Tuesday, December 1, 2009

Monday, November 23, 2009

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

"In The Rain"-The Dramatics

I wanna go outside in the rain
It may sound crazy
But I wanna go outside in the rain
Now I, I think I'm gonna cry
And I, I don't want you to see me cry
I wanna go outside in the rain
It may sound crazy
But I wanna go outside in the rain
Once the rain starts fallin'
On my face (on my face)
You won't see (you won't see, ah)
A single trace (a single trace)
But the tears I'm cryin' (I'm cryin')
Because of you I'm cryin' (because of you)
Don't want you to see me cry
Let me go, let me go, let me go

(Song Written by: Tony Hester)

Thursday, October 29, 2009

Davey: The Haunter

These ghosts are different. These ghosts have no weaknesses. They haunt by day and by night. They are with everyone at all times. I am scared. The whole world should be scared.
I am Davey Blacksman. My job is to haunt the haunters. Why choose such an unusual job, without pay, or praise or power? Because ghosts have targeted me my entire life. When I was 12, my eyes would roll to the back of my head on various occasions, at various locations. I would see my brain; I could hear all of my brain’s thoughts. “Davey… Davey…” the voice would say in the stereotypical ghostly whisper. Then, the whisper would stop, and a deep voice would scream: DAVEY, WE FOUND YOU. I would drop on my knees and whimper and speak in unimaginable languages unknown to the human world every time the ghosts said they found me. As a child this made me an instant outcast. I have not become more popular as an adult either. I live alone, stay inside as much as I can; cook TV dinners with the side dishes of corn, and mashed potatoes in different compartments. Even after hearing it my whole life, it got scarier every time. These ghosts have forced me to follow them; and I have for 46 years. I know they are everywhere. I developed a special camera lens to separate the ghost world from reality. I have gotten lucky only a couple of times. We all need to start believing that there is something else out there. Or else things are going to happen to our world that are unfathomable to anyone in the human race.

Friday, October 16, 2009

The Dreamed

The Dreamed

I walk, but it is not me
I speak, but it is not me
I believe, but I really don’t
I forget, but I actually remember
I feel, but it is not me
I get sucked in, pulled
Cleansed, and then spit out
It happens, but it does not happen to me
I sleep, but I am awake
I awake, but I am asleep

Then the light turns on and it is time
Time to perform to an audience incapable
Of ever knowing, comprehending
What I am doing
Because while I am doing things
I am also not doing them
It just depends.

Thursday, October 15, 2009

Kermit: The Hero

Throughout my youth I had kidnapper protection. I always felt that Kermit the Frog had some sort of mystical wisdom. He was far from perfect, yet he always knew what to do, and how to do things. He was my Buddha of sorts. Everything about him had a comforting feel; from the unique nasal tone of his voice to his string-powered walk. He was always positive, so he could balance out the negativity of my life.

Tuesday, September 29, 2009

The Kidnapper

As a kid, every sound had me scrambling around in the dark for a baseball bat. I hated going to sleep. I was always too awake, too aware. I became a lone mother in her nest, having to protect her young, and the precious nest itself. It was either me, or even worse, my mom, who was about to be kidnapped. I even dreamt about the kidnapper; where he would be, where he would take me. Always in black, with only a strip of his face showing. That was how he appeared every time. The kidnapper was the ultimate enemy.

Monday, September 14, 2009

The 14th

I wish I was still on the couch, raindrops clicking on the window. It was the first real Sunday yesterday, and regular season football was finally on TV. My dog slept on the top of the sea glass-green couch while staring at the water-stained street. I don’t ever want to leave this rainy Sunday morning. I am still there in my head. Throughout these two first weeks of school I try to go away to this Sunday paradise. Instead of being a studious robot completing assignment after assignment, I get to be a neanderthal. I empty my mind of everything, and use only my most primitive instincts. If the sound is too low, I turn it up. If I am cold I get a sweatshirt. If I am disgruntled with the events of the game I grumble at the television. If I am pleased with the events of the game I put my fists up in the air pumping them frantically, and let out a manly “Yea baby!” Then I got here, and it all vanished.

Tuesday, September 8, 2009

My Mysterious Family: The Bernsteins

Gary Bernstein walked briskly up to the counter. “My wife and I need to go to the Golden City”. “I’m sorry” the clerk answered, “You’re going to have to wait until next month”. Gary very rarely swore, but at that moment, he cursed to the Gods with such rage, that a dense fog suddenly rolled over the already depressed city of Warsaw, Poland. In Warsaw, everything was grey; the buildings, the people, the sky. Everything just blended into one grey mass of zombified land. Gary eventually calmed down. He could never put up a good fight. He just wasn’t assertive or aggressive enough to get what he wanted. That was one problem that his wife nagged him about over and over again. “Jesus Gary, you just have stand up for yourself once and a while”. Gary couldn’t even count the number of times she said that famous line. Once again he would not fight back. He was not going to create any sort of conflict with the young clerk in the ticket booth. He was going home, trying to think of an excuse to tell to his soon-to-be fuming wife. It was her idea to flee to the Golden City of New York anyway. He wasn’t that eager to go, but to his wife, the streets, rumored to be filled with gold, was like the alluring smell of warm, fresh-baked bread on a chilly Saturday morning. He slowly and deliberately walked up his apartment steps, hoping that maybe in that time, Linda would leave for an errand. Gary opened the small, walnut door, hoping to find Linda taking a nap or busily multi-tasking in the kitchen. There she was, with her arms open, grinning in almost a deranged way. Gary would have to break it to her right away. Before he could make a sound, Linda shouted, “Oh Gary, I can’t believe we’re finally leaving this wasteland of a city!” She squeezed him with all her might, picking him off the ground. As he gasped for air, he wheezed, “No problem honey”. “I must call the portrait company. Get some nice clothes on Gary, as ugly as this city is, I want to have some way of remembering our life here.”Gary uttered under his breath. “God”.

My Mysterious Family: Tiny Tommy

Tiny Tommy they called him. At a miniscule 3’10’ Tommy Greene was almost invisible. His parents were not small, only him. He did not have any disability, no facial deformation. He was just small. Tommy tried his best to live a normal life. At age 12, at a microscopic 3’3’’, Tommy learned how to ride the smallest of bicycles (The kind that the clowns would ride at the circus). He played baseball and was surprisingly good at it. Due to his small stature his strike zone was about the size of a generous scoop of ice cream. He never hit the ball, but his career OBP (on base percentage) was .894. Despite his size Tiny Tommy had a big voice; in a way. The tone and timbre of his voice was what you’d expect out of a 3’10’’ frame. When he talked it was almost impossible to understand. Anybody unfortunate enough to hear him make an utterance cringed as a voice powered with helium-filled lungs spoke out of amplifiers turned up to their highest volume. All the cats of the world hissed and all of the cars in the world came to a screeching halt, which only seemed to make Tommy’s voice more unbearable. His voice did have an upside. Tommy loved dogs, and dogs loved him. The dogs would follow him every time he went out. His voice to dogs was a sugar sweet soprano falsetto that would make their hearts flutter with joy. The dogs were what kept Tommy living. They were his protection and his only friends. They were his life, and he loved it that way. (Here he is pictured at age 22 with his mom, Cathy, and father, Owen.).