? Day means also, morning, noon, and evening, means beginning and end. This notion of a circuit in small scale, of course, correlates again with the "one". On the other hand, day always implies "night" and thus, we already are being pointed towards the tragic end of this epic. But let's look further. "a frog". That blew me away. Instead of a long-winded introduction, you come straight to the point. The frog is already symbol of the all-understanding spirit (do you mean God?) in contrast to human "day". Anyway, the frog "went by the lake". What a grand phrase, that sure can become a world-famous quote, as "to be or not to be". And it sure would be applicable on every day life's situation (Hey, I just "went by the lake". - Wow, you also know Waldszenen's works? I am such a grand admirer of his oeuvre.) What does the "lake" stand for? It is the life bringer to the frog, but doesn't it also represent the great "uncertainty" of life, everyone feels. Is this meant to be a reference to m1469's great curiosity, because, the frog definitely is an explorer, becauses he "goes", he actively changes his position towards this "uncertainty". On the other hand, one has to see the small word "by" also, the frog did not go "to" the lake, but only "by". That is, more in an indirect way. This can already be understood as a warning towards all too curious (beware m1469!). And then, the furious end of the first part: "and ate a fly". I love your way of connecting ideas, you sure are a witty guy, "and" I'd never been able to figure that one out. And of course, this gives the story the action it deserves, although, perhaps it is already too descriptive? Anyway, perhaps this is necessary to understand the great event. I think "ate a fly" on the one hand stands for life itself, escpecially the verb here. Eating or being eaten, the major principle of life. But then, on the other hand, of course also the arbitrariness of life. The fly, perhaps sitting in the sun, is suddenly in the mouth of the all-embracing frog (remember, the Frog is also the "notion of perception", the "universe" and perhaps even divinity in itself, all expressed in the title). This connection between life, death and God, has enough potential of tension to lead over the overwhelming resistance of the full stop you understood so marvellously to place here. The next part begins with the catastrophe, following the classical scheme of drama of Aristoteles, "He choked on it". What a powerful statement. The whole world seems to tremble under the impression of these words. He choked, all values, all notions seem to quaver and to fall into nothingness. Is this perhaps also a political statement, referring to the London attacks, or terrorism in general? Remember, the fly is at the lake, the great "uncertainty", and the fly surely is something strange to the frog, even dangerous. But is still necessary for the frog to embrace it, probably referring to the "openness of societies"?. Anyways, now, so to speak, in the 4th act, we come to the "retarding moment", an explanation, which possibly tightens the impression of a political statement: "because frogs have no teeth". Teeth, again such an ambigous term, it sure represents beauty, perfection, but on the other hand also predators, blood, violence perhaps. In which sense the metaphor of "teeth" is used here, possibly only the author can say. Anyway, the tragic end is, as usual with the output of such a talented writer, on the same high level of the complete story: "and then he died". Remark how in the whole second part, the frog (that is THE frog, the frog called frog) is replaced by the uncertain "he" and how there is only a reference to "frogs" in general. The "he" dies, but "THE frog" dissolves into the superior continuum of "frogs", and so you could also speak of Hegelian synthesis: thesis: frog as the representation of understanding, language, the world, antithesis: the process of eating, perhaps even something dangerous, eating in the form of violence, but, because the "frogs have no teeth" (See how THE frog is already to a certain extent part of the "frogs") all this leads into the synthesis of death, but also a higher level of existence (for the frog, and therefore for the universe itself!). This, of course, can also be applied to today's life as shown, and all of this in such a simple form, with such elementary means, I am inclined to compare this to a Beethoven symphonie, perhaps the 4th, which is, as we know, also called the "Frog Symphony". Did you have the jumping broken triads in mind, when you looked for your topic? Simply marvellous, of course, the Symphony isn't exactly ending so tragical, but we could perhaps change the ending (of the symphony that is, of course). Great job, and I hope you continue to let us enjoy your great talent! But please make your stories a bit shorter, I have hardly the time to read them.

 

And PS: pianonut and TheHammer, shame on you for wasting my time, you should definitely try to learn something from Waldszenen, I prefer him all the time. I mean, so much meaningless words, no context, no elaboration of the ideas, what is this all supposed to say me? Whereas with "A FROG CALLED FROG"  you sure have the synthesis of style, form, and content. I mean, you don't even have a title, Hammer!

 

Mr Hammer, never before have I read such a finer analysis in my entire life - so much that the analysis was more sophisticated and beautiful than the story itself.

[TheHammer]

 

Can we critise each other in this thread, or should we make a new one for this purpose? Because I am definitely interested in everyone's reactions to these fine examples of literature.

[m1469]

I started another thread for comments and critiques for the purpose of keeping this one clean and on topic 


https://www.pianostreet.com/smf/index.php/topic,10636.msg109391.html#msg109391
(For posting comments and critiques on our Short Stories and Creative Writings)

[i_m_robot]

i looked in her eyes

they were like green orbs and shimmered as brightly as the day i first met her

i kneeled down beside her and placed my hand on her naked chest

her body was still warm

as i  made love to her she kept the same cold gaze, staring up at the ceiling

the pressure of trying to help her along was gone

after i was done, part of me wondered if there was still something alive in her

like if she could see me only she couldnt talk or move

if she could feel every thrust and tingled in ecstacy as my hands caressed her

i took one last look at her body - god it was beautiful

then there was a sudden calm

my heart no longer pounded

and i realized

i was alone

[Siberian Husky]

The Melting Pot

By Luis 'The Spic" Chavez

(This story was written on the spot improvised word by word so spare me )


There once was a 12 year old boy, named Gregory Harrington, he was a very outgoing, smart elloquent individual who lived in the suburbs of New Jersey. His father was a well respected politician, a jem in his time. His mother worked for the state as a social worker and part time psychologist at the teen clinic 4 blocks from theur newly purchased colonial style home.......




i bet all you assumed Gregory and his family were white or of caucasian decent...what a red herring it would be if i put the name "Pablo Guerrera"...or "Jameal Johnson"...but "Steve Chan" would be okay because according to statistics, the asian demographic have represented the "ideal" minority identity amongst this melting pot of diversity..

How beautiful that story began right?. but how culturally biased this idea of perfect american life is portrayed.

Lets begin differenly shall we?..

There once was a boy, a 12 year old boy, named Julio Sanchez. He and his family lived in the outskirts of los angeles in a small town called Las Palitas, his father was a hardworking laborer for a large construction company concentrated highly in the southern california regions. And his mother held a small local tortilla service, where she would hand make tortillas from scratch ingredients and sell them for income amongst their tightly knit community.



if i were to read you this version of the story before saying anything else, i assure you that a significant percentage of pitty, and sympathy would manifest from the listeners. And if not such, then perhaps even the assumtion of disgust, or dislike from this lifestyle and its contribution to America as a whole. What im trying to say, is what makes it so that this form of living is outruled by the "American Dream?"


I know how quick and easy it is to jump to assumtions simply when one cant understand or identify with the subject at hand. But when poor judgement and lack of patience or lakc of eagerness to LEARN come in parallel with this assumtuous human behaviour we all attribute, this gives birth to misconceptions, rediculous expectations, stereotypes, and divison among men.


It seems every corner we turn, assimiliation seems to be the desired route for minorities in this country. Thus leading to the ever popular term, the "melting pot."...this notion of enthic engulfment institutionalizes the idea that culture, and diversity in the forum of cultural preservation is not important in the eye of the American Dream.

i should maybe take a breather here and hope this small tidbit of information sinks in to everyone, and hopefully even those who live outside the US can recognize the issue, regardless if they experience it or see it..

----------------------------------------------------------------
Siberian Husky, why are you so racially inclined?..

Siberian Husky, why is race such an important issue for you?..why do you let this notion of racism bother you so much?...

Racial stratification is prevalent in my life, not by choice, but more like a default i was set to live with.

I understand the majority of the people in this pianoforum are of white/caucaisna decent, and i will assume that most of you dont see the problem. Slavery if over, Internment camps are through, everyone gets employed, everyone has equal rights. Religion, race, sex, physical appearance, and personal attributes dont play a role in how one is treated throughout life right?...this is probably the worste theory of mind we could have in regards to the situation.

It is easy for the ignorant to close their eyes to this glass wall that is opression, because it doesnt affect them.

Whether it be affirmative action, the college qualification point system, the insitutions and "systems" that underliningly opress not directly, but through personal prefference and favoritism.


Im happy and proud of my mother for her new accomplishment as a California Social worker, she has worked hard for what she has, coming to this country at 16 with no diploma, experience, or graso of the english language. From job to job, night school class to college prep course, sleepless nights and sacrifices. Its sad to know that the reason she got the job was through affirmative action.....How immature is this?...how crooked?...To have your achieving qualifications  and outstanding merit overlooked and ignored, simply to be focused on the one element you have no control over. Your race, the color of your skin, the "image" you represent. It looks good for the state to be represented by such a diverse group, thus gaining more support, higher budgets and more contracts, this is the way life goes...

and its really sad that people turn their nose up to it simply because they dont see it. these people tend to be the ones with the unearned advantage. These people are reflected and represented by the most powerful people in the world. These people are portrayed by the media as successful, ideal, and competant. The white advantage is subtle in natrure, but highly prevalent, its just been around so much and so long that its become a "norm" and no longer an identifiable element...i'll continue and add more later...my eggrolls are burning...

[i_m_robot]

you sound like selfs racism in american society teacher







right on

[pianonut]

dear siberian husky,  your writing is to the heart.  God makes it all come out better in the end, though. the people that work hard end up making it and having a good life...while the people that have everything (or are born into wealth) get lazy and lose it.  also, having a small family is the norm.  people don't get to experience the idea of sharing and caring.  so you have sort of a selfishness that feeds on itself.  whereas - if someone grows up in a bigger family- they get used to taking care of one another and being resourceful.  they probably have more fun.  there is a lot of loneliness where too much wealth and not enough people exist.  better to have friends than money.

[i_m_robot]

i looked in her eyes

they were like green orbs and shimmered as brightly as the day i first met her

i kneeled down beside her and placed my hand on her naked chest

her body was still warm

as i  made love to her she kept the same cold gaze, staring up at the ceiling

the pressure of trying to help her along was gone

after i was done, part of me wondered if there was still something alive in her

like if she could see me only she couldnt talk or move

if she could feel every thrust and tingled in ecstacy as my hands caressed her

i took one last look at her body - god it was beautiful

then there was a sudden calm

my heart no longer pounded

and i realized

i was alone

two days passed

i hadnt bathed

the majority of my day was spent gazing at my love as life slowly fell away from her

her malato skin now appeared pale and white

it made her look so much more beautiful

like she was being transformed into some sort of angel

each time i made love to her she seemed to get tighter and colder

but the glimmer in her eyes still remained

i contemplated how long it would take before it would fade

before the lifelessness of her body drained away her soul

i decided to take her off the floor

to wash away the blood on her neck

but god she was heavy

[TheHammer]

dear siberian husky,  your writing is to the heart.  God makes it all come out better in the end, though. the people that work hard end up making it and having a good life...while the people that have everything (or are born into wealth) get lazy and lose it.  also, having a small family is the norm.  people don't get to experience the idea of sharing and caring.  so you have sort of a selfishness that feeds on itself.  whereas - if someone grows up in a bigger family- they get used to taking care of one another and being resourceful.  they probably have more fun.  there is a lot of loneliness where too much wealth and not enough people exist.  better to have friends than money.

Criticism and reaction in the other thread! 


I_m_robot: Considering that there are several kids on the board, you probably should ask nilsjohan if you are allowed to post this... I have nothing against it, seriously, from time to time, I write something perverted (probably not SO perverted , and only if it serves a purpose) as well.... but on this forum?

And also: NO SEQUELS!!!!! read the instructions again.

[Siberian Husky]

let the robot do his thing..he never seems to cross the line..he just..throws things over it...or hovers his upper body over it in a teasing fashion...or..he erases it and draws it farther back while no one is looking...sneaky machine...

self thinks robot smells like battery fluid

[i_m_robot]

Criticism and reaction in the other thread! 


I_m_robot: Considering that there are several kids on the board, you probably should ask nilsjohan if you are allowed to post this... I have nothing against it, seriously, from time to time, I write something perverted (probably not SO perverted , and only if it serves a purpose) as well.... but on this forum?

And also: NO SEQUELS!!!!! read the instructions again.

tis not a sequel but rather a continuation of the idea from the first post

we're allowed two right?

if it isnt okay tell self and self will remove it

but it is not perverted

it is pure

let us never part; neither in life nor death - that is true love

Tom Williams

[m1469]

Well, I put the idea of no sequels in because we have a number of threads where stories are continued throughout, already.  I just thought it would be fun to have something different that requires a different form of creativity.  Also, it keeps from one story dominating the entire thread.   

You can post as many individual stories as you would like, but the idea is to do each one within no more than 2 consecutive posts worth (that is, if you find you need more than 1500 characters), also for the sake of creativity.

I personally would prefer to have these comments (including mine here) on another thread because now people have to swim through these complications just to read on.  The title of this thread then becomes misleading.

As far as content goes, of course I am not the one to say what goes and what does not, that would still lay under forum rules and a general etiquette.   This seems to be getting complicated when the idea for this thread to begin with, I thought, was not.  I suppose it is bound to happen.

I am happy to have people participating with such care and hope we can continue.


m1469

[Teddybear]

This is a silly story I wrote in 2001 with the assistance of a friend. I hope you like it. 'Humppa' is a Finnish dance and music genre. A modern and humoristic variety of humppa can be found at www.humppa.com

--------

THE NEVERENDING HUMPPA

Keeeep thinking. Nope. Can't think of anything. Once there was a couple of humppabrothers. They used to humppa all day. But one day the evil antihumppa came and said: "No more humppa!" The humppabrothers were very sad. They decided to call the great lederhosen. First they had to sell their humppahouse, since foreign calls are so expensive. "Helljo, this is the great lederhosen. How may I help you?" "Do you remember us, the Finnish humppabrothers? We're in trouble. No more humppa!" "Gasp! No more humppa? That sounds bad. Who's responsible for this?" "The evil antihumppa did this to us! Boohoooo!" "Ok, that does it! I must kick some antihumppa bottom." And then the great lederhosen travelled all the way to Finlanf. In Finlanf the realization of being in the wronnng country hit him antilederhosenly, and then he travelled to FINLAND!!
        In Finland the great lederhosen saw a terrible lack of humppa. AND there was a terrible "In Finland we have this thing called 'reilu meininki'"-commercial. "NOOOOOO! What is this, a dishumppa country?!!" "Yes, today it really is a dishumppa country", said the humppabrothers. Something had to be done. "Ok, so where is this lousy excuse for a dehumppanizer who calls himself the evil antihumppa?" "He must be... he must be..." The humppabrothers were thinking very hard. "He must be celebrating at the evil antihumppa castle! Isn't that like so unhumppa or what?" "We must go there at once!" And they went.
        The evil atihumppa castle was next to the evil antihumppa castle. The great
lederhosen and the humppabrothers were interested in the evil antihumppa castle. So they went inside the evil antihumppa castle. They all but suffocated from the lack of humppa in the air. "Bwahhahhhaaaaaaa!" laughed the evil antihumppa. "He scares us", screamed the humppabrothers. "My brothers in humppa, we will banish this abomination!" The lunatic laughter echoed down the stairs. The great lederhosen was a brave lederhosen, so he began to climb up into the tower.
        The evil antihumppa was laughing without a reason. "I feel great!" The great lederhosen prepared himself for a witty and surprising comment. The evil antihumppa smiled wickedly. "Ha, revenge is mine! Those pitiful humppabrothers are no match for the evil antihumppa. They should've shoved that stupid humppa up their--" "Stop!" shouted the great lederhosen. The evil antihumppa turned around and stared at him. "Stop? You, the great lederhosen, have come all this way, and all you can make up is 'stop'? Is this the glorious humppa that killed my-- wait, I think I'm going to do something dishumppa to you." The great lederhosen was flabberghasted. "What are you talking about? Humppa has never killed anyone. Humppa is a source of infinite good... and HAPPIHAPPINESS!" "No, that's not true! That damned humppa killed my father!" Tears came into the evil antihumppa's eyes.
        "My parents and I were a happy family until that cursed humppa came and took over my daddy. First we thought it would pass, but then he started to participate in humppa festivals and humppa raves that lasted for DAYS. He joined a humppa band. He had become a humppaholic. He didn't buy us presents anymore, for he used all his money and time on humppa. He lost his job due to overhumppa. He didn't pay bills, and he didn't come to see me in the school play! He fell into the humppa crowd and lost his old friends. Some strange humppa fellows started to hang around our house. Mom lost her job and I was kicked out of school, and all because of daddy's all-nite humppa fever. My pet goldfish Betsy died because of bass rhythms. Betsyyy-yyy.... oh, where was I? Dad sold my comic books, my ice-hockey cards and even my autographed Tarzan poster to fund his humppa needs! He sold the house, the car, my mom, and he stopped eating and sleeping. In the end he did nothing but humppa! He was called the Ultimate Humppaguru. Finally, his heart gave up at a private humppa club, and no one even noticed at first! So why don't you snap out of it, shut the humppa up! Go away! I'm going to antihumppa the entire world."
        "What are you talking about? The Ultimate Humppaguru was the greatest humppaman in Finland. He died doing what he liked best. You should be proud of him!" cried the great lederhosen. The evil antihumppa became even more furious. "Proud? PROUD?! He SOLD my mother while he was on his humppa cloud. There's nothing to be proud of. Let me tell you: I've got a BIIIIG antihumppa bomb in my cellar, and I will destroy all humppa in the world! Bwaaahhaaahaaaa!!" The evil antihumppa grabbed his remote control and held it high. The great lederhosen gasped and turned to the pale-faced humppabrothers. "Let us pray to the Ultimate Humppaguru to save us!"
        The three of them fell down on their knees and prayed for a miracle. Suddenly, just as the evil antihumppa was about to press the nasty button, the sky opened and a bright light filled the universe. Well, ok, it only filled the room. The sounds of divine humppa rang in the air. And there he was, the Ultimate Humppaguru in all his glory! "My son....." "FATHER!!!" "My son, what have you done? Why are you doing this? Why do you want to eradicate the Spirit of Humppa from the land? If the land loses its humppa, it will become fruitless. (Your mother says 'hi', by the way.)" "Father, why hast thou forsaken me? I waited for you for all those years, I cried myself to sleep every night, and you just wanted to HUMPPA!!" "I am sorry for the sowwow I have caused you, but the Spirit of Humppa chose me to be its holy messenger, and I had to make sacrifices for greater purposes. Life's a pregnant dog, so learn to humppa, my son." Then the Ultimate Humppaguru disappeared in a puff of humppa. And there was an embarrassed silence.
        "He did it again! Once again he left his actions unexplained! Grr!" the evil antihumppa screamed and stomped his foot. The great lederhosen stepped next to the evil antihumppa and patted his shoulder. "Don't worry. Always look on the humppa side of life." The evil antihumppa's face suddenly took a very strained form. "I can't stand this! This new age humppa is just too much! Not even a million antihumppa bombs could wipe the humppa out of this world. Screw you, guys, I'm going home." And with that the evil antihumppa left Finland and was never seen again.
        The humppabrothers cheered. The great lederhosen was also very pleased. He sniffed and felt the sweet scent of fresh humppa in the air. The humppabrothers exclaimed: "You totally rock, great lederhosen!"

PUNCHLINE:

"No, I HUMPPA!"

[Nana_Ama]

"One", on the one hand, being the smallest whole number, you could also say, it represents the atoms our world consists of.

um... You should never end your sentence with a preposition.   

[TheHammer]

Now. Firstly, Miss Grammar Maniac, this sentence was written by a non-native English speaker, who is always willing to improve his style in both writing and speaking this wonderful language. Nevertheless, I must say, that this writer does not care for prepositions and their position in a sentence whatsoever.
Additionally, this sentence, as you correctly pointed out, is the writer's sentence, therefore he is entitled to do what he thinks seems best to his prepositions, which are part of the sentence, regardless their position.
Finally, this sentence was written in a state of tired haziness, not to so say a mixture of exaltation and befuddlement, in which the author of aforesaid sentence in which the preposition seemed to be in the wrong position of the sentence of the wrong positioned preposition, tried rather to follow his own thoughts, than to apply certainly correct, but also obscure grammar rules.

But above all:

Criticism and reactions in the other thread!!! 

  (don't take me seriously) and I thank you for the hint. I already knew that, though.

[Waldszenen]

Now. Firstly, Miss Grammar Maniac, this sentence was written by a non-native English speaker, who is always willing to improve his style in both writing and speaking this wonderful language.

In all honesty mate, you speak/write English better than I do and English is my own native language.

[Nana_Ama]

[Untilted] here is my story- it fits under the fantasy genre.  Oh and could you please suggest a title for this story?  I'd really appreciate it!  My grammar might be eh... off too... oh well

This is part I.

The mist enveloped the dark, deep forest, and only the moon provided any light.  Though insufficient it did provide some comfort.  A young girl stood before a column of stones gazing into what seemed like an empty space, only she knew something was there. 
Eager. 
Waiting.
 Nervously she glanced about, her weary yet alert green eyes full of fear.  She wished she could see every direction at once, and twirled her honey colored hair.  Despite the anxiety overwhelming and the strong urge to flee from this forest, she remained rooted in her spot; frozen by fear.  She continued to watch, and wait and wonder…
“I had expected that you would come Alaina” produced a deep mellifluous voice from the woods behind her. 
Alaina’s face paled.  She did not dare turn around to face the woman behind her.  She did not see a need for it when she could hear the woman’s footsteps getting closer to her.  A cold hand was upon her shoulder.  She could feel herself getting colder; turning numb… her senses were stunted.  She was losing consciousness and she could sense the being drawing nearer to her still.  The being’s voice called her—

“Alaina!” 
“Ah!”   Alaina bolted straight up, beads of sweat were trickling down her face.  Slowly she realized that she had awoken from her dream and found herself in her small wood-paneled bedroom with her cousin and best friend Ella leaning over her.  Her large dark-blue eyes glowed with enthusiasm and her curly brown hair swung excitedly.  The two braids on either side on her head seemed as if they were dancing.  She had an enormous grin on her face.
Alaina realized that she was gasping and quickly tried to calm her breathing.  Her breaths were still spasmodic, so she decided not to sit up until she could stabilize her breathing.  The lessons from the village Wisdom proved not to be useful.  Her friend went on.
“The Harvest Festival is today, it will be your naming 15th naming day.”
Oblivious to her friend’s sound of gasping for air she went on.
“Aren’t you at least a little excited?” She looked down at Alaina with a worried expression. 
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know Ella, I just feel anything.” She decided not to tell her about this recurring dream and went on “I want something more.  I want to see the rest of the world.  Surely this can’t be all of it?” said Alaina.
“Oh…” said Ella with a hint of disappointment. “You always mention that.  It’s almost as if nothing is good enough for you here.”
“No, it’s just I want to see the world.  There isn’t a word that can explain my feeling.  Let’s go outside.”
Outside it was afternoon time.  It was a picturesque day unmatched by her mood. From her house she could see the Village Inn on the small hill on the moor.  It was a very busy place.  There were carts going and coming along… There where children giggling and skipping along the bridge side.  The sun was brightly shining, the green grass swayed swiftly in the wind.  It seemed like everyone except her was excited about the festival.  She said goodbye to Ella and headed towards the Inn.
The Village Inn was a building of average size and it had a very simple structure. It had thatched roof and the walls were brick on the outside.  The interior was wood paneled with a wooden floor.  The common room was a rectangular shaped room divided into two sections.  On the left hand side there was a bar and restaurant while on the right hand side there were circular tables with four seats situated at each of them.  A short young woman sat at a table in the corner.  She approached Alaina and swiftly dragged her to the table.
“What was that for?” yelled Alaina indignantly.
“Be quiet!,” said the woman as she cocked an eyebrow at the neighboring tables.
 “I… don’t have much time.  I know what it is you saw in your dream last night.”
Alaina felt her heart skip a beat.  How could this woman possibly know about her dreams?  The woman did not look familiar or of the village folk.  She had slightly more color than most in the village of Starfolk and her raven black hair revealed that she was a foreigner.  (Not one person in the Village had hair darker than a medium toned brown.)  She wore a simple blue riding dress without ornaments yet her imperious stature suggested that her dress was made simple with an effort.  She looked young; not much older than Alaina however she did not have a youthful face.  Her raven-dark hair was partially tied, so that some of it fell among her shoulders and framed her oval shaped face.  With a start Alaina was aware of the woman’s dark brown eyes staring at her. 
The woman continued, “It would be best if you would join me at my table.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Davren.  At the moment that should not be your concern,” she replied coolly.  Alaina blushed furiously but said nothing and met Davren’s gaze.
“There many things you need to know about yourself.  There is a reason why that the cloaked being haunts your dreams.”
How did she know?
I’ve always the same dream from when I was a child.  It had always ended before the cloaked creature had reached me…
“It has been searching for you for quite sometime, trying to locate you.  Thankfully, it has been unsuccessful.  Earlier in the Grey Age there was a Great Duel between Tinangel of Baylon and Athelas of Baelin in the Canic Cave a few miles east of the Forsaken Desert in which they were both destroyed.  Soon after, a prophecy came forth from the Mer saying that their souls would come back again to fight the Final Battle because they had each were given that ability by their Noble House.  They were they only two given the privilege at a second chance of life.  Their form would not be the same however.  This means they could back as human.   
“As time passed people forgot about the Prophecy, however there were a few who remembered and were constantly searching for any signs of a revival.  This includes the Dark Ones.  Anyhow, we, the Mer people were monitoring the return as well.  My search led me here:  to you.”
Realization and shocked overflowed in Alaina felt slightly nauseous.  She swallowed quickly. 
“Do you mean, it’s me?  Out of all the people in the village, why me?”
“I can sense the spark in you.  I am not sure exactly which gift you have although I imagine it would be of foresight…”  She seemed to be thinking aloud half-ignoring Alaina in her shock-filled state.  Then immediately Davren seemed to have awoken from her trance. 
“Yes, you have a spark.  If you don’t find a way to know and control the use of your power it will be deadly.  You are being sought after by the evil forces.  You cannot stay here.”
“What about my family?” Alaina screamed.
“For one thing the Creatures of the Night are also searching for you and will destroy your village.  If you stay here you will die.  You must learn how to control your power.”
 The lessons on being calm turned out to be useful after all… She thought of—nothing she was completely blank.  The predicament left her in a difficult situation.  She would be stuck either way.  If she stayed the dark creatures and their legion would destroy the village; leaving would mean leaving her family… At least they would be safe.
“How much time is left?  How much?” she asked with a slight quiver in her voice.
“We must leave tonight.  Are you willing to go?  Will you accept this duty?”
“Yes I am willing to, I accept my duty.”  She just wondered what price she would have to pay.  She wanted to explore the world, but she had never thought it would have to be like this?  She closed her eyes and shed but one tear of hope.
                 
 

[Nana_Ama]

Now. Firstly, Miss Grammar Maniac, this sentence was written by a non-native English speaker, who is always willing to improve his style in both writing and speaking this wonderful language. Nevertheless, I must say, that this writer does not care for prepositions and their position in a sentence whatsoever.
Additionally, this sentence, as you correctly pointed out, is the writer's sentence, therefore he is entitled to do what he thinks seems best to his prepositions, which are part of the sentence, regardless their position.
Finally, this sentence was written in a state of tired haziness, not to so say a mixture of exaltation and befuddlement, in which the author of aforesaid sentence in which the preposition seemed to be in the wrong position of the sentence of the wrong positioned preposition, tried  rather to follow his own thoughts, than to apply certainly correct, but also obscure grammar rules.

But above all:

Criticism and reactions in the other thread!!! 

  (don't take me seriously) and I thank you for the hint. I already knew that, though.

LOL

[m1469]

There, over there, is the place I want to be
I see myself over there, staring back at me

Outstreched hand, she smiles to me,
she waves for me to come and join her

I wonder how she got there, while I am here
or am I, now, somewhere in between ?

I am walking now, I can feel my feet moving
I can hear the crunch of the pebbles beneath my shoes

I feel the rhythm of my walking, steadying
while I balance this orb atop my head

There is nothing in my hands
there is nothing in my pockets
And I am not really wearing an..y...thing... not even my skin

[m1469]

The stillness and silence, it's surrounding my heart
where there were once busy streets and noisy busses.
There were perfumes and dresses and candy-coated lips
and now, there is just uncombed hair.

The stillness and silence, of my uncombed heart,
funnily, it's not heavy and hard.
It's soft and gentle and touches my ears
and sounds as a trickle of water.

I think I have a comb, here in my back pocket,
the one you gave to me the last time I saw you.
Thanks, but would you like it back now ?

[pianistimo]

confusion reigns

here i sit, deep in meditation after listening to several piano concerto cd's.

now which middle movement fits in that one?  oh dear.  there's a test today and i have to

review the now notated notes on those little details of what makes this one different from

that one.

was debussy right?  are they all one and the same?  no.  i know in my heart they are all

different.  but, right now - they all sound the same. 

ps the first two piano concertos of beethoven sound very similar to mozart's except that the accents are placed off beat in one, and the range of notes is much wider (and dynamics are stronger).

[m1469]

My feet, they are cold, piled under some heap of snow,
and my head is being burnt by the sun.
My eyes, they are blinded, by the glare of this light
and my ears, they have become deaf and numb.

Somewhere within me, I feel this shadow,
of strings and keys and hammers.
That beckoning child who wishes to play,
and enjoy life, knowing not, some riches nor glamours.

The snow it's melting, my feet are less cold,
my head is being shaded by trees.
My eyes they are seeing now, and the light it is good,
and my ears, they can hear what they please.

[pianistimo]

wow, mayla...i really like that!  the only thing i wondered about was the numb ears.  i just never heard of the idea.  but, i suppose in cold weather you might feel the numbness set in.  ok.  oh, i know what i was thinking.  numb doesn't exactly rhyme with sun.  but, who cares!  it makes sense.

[rimv2]

two days passed

i hadnt bathed

the majority of my day was spent gazing at my love as life slowly fell away from her

her malato skin now appeared pale and white

it made her look so much more beautiful

like she was being transformed into some sort of angel

each time i made love to her she seemed to get tighter and colder

but the glimmer in her eyes still remained

i contemplated how long it would take before it would fade

before the lifelessness of her body drained away her soul

i decided to take her off the floor

to wash away the blood on her neck

but god she was heavy

its been a week

god has it really been a week

she beginning to smell...bad now

and the flies, god the flies

how did they get in

i didnt open any windows

maybe from the hall

maybe when i went by more clothes for her

she really needed to cover up

what if the neighbors came over and saw her like that

she really needed to cover up

laid out on the bed like that

so beautiful

she needs more powder on her cheeks

so beautiful

i want to kiss her

but god

the smell

[rimv2]

My feet, they are cold, piled under some heap of snow,
and my head is being burnt by the sun.
My eyes, they are blinded, by the glare of this light
and my ears, they have become deaf and numb.

Somewhere within me, I feel this shadow,
of strings and keys and hammers.
That beckoning child who wishes to play,
and enjoy life, knowing not, some riches nor glamours.

The snow it's melting, my feet are less cold,
my head is being shaded by trees.
My eyes they are seeing now, and the light it is good,
and my ears, they can hear what they please.

Sounds shexshay

[ted]

Daffodil Day

Small vase with paper mache face
Product of the laughing years which time bounds not
And shining yellow star of daffodil
Flower of she who bent her time to see him
And who loved him 'til the final wave

Together now once more they shine
Reminding me of a land I know
Where a beach is bright with laughter
Not now, not then
But ever more

[Siberian Husky]

once upon a time there was a dude


peace

[rimv2]

once upon a time there was a dude


peace

Ah'll drink to that


somwhere inside me there was a part juss aching to make the Sunna *** pay

I knew it what would happen once this small piece of metal breached the chamber and pierce right through his F***ing skull

but you know what

I didnt give a damn

hell part of me juss wanted  to see what would happen

so i unleashed

like the hand of god smiting lucifer himself

i put the sunna *** down

for good

[m1469]

In the winters of my soul,
you were my warmth,
though beyond that, I never knew you.

In the springtime of my life,
you were the wildflowers,
though beyond that, I never knew you.

During the summer months,
you were the sun,
though beyond that, I never knew you.

And in autumn, when leaves were falling,
you were the wind,
though beyond that, I never knew you.

Until I met you.
But, we did not yet know who we are.
And we did not recognize each other, properly.

Maybe next year.

[Torp]

Here's a story I wrote many, many years ago.  It is rife with youthful angst and melancholy, but I've left it the way it was written.

Pops

I met Pops in the winter of 1985.  I’ve never told anyone about Pops or our chance meeting.  As the time ‘now’ grows further and further away from the time ‘then’ I find it more and more difficult to believe that these events really occurred.  By writing this down I’m attempting to preserve as best I can my memories of the most important person I’ve ever met.

Winter had come suddenly to Whitman College.  For weeks there had been nothing but cold drizzling rain when, without warning, the temperature plummeted by forty-five degrees in less than an hour.  Like a ghost in the night, winter had come.  Without remorse or a second thought, winter enveloped the land in an icy grip of despair.

As I walked through campus I noticed the harsh effects of this bitter cold.  Everything in sight was frozen.  The wind crept its way slowly through the wasteland like tormented spirits creep through a graveyard.  The trees moaned and cried out in protest against the strain and weight of the ice, while the branches sang a chorus of sorrow with the wind as their director.  The only thing colder than the winter on this night was feeling in my heart.

Usually, I could just play the piano for several hours and the coldness would be gone.  Tonight, however, was different.  Despair was far too close; hope was far too gone.  Not even the piano could save me tonight.  My mind was made up.  I walked through town to see everything possible on what would be my last day on earth.  As I passed by the Whitman College Auditorium on my way towards home I stopped dead in my tracks.  It was like the frozen earth had caught me unaware and ceased my motion.  I heard a light clanging noise coming from the direction of the front doors of the auditorium.  The noise had broken through the moan of winter like a gunshot.  As my immediate fear from the intrusion slowly subsided, I followed my ears towards the sound.  Somehow a door to the building had been left ajar and the metal door had banged into the door jam creating the intrusion.

I reached out, opened the door, stepped inside, and closed the door firmly behind me.  The onrushing sound of silence was deafening.  My mind and ears had become so accustomed to the droning wind that the absence of the noise was like an explosion.  The only light was from the fluorescent green exit signs located over the doors.  The light was enough, though, for me to see my way to the main auditorium doors.

I gently swung them open and stepped inside.  I listened intently to the sound of the doors closing softly behind me.  I might as well have stepped into another world.  Far in front of me at the end of the gentle, downward sloping walk was the stage.  High above, a single light rained down its rays onto the stage and the contents of the auditorium.  The lush, blood red hue of the chairs intermingled with the dull, hazy shadows created by the single light.  The dark red curtains, pulled wide apart, flowed from ceiling to stage like two spilling bottles of wine.  The highly polished oak stage was empty except for one item.  There, sitting in the middle of the stage in nonchalant glory, was the most beautiful grand piano I had ever seen.

(to be continued)

[Torp]

(Pops, continued)

This instrument, in all its lonely solitude, both beckoned and taunted me.  “Touch me if you dare,” was its challenge.  This was a challenge I could meet.  I practically ran to the stage.  I didn’t bother with the stairs at either end; instead, I leapt onto the stage and approached the piano.  I ran my hand over the polished black finish of its full nine-foot length.  I propped up the lid to its full height and listened to the creak of the motion ring throughout the hall.  I smiled, briefly, at the acoustics of the building and looked in upon the rows of gleaming copper strings.  I went around to the front of the piano, sat down on the bench, and opened the cover over the keys.

“What the hell,” I thought.  “One last time for old times sake.”  I played the first note and let it ring throughout the auditorium.  Before the reverberation could die out I began to play.  I played without stopping for almost an hour.  As I finished, words cut through the final resonance of music like a hot sword cutting through snow.  “Dat’s real good son,” a voice drawled from behind me.  I turned around so fast I almost fell off the bench.  As I turned I fully expected to see a police officer waiting there to escort me to jail for trespassing.

What I saw instead was an aging black man leaning on a broom.  He had on a pair of heavy black work boots and a pair of faded blue coveralls.  Over the left pocket on his chest was a nametag.  It said, ‘Pops.’  The solitary light in the auditorium reflected off his balding head and flashed at me like a beacon.  The only thing brighter than the light was the smile on Pops’ face.  His thick lips were pulled wide apart exposing a full set of shining white teeth.  Pops’ whole face seemed to crinkle up around his huge smile.  Every crease on his face, the puffy cheeks pulled in a smile, and the bright twinkle in his eyes all attested to one fact; Pops was a happy man.

Pops’ deep, hearty voice seemed to originate from far down in his stomach.  As he spoke, every word rolled out of his mouth like a laugh.  “Ah sho’ am glad t’ meet chu,” he said as he walked towards me.  Pops hand was outstretched in a handshake offering.  I couldn’t help but stand and accept his offering.  Shaking hands with Pops was like holding the reins of a wild horse.  He grabbed hold of my hand in the gnarled old fingers of both of his hands and shook with such strength and vigor that I was at first afraid I might get hurt.  But, as I looked into his warm smiling face, my fears vanished.  I immediately knew that Pops was incapable of hurting anyone.  I knew, also, that it would be impossible for someone to dislike Pops.

“It’s nice to meet you as well.”  I said.

“Always a pleasure t’ meet anutha musician.”

“Do you play?”  I asked.

“Used to, when I’s about yo’ age.  Ain’t never played nuthin’ dat soun’ so sad tho’.  I’s glad you stopped.  You’s ‘bout t’ make me cry.  Why’s yo’ music so sad?”

“I guess that’s just how I feel.” I replied.

“You got some songs dat soun’ happy don’tcha?”

“I don’t have anything to be happy about.”  I complained.  I felt, suddenly, as if I could say anything to Pops.  So I told him how miserable and worthless my life was.  I also told him that it didn’t really matter, as tonight it would all be over anyway.  After my dissertation Pops was silent for a long while.

(To be continued)

[Torp]

(Pops, continued)

After the silence, Pops looked deep into my eyes and said very softly, “You’s alive aint’cha?”  The ever present smile on Pops face shown bright as he said these words.  I knew at that moment that being alive was a very important thing.  I was amazed at how in three words Pops could break through my despair and show me hope.  “Now play me sumtin’ happy,” he laughed.

“All right, I’ll try.”  I sighed

“Don’ try son, jus’ do.  Tryin’ leave room fo’ failure!”

I conjured up all the happy thoughts I could and began to play.  I thought of being alive.  I thought of Pops’ smiling face and firm handshake.  I thought of silly things like puppy dogs and ice cream.  I thought of anything I could that might make me happy.  I thought hard and I played even harder.  Over the music I heard Pops say, “Smile son!  You cain’t be happy wit’ no frown on yo’ face.”  I smiled.  I tried to smile a smile that would make Pops proud.

“Dat’s good!  Dat’s real good!  Now gimme some mo’ happy.”  He said.

“That’s all the happy I got.”  I said as I quit playing.

“Music is d’ voice o’ God, son.  And God ain’t no sad person.  Open yo’ heart an’ listen.  If dat’s all d’ happy you got you ain’t lookin’ hard enough fo’ d’ hap’ness!”

“Where do I look?”

“Ev’ry place, it’s all ‘roun’ you!”

“All around me?”

“Yeh, I show you.”

With that, Pops started laughing, not really a laugh, more like an escape of joy and mirth from his body.  The sound started somewhere deep inside.  While it grew it consumed and took over Pops’ entire body.  His eyes laughed.  His arms laughed.  His whole belly laughed.  Even his nose laughed.  Pops was consumed with joy and laughed just for the sheer pleasure of hearing his own laughter.  I began to chuckle.  Soon I couldn’t hold back and my uncontrolled laughter joined the roar of Pops’ voice.  We laughed so hard that tears fell freely from our eyes.  We could barely get enough air into our lungs between the spurts of laughter.  The whole auditorium was filled with the sound of two people just happy to be alive.

“Play son!”  Pops managed to gasp out in between laughs.  I couldn’t see the keys through the tears in my eyes so I just closed them and played.  Next thing I know Pops was dancing.  I laughed even harder.  Pops laughed harder still.  Pops’ boots were keeping perfect time to the music while his hands were adding to the rhythm by slapping his thighs.  Every so often at a high point in the music Pops would whoop and holler like a schoolboy.  I started whooping too.  This really made Pops laugh.  We whooped and hollered, sang and danced, and laughed and cried until we were exhausted.  Eventually, I stopped playing.  Eventually, we stopped laughing.  We just sat there smiling at each other while the tears rolled freely down our faces.

“Now dat’s happy,” Pops said as he leaned towards me.  “Never be ashamed ‘bout dese,” he said as he wiped a tear from my cheek.  “Tears don’ know happy from sad.  They jus’ a sign you alive.  You ‘member dat!”

“I will.”

“Now I gotsta go.  Play as long as you like, but be sho’ you close the do’ when you leave.”  Pops picked up his broom, flashed me a smile, and disappeared into the dark recesses of the stage.

The next day I couldn’t wait to see Pops again.  I ran over to the auditorium first thing to find out when he worked next.  I found the directors office and knocked on the door.

“Come in.”  A voice said.  As I stepped into the office the director said, “What can I do for you?”

“Can you tell me when Pops works next?”  I asked.

“Who?”

“Pops!  You know.  Old black guy, janitor, works nights here, was working about midnight last night.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.  We don’t have night janitors.  Come to think of it, we don’t have anyone who works here who is black.  What time did you say you were here last night?!”

“Never mind,” I said, confused.

As I left the building that morning I could still see the way Pops leaned on his broom.  I could still see his faded blued overalls and his black boots.  I could still feel the power of his firm handshake, and I could still see the flash of white teeth in his ever-present smile.  As a tear rolled off the end of my chin I could still hear his voice saying, “Tears don’ know happy from sad.  They jus’ a sign you alive.  You ‘member dat!”

“I will Pops; I will.”

[pianistimo]

wow.  torp.  that's good writing.  and a good story.  you made me cry reading it.  there have been some times in my life that just the right person came along too.  i think they're called angels.

when i was around 16 or 17, my boyfriend and i went skiing one afternoon.  it was bright and sunny when we left and we were warm enough moving in cross country skiis.  we went far back in the mountains and were turning around to come back.  then, those icy winds you talk about (with the moaning trees) started setting in.  i thought, 'oh, great -  this is the way i'm going to die'  - frozen in motion a few miles back in the mountains, and all for not turning around soon enough.  my boyfriend was complaining of severe coldness setting in on him, too.  then, surprisingly after i said a prayer - two snowmachines appear out of nowhere and surprisingly had tow-lines to tow us to the parking lot.  those were among the first angels i ever met - if they were - which i think they were.

sometimes the 'angels' are just a good friend saying a timely word.  when life became very hard for me one time - a friend told me 'this is just one moment in time.'  that stuck with me, because i realized that even though it seemed like everything and all time - it was a moment.

sometimes, for me, it's not just moments and people, but inspiration to do something or read something.  just yesterday i was switching channels on tv (yes, really inspirational) and joel osteen came on.  he was talking about grace and kindness.  i listened for awhile and he said something about not yelling at your kids all the time "clean up your room, do this, do that."  but, rather, being as polite to them as you would be to everyone else you know in public.  to make sure to use please and thank you - and to speak gently.  sometimes God doesn't have to speak to you in person or through an angel, but through something you seem motivated to do yourself, too,  for some unknown reason.  i was having some troubles with being gentle enough on my son.  sometimes i think he can 'take it,'  but i realize that sons as well as daughters need to be treated with care.   

[rob47]

Here's a story I am going to write on the spot.                                                     

                                                              Cell Phones, The Bible and Painter's Tape

CHAPTER 1
Randomly, I sometimes find myself thinking about what I would do if I had money.  But then I remember something a random bum said to me once. "Randomly Rob, you don't need money to be happy."  "Randomly", I had thought to myself. A couple days later, the bum randomly died.

CHAPTER 2

Randomly, it's hard being fat.  But wait a minute, I'm not fat.  Lisa was having a terrible nightmare where she was becoming increasinlgy obese by the second, randomly.

CHAPTER 3

"'Tis True!"
I said as I ran out the door to go trick or treating with my friends.  It was a mild Halloween and I had dressed up as Brian Mulroney¹.  We had randomly decided to ditch my sister because she had become incresingly annoying over the past couple weeks. All in all it was a good Halloween.

CHAPTER 27, randomly.

"No matter how much you study, you're bound to come across at least one question that will have you completely stumped.  But even guessing is a science."²

I mildly disagree with this statement, I thought.  Studying isn't necessary, and guessing is mandatory; pen's have random tendencies to run out of ink.

CHAPTER 28

If there's one thing Mr. Wong hated, it was underage kids pretending to be of age in his restaraunt getting drunk.  However, business was slow and he randomly had to do what he had to do to get through. 

To figure out what happened to Mr. Wong's establishment in the winter of '67 turn to page 203
To find out why those kids had been at the cemetary earlier keep reading

CHAPTER 29

Randomly, it was time for the annual film festival in Toronto. There were celebrities everywhere, randomly, none of them bothered to call in advance and book a room at the Holiday Inn.  Drakko Radmonavic, the current manager of the downtown Holiday Inn was furious, unrandomly.
"This is ridiculous," he was saying to Tatyana, his secretary. "We are goign to lose so much money because of this.  I'm randomly very upset about this."
"Randomly, you need to chill out Mr. R" said Tatyana.
"Call me Drakko"

CHAPTER 30

The world had ended 23 minutes ago.  It had been very fast an unexpected.  Almost random.
Rob had found himself floating around in space waiting to be picked up by the spaceship Ergonomicus, which was collecting those still alive floating around in oblivion.  He regretted a lot of things looking through where the earth used to be at the far off Red planet.  'I wish I could have been a better role model to those orphans.'  Randomly, and quite unfortunately for Rob, as he turned his head at that precise moment Ergonomicus unknowingly plowed him over shattering his visor and causing a relatively painless death.

CHAPTER 60

What an experience it had been visiting Florida.  Augustus had never imagined anything like Epcot centre.  He had enjoyed finding out about what the future would hold the most.  Also the international cafeteria had blown his mind, randomly he had chosen to eat generic German food.

CHAPTER 61.5

The Ghost of Pedro Roberto Guillamo Olivera had come back.  He was very bitter for being dead, randomly.

CHAPTER 62

Random Coke can's litterd the floor of the dingy one room apartment.  The smell of random foods mixed together to give the air a thick, randomly unappealing weight pulled on ones nostrils upon entry.  A taped basketball game flickered on the 62" Flat Screen television;  Pamela was missing, randomly.

CHAPTER 63

(Silence, randomly)



CHAPTER 64

It had been a good year, for Charlotte.  She enjoyed eating the wealth she had randomly  come by earlier in the semester.  "Randomly, I am Happy." she said.  However it was then she gazed up and, for the first time noticed the random 8th moon shining brightly down upon her. "The Yverkians were right" She thought before her lungs exploded and she turned into an insect.

CHAPTER 65

EVERY END IS A NEW BEGINNING.



-Rob47


Endnotes
¹ Former prime minister of Canada
² Fraser, Lisa.  "Making Your Mark: How to prepare for Exams, Papers, Reports, Assginments, Study Hints and Shortcuts. Making Time for ir All. Notetaking Tips. Coping with College Life." LDF Publishing: Port Perry, Ontario.  1992.

[stevie]

BEST STORY EVAR 

[rimv2]

Secondeded

[Torp]

wow.  torp.  that's good writing.  and a good story.  you made me cry reading it.

Thanks, I appreciate the kind words.  I'm glad you enjoyed the story.

Jef