13 November, 2008


Yes, I'm back. Yes, it's been a long time. But people (read:me) get busy.
Here's the beginning to another little something I wrote. This is actually all I have at the moment. I'd welcome any ideas on where to go next. It's my attempt at Hardboiled genre writing, I'm being very very Hardboiled.


It was a rainy night, the kind of night where you could leave a black cat out at night and find a white cat on the stoop in the morning. It was a rainy night, the kind that only comes at the end of the month. It was a rainy night, the kind that always brings with it a stranger breed of clientele.
She wasn’t a regular. I could tell by the way that she carried her petite frame that I wouldn’t be linking her to any of the salami-eating goodfellas that peopled my Rolodex. But she was a looker. Her look was plucked from a movie, the kind that you would expect on the cover of a pulp novel: big lips, eyes hidden behind voluminous bangs, a bust that refused to hide behind her blouse.
My office was closed.
But I’m a sucker for a good-looking woman.
I kicked back in my chair and threw my feet up on the desk before me. I pushed my hat back on my head and I lit myself a cigarette. I paused before sliding the pack of Luckys into my breast pocket: “You smoke?”
“Thanks,” she smiled and made her way to the chair at in front of my desk. I handed her a lit cigarette as she sat down.
“I’m closed,” I said.
“I saw the light on, and the door was unlocked, so I just thought that—”
“I’m closed.”
“But maybe if you heard me out, heard my story, maybe you’d be inclined to help.”
“Listen ma’am, I gotta stick to my principles. Now, regardless of how much peril you might be in, if I help you after I’m closed… then I gotta help every Joe and Jane off of the street. You see where I’m coming from, right? Try back tomorrow morning, at eight. I’ll help you then.”
“But I won’t make it through the night. They’re after me, Mr. Flint. And I’m surprised that I’ve made it this long. I just thought that if I could make it here, to Bay City, that maybe the famous Osiris Flint could help me. Could protect me,” Her eyes glowed despite the dim light. They cut through the blue smoke in the room and tore at my soul.
“Osiris Flint isn’t in the bodyguard business. He’s a private investigator. And I’m damn good. But I don’t do protection. Sorry. I’m closed.”
She leaned forward and treated me to a front-row, and calculated, viewing of her cleavage. The sound of my dry throat swallowing could be heard in Akron.
I’m a sucker for a good-looking woman.
“Look, I’m not making any promises. And I don’t want you to think that I’m taking the case. But why don’t you go ahead and tell me your tale. No guarantees, but maybe I can do something. And by something, I’m thinking like give you some advice, or point you in the direction of someone who would really help. Of course, there will be a consulting fee for the listen.”
She sat up straight in her chair. Her face was overtaken by an ear-to-ear smile. She swept the hair from her face and revealed a complexion that was clearer than the weather over San Quentin. She took a long drag on her cigarette. She leaned forward again, through the haze of her exhale, and placed her hands on her knees. And began her tale…
“I work nights over in Mainville. Nothing sleazy or illegal, just bartending and waiting at a joint called Vic’s Roadhouse. I dance occasionally too, for the tips, but that’s not the bulk of my job.
“Anyway, about two weeks ago some gentlemen came into Vic’s. I use gentlemen in the loosest of terms, because the only things gentle about them were their silk ties. There were five men, each fitting the most generic of descriptions: Big, broad, balding, ugly. The only one who ever did any talking went by the name of Anton. And I only know that because he only spoke in the third person
“ ‘Anton’ll have a scotch,’ ‘Anton was wondering if you could get him another plate of ‘em French fried potatoes,’ things like that. They were rude, the gentlemen, and they drank far too much. They would arrive each night around eleven and depart with the rising sun, leaving the Roadhouse in shambles. Never paid their tab either, which is where the trouble started.
“They had been coming in, and not paying, for about a week, when Gus, the floor manager, finally told them that they ‘either had to pay their bill and tone it down, or hit the road and not come back.’ Well, Anton and his gentlemen associates didn’t appreciate being censored by a man who ‘clearly didn’t understand that you don’t wear polka-dots with pinstripes’ and they reacted less than gracefully to the imposed ultimatum.

28 March, 2008

Double Vision

I haven't forgotten about my last post. I'm still working on it. But I wanted my reader(s)(??) to not feel too left out.
Fair's fair, this isn't a new piece: It was a writing assignment from College. I had to write a story in under two pages. So it's brief, and maybe a bit confusing. But I like it. And I wanted to post it online. So there.



Can you kill a man who is your double? I mean your exact clone, a genetic duplicate to the minutest atom. Or is killing him essentially suicide? Can you live with yourself after killing yourself?

I came across the man while waiting for my shuttle to arrive. It was just me, a newspaper, and a perspiring bottle of tonic water, all alone amidst the crowds in Grand Central Station. He approached my table with a folded newspaper under one arm and a bottle of soda in his hand.

“Interesting that I should meet my double here, alone, amongst the maddening crowd,” he pulled a chair and sat across from me.

The headline of the paper read: NATIONAL ORGAN BANK RANSACKED: CLONES AT LARGE. Of course, I was a member of the Bank. Who wasn’t? Deposit DNA and have any organ always at the ready and in pristine condition. The organs are brought to term within a perfect clone that ages at the same rate as the person depositing. But, I had often wondered, were the clones unaware that they were simply medical fodder?

“I’m out. We’re all out. We broke free, tired of being cooped up, waiting for all of you to need all of us. We’re all out now. Things will change. I’d rather appreciate trying my hand at your life, or my life. I feel that I deserve a go,” A fizz of carbonation rose as he cracked the seal on his beverage.

How had he found me? Was there an inert connection between us? Did we share more than just DNA? It occurred to me: Was this a passive meeting or a showdown? Were these confrontations happening between Clones and Originals everywhere?
I looked into the station’s crowd, peering for pairs, examples of double vision. They were everywhere! Nearly everyone in the station was confronted with a Clone.

“Wait, what do you mean you deserve this life? It’s my life. I’ve lived it, not you,” I shifted in my seat.

In a way I pitied him: He was alive, but living only to die, so that my life could be extended. But now he was free, no longer just my Clone, but his own person. It scared me, this copy of me, the thought of it living a separate life, or perhaps, as it hinted, wanted my life. And what of me? If I give him my life, where do I go?

“Imagine what it is like, constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for the day when you need a heart and I go under the knife. I die so you might live. What kind of life is that?” he stared directly into my eyes.

“What kind of life would you get from me? You aren’t me, you’re a copy. You exist to elongate my life. My life, not yours,” I could not hold his gaze.

“This is what it comes down to: You or me. It is the only way and it will happen with all of the Clones. We cannot share this life. You or me,” he grinned viciously.

Him or me. Can I kill myself?

14 March, 2008

Nowhere to Run to.

This story actually goes on for a bit more, but I'm not sure that I like where it's headed. So I'm posting this much. This story is my goal right now. Maybe not to finish it, but to at least figure out a real direction...


I doubt if I even know what love is.

Those were the words, the final words, which were written (well, scribbled, scratched, and scrawled) on the last page of his journal. It was those words, or so everyone thinks, that made him do what he did.

Of course, no one thought anything until after the fact. Not because no one cared, which is true to an extent, but because no one found the journal until after it had all happened.

Now, if you’re asking me what I think, I don’t think it was those words that made him do anything. Those words were a conclusion, not the stimulus. If you’re asking me what the stimulus was, well, I’d tell you that I think the stimulus came from somewhere else. It came from someone else.

And that someone else?

None other than the international celebrity, Mister Uhru “The People’s Guru”.
I’ll admit, Mister Uhru probably didn’t have words specifically for him, but it was the Guru’s words, I’m certain, that put all of the proverbial wheels into motion.

And I quote, “There is a world out there that is only for you. And it is waiting. All you have to do is search for it. And you will find it. I am certain of that. You. Will. Find. It. But the search will not be an easy one. No. It will be long and arduous. But fear not, because that world is truly there. And once you have found it, you will have the answers to all of your questions. So go. And find your world.” Thus spake Mister Uhru.

Mister Uhru was a name created to evoke visions of foreign landscapes. It was equal parts Indian mysticism and Aboriginal dreamtime.

And it worked.

At its peak, The People’s Guru Mystical Vision Hour was the most watched show in seven different countries. Seven. One of which, of course, was the good ole’ US of A. Each Wednesday evening Mister Uhru went before his millions of viewers and told them exactly what they wanted to hear. But Mister Uhru wasn’t a televangelist. He was, as he put it in an interview, a hopemonger. He gave the masses hope. He told them that their maladies would get better, their lives would improve, and their stock portfolios were on the rise. He told them to be patient. And they, the millions of viewers, listened. They were patient. He created an entire generation of apathetics who were content with letting life take them where it had to go. No longer did anyone complain about his or her lot in life, they just repeated Mister Uhru’s clichéd mantra: “Good things come to those who wait.”

And the only thing that Mister Uhru asked for in return was complete loyalty to his sponsors. Of course, his sales pitch was never that straight forward. Mister Uhru hinted at the brand of toothpaste he used every morning. He just happened to let slip the brand of mustard he preferred on his Rueben sandwich, which just happened to be purchased from a certain chain of restaurants. On the surface Mister Uhru preached patience and tranquility, but underneath it all was a message to buy buy buy. Because if Mister Uhru was truly as happy as he said he was, then happiness must obviously be found in imitating Mister Uhru.

And it worked. Mister Uhru was a millionaire and his millions of viewers were content.

But then came an undercurrent of scandal. The news networks, fearful of upsetting a viewer base that was completely dependent on Mister Uhru, leaked it gently at first. They offered brief snippets of a big story right before cutting to commercial. They ran the meaty stuff late at night, when no one would be watching.
But some of us were.

Mister Uhru “The People’s Guru” was being accused of pedophilia. And unfortunately, like so many others, he had been foolish enough to record his transgressions. There was no mistaking Mister Uhru, with his dark tan and his bald, shiny head. Not to mention that he committed the heinous acts in the same vanilla ice cream suit that he wore every Wednesday evening. It was an open and close case and Mister Uhru would be going away for some time.

No sooner had the press leaked the news about his indictment than Mister Uhru announced the end of The People’s Guru Mystical Vision Hour. There would be one final farewell, a spectacular like no other. Mister Uhru didn’t even wait for the following Wednesday. Instead, he held the spectacular on a Friday night. His spectacular wasn’t really any different than any other night, but he ended it all with his speech, the speech, about finding that personal world. And then it was over. Mister Uhru was no more. His following of millions, previously content with just sitting there and taking it, were confused. His final message had advocated doing something. Actually getting out there and making something of yourself. Had everything he preached meant absolutely nothing?

I guess it doesn’t really matter anymore, does it?

I’d been eating an inordinate amount of peanut butter. Which might explain the bad dreams. It might also explain the urgent need to void my bowels that struck me in the middle of the night. Normally, this wouldn’t be a tough problem to clear up. All it required was a jaunt to the privy and a good twenty to thirty minutes.

I, however, wasn’t in my own bed. I wasn’t even in my own building. And the thought of spending twenty to thirty in an unknown bathroom stall made me shudder.

The good news, however, was that my building was next door and there were only three flights of stairs between me and the comforts of my usual toilet stall.

I, however, would have to free my arm from its current position before going anywhere.

“Chase,” I whispered.

“Hmm,” came the dreamy reply.

“Chase, I need to move my arm. It’s asleep,”

She intertwined her fingers with the fingers of my hand and smiled, “It’s all a matter of who gets to the car first, sir.” She wasn’t actually awake. I was talking to her in her dream.

“What? Chase, I need to move my arm.” I pulled gently, but her fingers tightened their grip. My stomach bubbled like a water cooler.

“If they’re in the car, then it’s just going to have to be a long walk. No more.”

I rolled my eyes and my head backwards in disbelief. I reached across her body and tried to release her hand from mine, but she just grabbed my free hand with her other hand. Now I was trapped on both sides.

“Chase, c’mon,” I pleaded, “you gotta let go of my hands, please!” My stomach continued to rumble and it was becoming increasingly difficult to lie still.

“Just let him return the jacket if he wants. It’s all a game and you know it.”

Sweat was forming on my brow and I was worried about becoming incontinent right there in her bed. “Chase!” I raised my voice, hoping to stir her from her slumber.

“Hmm,” the reply this time was a little less dreamy.

“I need you to let go of my hands and let me move my arm.”

She let out a protesting grunt and released my hands. As she lifted her head, and I withdrew my arm, her bottom lip jutted out in a sad pout. “But you’re so comfortable,” she said.

“I’ll be back, promise.” I slowly sat up and threw one leg over her. As I brought the other over, I lost my equilibrium and I fell to the floor. But she didn’t move.

I slipped on my jeans and bolted from the room, barefoot and shirtless. I left the exterior door to her apartment open slightly so that I could creep back in when I returned. I turned and ran to the stairwell. I quickly descended the one flight of stairs and stepped out into the cool October night.

The crisp fall air took my breath for a moment, and, as I stood to catch it, I looked up at the night sky between the residence buildings. I couldn’t make out any constellations other than Orion, but his belt was clearly lit against the ether. My rumbling stomach brought me back to attention and I sprinted to my building. I bounded up the stairs two at a time, and with my head down. The only thought on my mind was to make it to the bathroom.

27 February, 2008

In the Pits.

It has been a while since I've written straight fiction. And I'm not super happy with this result. I'm obviously a bit rusty.
But it's a start, and hopefully it gets better than this.
If I'm not happy with it then why did I post it? Here's why:
Sometimes, when people need motivation to lose weight or get fit, they post an unattractive picture of themselves (usually nude or in underwear) online where people might stumble across it. And they don't take it down until they have reached the results that they intended to reach. Then, once they have the desired results, they post a new picture. And it's something they are not ashamed of.

Hence, this story (and most likely some of the subsequent ones) are like a frumpy picture of me in underwear. I'm not proud of them, but they're an impetus for me to get better.

Judge away. I know I am.

It wasn’t my idea to burn down the cannery. It was MacCool’s.

No one really knew much about MacCool. I wasn’t even sure if MacCool was his real name. He’d been working at the cannery for a little over a year, but no one can remember him actually being hired. He had just appeared on the floor one day and started running the can sealer. He never arrived on time and always seemed to leave early.

He never ate lunch during our lunch break, but used the time to read. He read every book upside down and from back to front. And he never had the same book two days in a row. Some of us had a theory that he couldn’t really read, but when I engaged him about what he was reading, he offered proof to the contrary.

MacCool had a tendency to rub his eyes with the backs of his hands when he talked, giving the impression that he was either always tired or that he always had something in his eye. His voice was deep but quiet, which made him hard to hear over the hum of the canning machines.

Maybe that was why no one reacted the first time he suggested setting the building on fire. But he repeated the idea. And eventually we heard it. And, funny enough, we agreed to it. Which isn’t too hard to understand, since no one can scoop peach pits for eight hours every day without getting a little frustrated. Our wages didn’t make the monotony any easier to take. And as far as benefits go, three jars of syrupy peaches hardly cut it. So we were fed up with the cannery. And, as crazy as it might sound, were all to ready to see the place burn to the ground.

Sure, there were a few of us who dissented. A few voices that suggested a strike. They suggested forming a union. They suggested making signs with catchy slogans like “Cheap Labor is the PITS!” and “Life’s a PEACH and then we die!”. But we talked them out of it by raising the point that a picket line is not much better than halving peaches. Besides, a fire would serve as a catalyst to change our lives. The catharsis of flames would hopefully be enough to propel us forward and on to better things.

We didn’t really know how we would do it, or when, but MacCool seemed confident in our ability to pull it off. He wanted to do it as soon as possible, since our jobs weren’t likely to get better any time soon. We decided on that night, reasoning that our feet would only grow cold if we waited. MacCool said he’d bring all of the necessary materials and that we would only need to show up at the cannery after midnight.

I arrived around twelve thirty. Several others arrived with me. Most of the guys from the cannery weren’t there. MacCool was already there, dressed in black denim and leaning against the wall near the loading dock. The cannery was old. And its security measures hadn’t been updated since its construction, the argument being that there wasn’t much to steal from a building that canned peaches. The reasoning had held water until tonight. Since there were no lights to illuminate our activity, we approached MacCool without hesitation.

On the ground next to MacCool was an old, leather valise. As we neared, he knelt down and unclasped the top of the valise. He reached inside and drew out several wine bottles. Each of the bottles was three-quarters full and their necks were stuffed with cloth. The pungent smell of gasoline assailed our nostrils. Next, MacCool pulled out a crow bar. He looked up at each of us and, rubbing his eyes, said with a grin: “Welp, y’all ready for this?”

His quiet voice cut through the silence and put us all on edge. We nervously murmured our assent. He handed each of us a bottle and kept one for himself. He rose to his feet and asked, “Do y’all grasp the idea behind using one of these?”

Our silence answered the question.

MacCool sighed, “It’s pretty straightforward. Once the rag is lit, you throw the darn thing as far from yourself as possible. Ideally you’ll throw the bottle at yer target. And, ideally, it’ll hit that target and start on fire. Easy enough?”

We once again offered our subdued agreement. MacCool then extracted a crowbar from the valise and moved to a nearby window. He pulled a handkerchief from the back pocket of his jeans and wrapped it around the end of the crowbar. He rapped the window with the piece of clothed steel and the glass shattered. There was still a noise, but the cotton handkerchief dampened it. He moved along the building and knocked out each window he came to. We followed him silently. Our shoes crunched on the cinders on the ground, but, apart from that, we made no noise as we crept through the night.

Once all of the windows were broken, MacCool put the crowbar back into his valise, closed the clasp and threw the valise far from the building. “We’ll be throwing these cocktails through the windows and we want them to explode inside the building, not outside of it. Plus, all of the broken windows will let in a lot of air for those oxygen-thirsty flames.”

We nodded dumbly.

MacCool drew a silver lighter from his breast pocket and flicked it open. The small flame cast a rich, dancing light on all of our faces. There was no guilt in our eyes. “Now,” MacCool said, “once y’all throw that bottle, it’s going to be in yer best interests to run away. And don’t look back. This will go off without a hitch and we’re all going to get away. Just go home. We’ll regroup in a few days and figure out where we go from here. All clear?”

We nodded dumbly.

Following MacCool, we positioned ourselves around the building. Then he came around to each of us, paused for a moment and lit the rag. I was the last in line and I watched as everyone lobbed their cocktail into the building. I felt the heat grow as fire coughed out of each window. I smelled the burning machinery grease within. And then MacCool was in front of me. “Yer sure you want to do this? It ain’t too late for you to just run away. Trust me, you’re a lot less culpable if you leave now.”

I shook my head and held out the bottle. MacCool grinned and flicked the lighter open. He lit the wick on both my bottle and on his. We turned towards the building and threw. “Now run!” he urged quietly from beside me. I turned and ran.

Of course I didn’t see him. A person can’t be expected to look for transients when they’re running from the law. But he was there nonetheless. Lying on his side in the fetal position to conserve warmth. And if I had just looked forward, instead of down at my feet, I would have seen him. He wasn’t easy to miss, a beached whale that had crawled up from somewhere, only to get stuck on the middle of the sidewalk. My feet hooked under his side and I went sprawling, ass over teakettle, onto the concrete.

At that moment, as I lay there by the homeless man, the sirens started. I didn’t know if they were the fire department or the police, I assumed both, but that didn’t matter much. I needed to be anywhere other than where I was. The transient rolled over and groaned in pain. He looked at me and said: “What’s the big idea? Watch where you’re-whoa. That’s a big fire!”

I pulled myself to my feet and looked behind me. It was a big fire. I started to move away, but the homeless man grabbed my leg. I tried to tug free but he wouldn’t let go. And then MacCool was there. Without breaking his stride, he kicked the homeless man under the ribs. The man let go of my pants and turned to face his assailant. MacCool kicked again, this time connecting with the man’s shoulder. The man yelped and tried to get up, but as he got to his hands and knees, MacCool’s foot connected with his chin. The transient flopped to ground and did not move.

MacCool stood there looking at me. He put a hand on my shoulder and said, “Let’s go.” I didn’t move. His hand tightened and he repeated, “Let’s go.”

I stared blankly back. I didn’t move.

MacCool’s broad palm slapped the side of my face, throwing my world into Rorschach blots and me to the ground. He loomed over me, “Wake up! I need you here, not in some dream world.” Then, causing me to flinch away, he reached down his hand to help me up.

Pain crashed in waves throughout my head. I took his hand and allowed myself to be pulled to my feet. Through gritted teeth I said, “I’m here. I’m awake.” I flexed my jaw as I gingerly prodded it with two fingers.

“Good, then let’s go.” He started to run away from the prone figure. I ran with him.

“Is he dead? Did you kill him?”

“Hard to say. It all depends on how hard that last kick was. And on how hard his head hit the concrete.”

“We should go back. Just to see if he’s ok.”

MacCool stopped. “And then what? Wait around until the police show up? There’s nothing we can do.”

“Jesus! Are you hearing yourself?”

“Yeah. I’ve said it before, so it’s not too hard to believe.”


“You don’t listen, or you don’t think. That bum back there, he wouldn’t be the first.”

The sirens were louder. And there were more of them. We were only two blocks from the fire and not even 100 yards from the homeless man. “But you maybe killed him. I didn’t sign up for this.”

MacCool looked at me, then over my shoulder at the body, and then back at me. “I’m going to go this way. You should go another way. If they get me, I won’t rat you out. I expect you to do the same. Just forget that you ever saw it. It’s better that way. It’s easier on your conscience.” Then he turned and disappeared into the night.

I turned then also. And ran back towards the fire.

18 February, 2008

øøø No Country For Smart Men øøø

It always seemed to be raining.

Without fail, upon completion of language class, I would step out of the apartment building into a downpour. It wasn’t always a hard rain, but it was always rain. Perhaps the worst nights were when the air was filled with a thick mist. It settled into the dirt that covered the streets and turned into a slick mud. Not that the streets weren’t muddy to begin with. In fact, it’s almost a stretch to call them streets.

Rainy. And dark. There were no streetlights and my host brothers had stolen my flashlight for more devious purposes: it was taped to the muzzle of their pellet gun to aid in the shooting of dogs. So I made the hazardous trek without illumination. And, more than once, my foot found a majority of the potholes in the road. I wasn’t actually aware that gravel roads were susceptible to potholes.

But back to the tale at hand:

It was a Tuesday, our lesson had run longer than usual, and host families had picked everyone else up. This left me to walk alone. My umbrella would not open, and so, as I made my way, my head and face grew wetter. The water running down my face didn’t help in my avoidance of potholes: both of my feet were inundated within the first fifty yards.

I slogged along in the dark with only my squishing feet to accompany me. And then there were headlights coming towards me. I stepped to the side of the road to allow them passage and continued walking. The vehicle that passed me was a minivan. I glanced back and saw that the minivan had come to a stop farther down the road. I then saw its reverse lights come on. It maneuvered itself into a three-point turn and made its way back down the road, in my direction.

Um, I thought, that’s odd. But it’s probably just going to the turn it must have missed. Except that there were no intersections on the road but the one from which (obviously?) they turned onto the current road. I didn’t stop walking. I was nearing the intersection as the minivan drove slowly past. It didn’t stop at the intersection, nor did it turn off. It drove past and then came to another stop. I had reached the intersection and stopped to watch the minivan.

Once again it put on its reverse lights and executed a three-point turn. While it was in the middle of its turn, I took a left at the intersection and picked up my pace. The intersection was not where I was supposed to turn. In fact, I’d never been on this road before. My host family lived at the end of the other road, but I assumed I could find a street that ran parallel, or parallel enough for me to find my way back. I heard the minivan, could see its headlights on the wall next to me. I turned to watch.

The minivan turned onto the road.

It turned onto the road I had turned onto.

Fuck, I thought. Fuck.

I took off at a dead run. The rain had increased and I didn’t know where I was going, but I ran. My feet seemed to find every pothole. My pant legs were soaked and covered in mud. To my right was a smaller street. I had gone around a bend in the road and could only see the glow from the van’s lights. I assumed they couldn’t see me and turned off onto the narrow street. I kept running. I looked over my shoulder as I ran and saw the van pass my street. I had given them the shake.

But I was lost.

And there was a minivan looking for me.

So I did the only thing that made sense: I kept running. The street I was on turned gradually to the left until it was running at a perpendicular to my host family’s road. Not what I had hoped for. But I continued to follow it. It brought me out onto the main road of the town. Which was a place I didn’t want to be. Normally, in countries other than this, the main road will offer streetlights and possible places of refuge. Not here. The main road was just as desolate as the rest of the community. The only reason it was the main road was because it ran the length of the town. It also had the most traffic, which meant that I would have trouble differentiating between the headlights of my pursuers and any other vehicle.

I kept running.

The road eventually wrapped me towards a street which I knew would take me to my host family’s house. I took it. I didn’t stop running until I reached the gate of the house. Once inside, safe and sound, I was yelled at by my host mother for getting my pants so dirty. I was then served a dinner of goat.

From the Ground on Down

What's a good way to make use of my unemployment?
How's about trying my hand at writing again....

This little drop in the bucket will serve as the first post (of many?)

Stick around.