Mister Fuzzybottoms goes to and then leaves from Omaha

Our first view of Omaha from the train (night fall disallowed pictures from the train). Omaha is a very large city. However, as large as it is, it feels very rural. Part of that is due to where we stayed. A quaint apartment complex on the north side of town.

We stopped by a local watering hole, Hereon Haven.

And viewed some urban art. 

Join us tomorrow when Mr. Fuzzybottoms celebrates Mardi Gras

Mister Fuzzybottoms Rides the Train

More like Mr Fuzzybottoms waits ...forever! You know, I like riding trains, I really do. However, the inordinate amount of time spent simply waiting... waiting... waiting is too much. Here we are waiting at the platform in Cleveland.

"Attention, 49 Lakeshore Limited is now arriving from New York." At long last the old engine drags itself into the station. It's sleek deisel hum is far removed from my romanced notions - no great steel beast belching steam to carry us along. Seated and stowed we sit in the dark morning. The warmth of cabin is welcome relief from the windy Cleveland night. A conductor collects our tickets.Outside the City of Rock stands quietly. Soon both were memories. 

A brief stop in Toledo

 Amtrak: breakfast on rail

 Pictured here, Chicago platform #20. 49 Lakeshore Limited Arriving on time. Thanks for the miles!

Chicago's grand Union Station! It is an amalgam of pre-war design and modernization through the ages. Yet still it retained the artistry so ingrained in American buildings. I've never been to New York's Grand Central. If ever there was a comparison, i suppose that wood be it. Union Station is an ingeniously designed hub. commuter rails on the northside platforms and long distance rail transit on the other. A mecca of buses and cabs roam the streets over head. Not much time in the breath-taking underworks. lanes of concrete docks running parallel to the tracks. Empty. if not for the crowds of passengers and marked periodically by columns rising like cement trees. we shuffled, stiff legged between heavy breathing beast. the hiss of pneumatics and the hum of diesel engines.

 We camped at this bar, Snuggery, while we waited... waited... waited. I'll say this, Chicago has it all over Cleveland on train platforms!

Mr. Fuzzybottoms packs his bags

Suddenly, I've found myself with an over abundance of time. At first I ate, slept and quite generally descended into hedonistic delight. An adventure to take!

Leaving Cleveland via early morning train. Westward. Then to the unknown.

Truthfully, it's less interesting than that; we'll travel day and night across the roaring tracks to first Chicago and finally Omaha where good friends and family will take us in with mostly open arms. Not much to say right now. The bags are packed and we're leaving today (in 5 hours!) 

Adventures in the Timeline of Marc

   ...It is closing time at Wendy's. the outside lights are dim, it's 12:01 and a single car pulls to the window.

    "WE ARE CLOSED." a polite voice whispers. The grill is still hot, with pattied meat well cooked. Fries bath in salt under warm sunlight. The mop stands like a spear in Adam's hands. It was later, that the time came to count discards and begin the arduous task of cleaning. First I collected the beef patties from the flattop and stored for tomorrow's chili. Wendy's continued to impress me with it's near-lack of food waste. In past jobs we've been forced to cart away pounds of rotten dishes, veggies and soups. Here we sold such quantity that 'left-over' was also a meaningless. So, I was then that I took the waste, after previous nights management permitted free sandwiches to her hard-working staff post hours. Seeing three pieces of fairy cooked  grilled chicken (well past the 4 hour mark) that could be torn a part and boiled into next-night's meal.
    I gave Linda the count, "Four crispy chickens and I took the grilled." I said cheerily.

    She stopped entirely as if struck, turning slowly we connected eyes. "you can't do that."

    I paused. I had suspected the previous manager's policy of over cooked sandwiches was not entirely sanctioned. See, at Monica's we had the luxury of eating damaged, burned or extra food. But only after hours. we were also given allotted shift meal )provided we had a busy night). But knowing, as I do from stories from my ex, ruby's tales of managerdom at Joann Fabrics, I predicted that Wendy's has a strict, you want it, you pay for it attitude towards freebeing employees. Personally I feel that the workers, as part owners, community members and operators of Wendy's have a right to food that we cooked, though purchased by the franchise, is by now unsellable, in the eyes of the owners, fit for the roaches in the dumpster. Thus, I did feel quite confident in intervening in the process of grill to trash. Being fired was the worst outcome.

    "I can pay for it." I offered, perhaps I could keep this job after all. With a second job on the horizon and school still 4 months off, I might test my ability to run two jobs at once, and save my position as Wendy's Crew.

    Linda shrugged. And I felt a tingle of anticipation, a shrivelling, worrisome sensation in my sprunjer.

Silence.

   Yet, It wasn't the repercussions that I thought of from taking discard meat from Wendy's that worried me, but the ominous way she slouched her shoulders and shook her head and said "I'm sorry. and they have you on Camera." She pointed to the dorms upon the ceiling, I waited for something to happen. Nothing. We finished closing, and still not a word after the lights flickered off. While wiping down the stainless steal I speculated what being fired was like. It had happened before, in such a terrible manor that I had grown steal over my heart. Though I felt the cause to be unjust; I loved working Ge-Angelo's but I never did befriend the owner, I was too unready in his eyes (perhaps I was - I was the only one in the kitchen without aspirations of Chefhood. I worked simply for a dime whilst I looked for careers outside a kitchen). I reasoned being fired because I took food one might scavenge from the trash, counted as trash, and, momentarily, still counter-bond. Then why the horrified look and the dejected nod. the sorrow in Linda's big brown eye? surely she did not believe anyone could love a job so much to be crushed by the prospect of an other's forced absence. Well, I began to think of other scenarios. Maybe she'd fire me at the end of close, maybe Ed, the General Manager would do it the next day I worked. The idea of having to wait another day to be laid off didn't seem to be that bothersome. I began to images wild scenarios, the police showing up in a strobe-light lit cars of red and blue. The heal risks of  4 hour plus chicken. The ghost of Dave appearing that night to haunt me. A dark cabal of fast-food owners adding me to their assassination list.


___________________________________________________________
I am typing this so the word will know my story.
I hear the creak of floor boards and the chilling cry cold wind on the windows.
IF I survive the night, I shall post anew.

Introduction

I'm not sure how many reader are familiar with The Bright Orange Thread.

Anyway, I have a new addition to my household. A delightful, super fuzzy kitten.  He has taken the moniker, Mugen (Officially Mugen-kun).

The first hurdle this little guy must cross is the ever vigilant eye of Big Sister - Pepper, I mean.  She is less then ecstatic about this little visitor. At first, she did what a cat does when her home is invaded by a stranger. At first, he was sequestered in a different room so that all she could do is growl and hiss that the door. Gradually (not that gradually, actually it was in two days) she would sit, pearched, and stare at him. Slowly, he worked his charms on her.

Now they are the best of pals and spend time playing and frolicking [photo not found].

adventures

 A chair. A great big chair.

for 60 dollars our across-the-street neighbors were trying to rid themselves of the awful affliction of seating.

I'm fairly sure they were deperate to sell the thing -acrused as it was- that i could've walked away with it at 30$. My plan was to offer 20 and work no greater then 40$. But then i remembered i don't need a chair. And, indeed, 20$ could be greatly used in other aspects of my life.

After mowing the lawn in early afternoon-sun, I hopped bikeward (because nothing is as refreshing after a grueling sweatin the hot, hot sun as a long bike  ride in the hot, hot sun). I headed to my favorite comic book store this morrow. Albeit Mayham is the only comic book shop this side of Des Moines, but it's stores are still vast. I picked up three comics. Deadpool Corps, Chip, and Sense & Sensibility the comic. who knew? I saw it and i knew it must be purchased. It's not terrible. By which i mean, it's exactly as terrible as the original Jane Austin. So if you like that... I just wonder what other classics will be reprinted in comic form. Persuasion, perhaps? House of the Seven Gables? They've done Frankenstein and Dracula hundreds of times why not Rappacinni's Daughter or Herland? particularly Dickens' works would fit nicely as he was initially a serial author. (though i don't think i could stand reading Bleak House or A Christmas Carol even if it was illustrated.)

Chip is a junevile comic about a 2 inch gargoyle that seeks out different ways to become scarier. In this issue (the second issue i've purchased) he investigates a "haunted" house to ask the spirits how to be fierce. I love the premise of this comic. It is terribly juvenile but cute. I'm not sure how to elabrate on this. So I won't.

Moving on, I enjoyed Deadpool. I'm not sure this in the best work, but it's promising. Plus entertaining. basicly, Deadpool is a super "hero" who is inane, clever, and just slight batty. The particular series i picked up involves Deadpools from all over the "mulitverse." It includes a zombified dismembered floating head of of Deadpool. He is called Headpool. There is also Dogpool and Ladypool. I'm waiting for Hulkpool. anyway for ~3$ each it's not a bad way to spend some time.

further along I found myself at Ames British Foods. A favorate place of mine. Specifically, Mark, the owner, loves beers and ciders. I love the Henney's Cider his shop offers. 16 poorer I had two point two pints of Cider and a box of strawberry bicukets (delicious). All and all, 25$ of expenderture was certainly worth not having a new chair. Plus the sweat and sunburn!

until next time,
-Marcus

P.S. I shaved my head today. It is incredible. I'd show the world (my blog-readers) but my camera is absent. Forgotten - nay - adventuring without me. I have a scanner. I've never tried to use a scanner as a camera before and I don't intent to now. But I'll show you my biscuits instead. 

And it comes with a story! but you don't get to see that part.

back to monday

all yesterday i sat, staring at this empty blog space trying to think of something to share. I s'pose it's harder to be interesting when things are ...good. So i'll talk about someone else for a change.

Pepperchan almost caught herself a rabbit yesterday.

A juvenal bunny hopping playfully among clover and violets. He pauses once in every skip to sniff the air and nibble some grass. A warm breeze rolls through the grass. A dark shape emerges so slowly; slipping like a shadow towards it's unsuspecting prey. She stops. He stops. no longer does the air feel quite so warm. An odd chill. He looks up to see if a cloud has past overhead. In the clear sky the afternoon sun hangs above the leafy branches of a walnut tree but a shadow on the ground. Grass forgotten he slowly, ever so slowly for to do otherwise was to invite the specter closer, he looks across the grass. Still too young, too small to see over the long tufts of green. For an instant, even the wind holds it's breath.She is inches from him now. A paw's swipe. Run. He bonds away. She leaps to where he was. Flying dirt, pebbles and grass she takes chase. it is over in seconds. though every movement every action is like a choreographed dance. A kabuto. They waltz through tall grass, zig-zagging clover and around the tree until, finally, when his heart pounds ferociously in his chest, she gives up chase. He is in the middle of a field. Too far from cover to be safe. She paces ten - no six- hops away. A wooden pile of logs invites safety. He breaks for it. She tags playfully behind, tail wagging with delight. She neither closes the distance nor advances until he disappears. When he is gone from sight she retreats; sprinting home to tell her extraordinary tale.

three daze

Too often, I think, do these post start with 'I.' With the woes of the world, it grows increasingly difficult to convince myself that my own problems are of worth writing. A good friend of mine, who is mostly likely reading this, has returned to places far away to meet problems face-to-puffing-face. I admire him greatly. He has a great many things i never had: troubles. I know that I've lived a sweet life. (still do.) But should i be needed to be called on for the necessities he must face, i doubt i could rise to the occasion. My strength lie in leisure (i'm not so sure i should say 'strength'). Then with other, further reaching troubles of the uncared masses besiege me. From the morning news of death, tragedy and disaster, of poor of sick of sorrow. The maladies family overcry what little i have to complain. the fact that i have things alone to complain about should not be over looked when considering the absolute loss of those who would throw themselves C4 first into death's unforgiving grayness (perhaps at the cause of some-such or another; though i think they've lost so much they see little recourse).

Last week I found myself unable to move from the bed in mornings. Paralyzed perhaps. Where before, eagerly i leapt from slumber to see each new day, recently I only wish to return to my dreamless purgatory. But last Sunday was different. I forced heavy limbs and moved to greet morning light (a pay check in need of cashing was of no little aid). I awoke with the birds and met the day. In impulse I whisked Ruby to a theme-park (Adventureland) where our bottled stress uncorked with cries of eager delight and fear as i faced mine: Rollercoasters.

Yes, dear reader, I've long had a knee weakening fear of metal tracks twisting and winding clamorously, tearing even, through an amusement-park. We started slow: the merry-go-round, ferris wheel, some big pirate themed swing-a-majig, the inverter, then my first big challenge: the space shot. Basically a chair attached to a massive pneumatic piston that flung the passengers a bunch of stories skyward with a nasty hiss of air. it is not heights or speed or motion that bother me about 'rides'. rather the unnatural, awkward method they arrive to get you there. When you're driving or on your bike or climbing trees you're incomplete control of your motion. at least to some extent you can choose to continue or stop (though cases arrive where you are committed to an action, say an abnormally large hill or lost hand-hold).

In reality, the effects of simulated motion are not nearly as jarring as they would appear. In fact it was quite liberating - invigorating if you will. I loved it.  We rode everything once then returned to some choice favorites through the day. I suggest The Outlaw at Adventureland. It has no inversions or loops, but steep curves and tall, tight, twisting hills blended within it's compact structure make it an intense ride.

but the day didn't truly take to whimsical flight until a sudden shower lifted our sun-dampened spirits. Actually, it drove most off the fun and into shelter or fleeing from the park. But we would not be deterred. truth is, everything is better in a summer rain. from coasters to swings. Also, the park's patrons dried up to keep wait times down. With camera at hand many moments were captured of this triumphant day though many more can only be shared in memory.

New.s

So much has happened recently. I'm not sure where to start. first, I got thrown out of a state park. then, I meet a whole new group of people I call "Addies." I got to hang with some old friends and meet some new ones. I enrolled at ISU. (hurray educations)  I got a scanner I'm totally stoked about. Finally, just may, in general has been a fantastic adventure.

Sunday.
 I traveled several hours to Mt Vernon (affectionately: MV) to attend the Sponge Wedding of Kristine Foster (OOO! Shiny) and Lizz "Keps" Kepsel. Anyway, after a wondrous drive through rolling hills where long, tuffed grass frolicked, wind-wavened like ocean waters, I rolled into the Pal around 2:30 and set up camp. It was oppressively hot. So humid that even blood-sucking insects were too tired to feast. Natey found me dropping payment for the well attended campsite (Although why they charge i haven't a clue. From almost every fire ring drifted lazy smoke of forgotten embers. The Wedding went fabulously and the reception got underway.  We started on the great quantity of drink provided. I, too, thought it pertinent to pack pilsner, though, as i found, it was excess. which made the next events harder. When the shelter's reservation ended (about 5 o'clock) Park Ranger Joe-Mama showed up, demanded we vacate. But not before we dumped all our booze for his sadistic pleasure. the bastard. Our Precious precious booze and cut our party short. we had minors (of which i was unaware) so for not getting ticket and fined i s'pose that is fair. NO. Fuck that! It wasn't fair at all! I'm 24! I have a right to carry beer in a cooler in a park that allows alcoholic beverages. I wish I was less compliant.

Later.
because being kicked out of a state park wasn't enough adventure for an evening, I found myself in Iowa City meandering the Ped-Mall. The rows of pedestrian only streets (well, two lined such to form a 'T') fell willingly under the shade of broad leafed trees. I found a spot under one and sipped a delightful sangria provided by Mundo's Saloon. I read The Time Machine in the orange setting sun. all the while sending out thread for further use of my time. I pasted up Jordan (sorry) and Darcy (also sorry) to return to Cornell College campus. I've not been to Cornell in a ages. the specific reasons for my enforced absence is too long to delve into now (though, with some persuasion, I could be encouraged to regale the populous). more to the point, I found Alro along the way to hang out with a group of folks who will be known to me henceforth as "Addies." Much as entire generations have been cataloged with language (e.g. Hippies, Metalheads, ect.) I've labeled another sect.

Addies.
groups of people characterized by others by their corrosive behavior, favor to excess, and constant use of inebriates. I usually shy from heedless categorizations of subcultures. Recently, I've seen the function of label (as abstract and closed-minded they might be). Addies are born of extremity - but this isn't about them. (actually it is, but i want to wait to talk about this class of person). I would dwell longer of this subculture. In living moment to moment is truly liberating in this: there is a bliss in not caring about the next.

At night.
I sat, bent head listening to the spiny clatter of boxes from 2am delivery. It was the elementary school. from it's rooftop, under waning stars we smoked and now we waited. cold dew soaked my clothes. my ears pounded with each new, muttering step of our  blockade. I, for my part, took our siege to use. I wrote to the stars. to my plight. to all i cared to address. Once the milk was unloaded, a sudden shuttering alerted us to freedom. Thought we were unable to loss one of the party members from the chilled roof top, I left a cashe of  blankets for her safety. Though, as i suspected, she was in more than capable hands and was later retrieved.

Home.
I returned exausted and defeated. the loss of 12 hours and 24 units of beer sapped all my enthusiasm. Thankfully, Arlo a great friend of mine accompanied me a short way. The day was bright and the flowers seemed to smile and dance on the springtime breeze. I thanked my benefactors for their aid and comfort and supply but I shall not the company again of Addies. Not for a while. The sun set before me in great orange sky as I pulled into the rock drive of home. there i rested in the arms of equally tired Ruby, who waited patiently my return.

FCBD

Free Comic Book Day was a blast!
I got all sorts of neat trinkie junk. Wolverine showed me the newest heroclixes and I got to read the newest adventures of Mouseguard and Fraggle rock. of course marvel was in fullest gear with a new release of avengers Iron Man and Thor tag-teaming. Iron Man and Spiderman also debuted new stories lines.

Seeing as I didn't mad-gab every available free book in the store, I call only recall poorly what other comics were available. Artifacts (which wasn't terribly interesting though did show some gratuitous leg shots of it's sexy heroine), Fractured Fables looked curious, Radical also previewed a series of new stories of the dead and dark, and the Simpsons as well in papered form (go comic-book guy).

All in all it was a fanatisic début to the world of graphic novels. For me, I did find myself a new venture. Chip, the story of a 4inch gargoyle who wishes to prove that, despite being short and cute, he can be fierce and scary. a struggle i can relate to. I'm also increasingly interested in Deadpool.

Ruby was not quite as enthused by FCBD as I

A day in the life...

The door of the tiny Boston apartment flung open.  It hit the wall with a terrible Bang and slid back on it hinges. Edmond was through the threshold as the door rounded on its arch.  He looked around: a filthy couch, a coffee table cluttered with beer bottles layered in shirts and mail (most of which was strongly worded letters about a final something or other). Over a short bar -yep there it was- the kitchen light flickered. He’d hoped it would burn out while he was working. It hadn’t.  The tubes flashed suddenly bright then dim, it was laughing. The door gave a haughty, giggling creak as it swung back open. Somewhere above him pipes rang and cackled all joining in at his mockery.  Edmond lit a cigarette. Back lit by piss yellow hallway lights he cast a short, thin and insignificant silhouette. Smoke drifted around him, engulfing his form. It drew close, swarming him like a thick cottony fog. Edmond was oddly aware of the ground lifting from his feet. A moment later he was air born. His cloud bore him upward; he drifted through the crumbling ceiling tiles, through Garrison’s flat with its ceaseless, cackling pipes. Now he was peering down over Huntington ave. from atop a boiling storm cloud. A brisk charge of lighting rumbled in the surrounding nimbi. Edmond plucked out his cigarette and stomped out the clouds. The kitchen light flicked on then rapidly off. Two choices: stay and be driven mad -madder he corrected- or go and replace that -fucking- light.  . Edmond thumbed the pill bottle in his pocket. Danté, Edmond 2 tablets per day as needed. PR: Miranti, Vincent J. He concerted it, the way one considers a tooth canal. Do I really need it this time? Maybe it’ll get better.

                George’s was open almost all the time. Except Fridays and whenever the Patriots were playing. A great red sign announced: HARDWARE. SUPLIES. The door chimed as he entered.

“Eddy!” the cry came from a great mountain of a man sitting behind a stubby counter.  A swath of sandpaper-grey beard greeted him with a toothy grin. “How da Fuck ah yoo, man?” George’s bulbous form wobbled at some joke Edmond failed to understand.

Edmond had been attacked twice on his way over. Once by a loin and once by a twitchy man with ash'd skin. To the latter he’d offered his immortal soul which the man wanted nothing of and promptly let him alone. “Fine.” He answered.

“Da Sox’s on, watchu need?”

“A light.”

“I thought chu quit smokin’... c’mon, J.D.!”

Edmond was about to offer a reply but Sosa crushed a ball into far right field. He decided to leave George to his swearing at the Red Sox’s right fielder. Edmond found himself moments later staring at cardboard-wrapped glass. Most of them were frosted, some were clear. None, however, looked to be the ones he needed. Moments of thought came rarely to Edmond. Mostly driven away by the growing chaos of his brain; or ceaseless chaos of the world outside his brain. It these rare moments of tranquility he thought mostly of Sandra. Had she been real? That’s stupid. Of course she was real. She used to be a regular at Hitters. Mikey even talked to her.

 Sandra, of course, was real. Bourbon on ice Sunday through Thursday at 8pm at Hitters - she was clockwork. She sat at the corner of the rail in the inkiest of shadows. Black hair cascaded over her ears and pooled at her soft shoulders. Steel blue eyes pierced her bangs. Her eyes burned blue holes wherever she looked. Sadly they mostly looked down or away. She was impossibly pale. Her skin looked as if it should reflect silver light as the moon yet it was dull, almost hidden in the night. Edmond had never seen her outside the bar but he often imagined her – when he could. Not in a profane manner (though he’d not deny his brain bearing images of her supple body). Rather, he pictured her rare smile. Lips like merlot would part ever so slightly, revealing pearlescent teeth in a demure grin.  Those lips never showed more than a little incisor before falling away. Rarer still were her laughs. Her voice-

“Oi! Eddy!” George boomed from the store front, “ah yoo al’ight, man?”

“y-yeah.” Edmond held his head, “How long was I standing there?”

“Only, like, an inning – c’mon!” George swat the T.V., “Can yoo b’lieve dis?” He gestured to the fuzzy screen. “ne’ermind. Its 8.50.”

Edmond patted his pockets. “Shit.” He recalled, vaguely, giving his soul and wallet to a crack head earlier that night. “I forgot: I got mugged.”

“Only yoo, man” George shook his head.

“I offered him my eternal soul but…” Edmond shrugged. George wobbled with laughter. “Eh. I should've known it was worthless.”

A silence passed between them.

“Hey, I got these.” Edmond pulled the pill bottle marked: Danté, Edmond 2 tablets per day as needed. PR: Miranti, Vincent J. George looked at the bottle for a moment and handed it back, minus two tablets. “Thanks.” He collected the cardboard-wrapped glass tubes.

“Yoo workin’ tomah'o?”

Tomorrow was Friday. Sandra was never at the bar on Fridays. “Pr’oly not.” Edmond nodded and the two parted with farewells and went separate ways: George to his T.V. and Edmond to … well, who really knows?

A brief look inside The Iliad II

     The Iliad II wasn't a grand ship. A simple freighter used primarily for transport. It was dull and Spartan, lacking any real frills. Garret drifted in the dark, weightless bridge. The control consoles were dead. The Marshal hammered on three of them fruitlessly. Garret left the remaining one untouched, assuming it as lifeless and useless as the rest. He drifted towards the rear of the bridge, guided by chrome hand bars towards the Living pod. He paused at the bright, white door to check his pistol. It was secure in the shoulder holster. With a grunt he pulled the door and floated through. Simulated gravity grabbed him as soon as Garrett drifted from the sterile, weightless bridge into the Living Pod. The where the crew would've lived, he reminded himself. Immediately he felt the familiar draw of force pushing him to the floor. Grey steel greeted his boots with a thunk that echoed eerily in the empty Living Pod. Garret pulled his pistol from the shoulder holster. Its cold weight felt comforting in his hand. This ship, the Iliad II, was strange, though he'd been on ships like it. A sign nearby depicted a stick figure climbing stairs. The black symbol of a man marched unarmed up. Below the pictograph the letters F2 and an arrow pointed to his left. Garret went right. A few twists of the hallway brought him into a large, open lounge area. Here, the steel walkway turned to green carpet. Garret looked up instinctively. Above his head, across the length of the Living Pod the same green carpet stared back. The lounge stretched circular up and around, encasing the inhabitants in a calm, softness that Garret found unnerving. At the center of the cylinder, a ball floated, caught outside the artificial gravity. Garret imaged crew members having bets about lobbing objects across the space, trying to encourage them to get stuck in the weightless space above their heads. Furniture here was mostly spare. A few benches that mimicked the old wooden pews of a church lined up on the wall (floor) to his right. In front of him, a cupboard was securely shut, also in mock wood. Garret supposed that vainer served to remind deep-space travelers of more terrestrial times. A few extra bits of furnishings, a chair and a great couch offered seating. But Garret was focused on the ladder in front (and slightly left) of him. It ran up the far end of the lounge towards the center on the Living Pod, to an access door that would lead him to the engines of this space freighter. Suddenly, Pain split through Garret's side. Another bolt pitched violently through his chest. The shots came from two directions. Together, they forced him down –out- to the floor. The Marshal fell forward to one knee. His hand flashed out gripping the spongy carpet to stop his fall. The carpet was marred with the travel of hundreds of foot falls. In its grains Garret was reminded him of something - of somewhen. A shower of bullet hummed angrily above his head, crashing like hornets into to pews behind him. Garret saw none of this. Hot blood soaked into the green fuzz. His. Through the haze of gunsmoke the bright droplets bloomed. The worn carpeting rushed out. Before him a lush field spread green deep in the throes of summer. 
 

     As a boy he once stood in the same field. It was a planet Garret thought he'd never see again. Yet, he stood there now. Wind pulled at him rudely rolling across the field of -were they poppies?- red flowers. It carried the fragrance of summer and nectar. To the south a dark line of trees, an ancient forest, beckoned. The trees waved soft branches offering a delightful rest at the base of their trunks. Promises of easy life and whispers of pleasures lifted to his ears. The great red blossoms swayed in the afternoon breeze. Something else drifted in the wind. Something he hadn't noticed as a boy but remembered always. Smoke. And a tinge of salt. Like a roast dripping into the fire. It was the smell of burning flesh. He found out later it was the dreadful final memory of his father. Garret turned, whirling on his heels. Behind him those men -those Bastards- appeared. Just as he remembered. Only this time Garret's hand flashed to his left should where his Widow-maker waited in loyally in it's plain leather holster. To his fright, the pistol was absent. Garret stumbled back. Fear -was that the feeling?- squeezed his heart. Too long, the thought raced at the back of his mind, since I left fear. Southward the trees called to him. Louder now. The breeze smelled sweeter too not just inviting him to rest, to safety, but demanding it. They were only two. He could easily out run them, hide in the forest. Maybe even escape to the south where bliss was promised. He thought it a good plan. Gerald turned to flee. The green pasture spread out, flowers bright spots in the fading light.


     NO! A voice careened through his skull like a bullet. CAN'T REST, YET! The boy changed, then. The field dulled, its light sapped away. From green strains of grass to grey striations in carpet flecked with blood. STAND! The voice cried, FOR THE SAKE OF YOUR FATHER! Garret's gun was already in his fist -no need to draw. The hilt burned hot, wet with the stains of his wounds. A cruel life taught him well. The pistol blazed, his finger flicked the trigger until the cylinder clapped empty. The lounge fell silent again. Even the echoes of falling bodies held their breath. The marshal stood, his empty gun scanning the Living Pod for more blood to be had. None. He teetered. Then fell.

So, My girlfriend is by far the greatest distraction against me.
a while ago i mentioned that i oft felt a malevolent force. a sort of anti-muse. it inhabaits the innocent as well as the sinful. Unfortunately, anti-muse may be a poor name, as my anti-muse this evening involved creating a pillow th
rough the craft of seamstering

I'd meant to finish a alternitive adventure i've been writing.
I got this far:

The Illaid II drifted lazily through space. if one could call one fourh the speed of light "lazy." Fred kicked the fuel sensor with a boot and frowned. so little radium left. and so little time. 13 hours to earth. Fredrick's hand paused over the thrusters. he could speed up but what about slowing down? if he hadn't calculated right the Iliad II might not have any fuel to decalratee with, he thought. Fredrick pulled a bag of tobaccofrom his pocket and begand rolling a cigarette. No easy task in zero G. He was fast. Fast enough that no leafy flecks escaped his twisting fingers (at least not more then the enviromental systems couldn't handle.) he smiled wryly.

nevertheless, i'll shall plug away.

In other news, Dell's piece (the one piece to rule them all) did not fix my issues. So i get to deal with that dedcol.

manana, world

-marucs

Treibly sorry

Hola! loyal readers.
Sorry about the absence of posts.
I came down with a case of the swine flew.
thats right. i didn't mistype. You see, a while back i discovered this pig, Herman. Anyhoo, we took him in for shelter. We had planned to send Herman to a friend of my mom who has a farm being that the swine had no brand or ID marks. Well, on tuesday I found out that Herman had escaped from a genetic research centre. And the guys in the black van that stopped by to retrieve him didn't seem very nice but, being the patriotic folks that I am I choose to return Herman. we didn't even mind their guns waving about and threatening remarks. Of course when we couldn't produce the pig, I took a totally uncoerced ride with them to their lair. i'd tell you about the trip, but i chose to wear a blindfold. i awoke sometime later, in a heated, rodent free cell.

long story short, if you've ever wondered if you might sleep with that jerk in the bar who told you: "when pigs fly" Well, i hope you saved their number.

In unrelated news, Thanks to Fro for his contriubtion to the Munhousen tale. I'll post the next instalment tomorrow.

Adventures in a time of Marc

Aloha, faithful readers. Sorry about the infrequence of posts these days; (as with all days) My life has been interesting the last couple, so i hope the populus will forgive me.

-the following post has been posted on the fly; as such it is incomplete. stay tuned-

I wasn't going to post the life and time of my world here upon this page, rather i'd plan to post some more scribblings. However this correspondence will, assuredly, be fantastic reading (with the bombastic entrance concluded).

Wednesday was fun. I started that day by opening my first shift at a local, delicious bakery. All well and good. regular, early, if few, hours compared to my older job as a cook at the bistro, Monica's. the contrast of the two eatries are as different as the hours. From long and irregular night and weekend shifts (monica's) to early and ridged shifts (bagels). the later lacked regulation, perfering the empolyed to mange the bistro as it pleased. lose codes of conduct and an air of recreation unique to private establishments. The bakery, like a dove to a magpie, is rigulously formulatic. exactly eight hour shifts with a clear distinction between 'freetime' and work time. Yet, greater organization means more effectency, more opprotunities for an apt worker to be compencated.

What waits in store for our hero? next time on Ninja Chef Marcus: A Tale of Two Roles or Watch Out, Papika!

So that brings us to thursday which was spent stressed and agiated about the choices that brought our fair traveller to the rocky crests of Michigan. (which is a boring story)

moving on,

the weekend brought, for me, fun and friends as i watched two dear one enter the legal tradition of matrimony.