* Next to Rail Road Tracks
* On a horse racing track
* 2 Feet past the edge of a cliff
* By Quicksand
* Swimming class
* On an Escalator
* Along a Landing Strip
* In the Basket of a Hot Air Balloon
* Along the road where my neighbor's
trucks are sticking out into the road,
causing people to go around and be
annoyed.
This is so very odd. I know nothing about you and yet here you are
reading my gibberish. I’d guess you have
better things to do with your time, like trying to figure out how they jack up
a plane so they can change a tire.
Do you think the inventor of the
#3 pencil eventually gave up hope of ever becoming the most popular?
Could we alter the rotation of
the earth if we got everyone who was presently looking at their cell phone to
suddenly look up? Seems like the
movement of all those heads would affect wind patterns, and create a ripple in
the air current, which would then… Nah,
probably not.
What is the similarity between an
old car and a very old leather jacket?
The paint on the car, just like the leather on the jacket will
eventually peel off. It is fortunate
that skin, unless sunburned, only wrinkles with age.
Even the most advanced technology
has not developed a sensor for rude.
There are people in our neighborhood who leave their cars sticking out
onto the road when they pull into their driveway. They leave them that way - just sticking out,
like the rest of the world just needs to pay attention and go around them. “Hey, this sounds awfully like a gripe. You said before, you’d never use this blog to
complain or gripe about stuff.” Yes,
thanks for the reminder. Not another
word about these rude, insensitive people, who believe they are the only
important ones on the planet. Now… where
was I?
If you haven’t guessed by now,
this filler has been placed here by the weekend crew. Z.C. will be back on Monday with your usual
blah, blah, blah. We just fill in to
give him a break. I’m sure he is off
someplace, maybe on a warm, sandy beach reading his thesaurus and feeding stale
movie popcorn to the seagulls. They tend
to prefer that over fresh. Not sure why.
Maybe I’ll just look up and see
how they jack up a plane so they can change a tire. Now I’m curious.
She walks in armor like a knight
with polished chrome and blade of steel,
Always keep the kids in sight
to know when cries are fake or real,
Her visor hides her puffy eyes
peanut butter in her hair
A cranky child at her side
no one else does seem to care,
Off to school the last one goes
collapsing with a glass of wine
Aching now from head to toe
Grateful none of them are mine.
(A work in progress)
apologies to Lord Byron
I used to think that nostalgia was a thing of the past, but I was so much
older then. Today, I seem quite content to be inside, warm and looking out of
the window. Life is colliding out there,
falling off of bicycles, investing in the wrong things and believing the
advertising. It is turmoil in living color. I no longer desire to be a part of the action. I need not leave my mark, choose between
paper or plastic or stay in my lane.
From here I am free to think, observe, care or not. There is no one left to count off for
spelling. I haven’t got a grade or goal
and no longer care about the clean plate club.
I am painted with the image of an old man, scary to those who see me as
their future and wise only compared to a select few. Consider this my Rorschach, which has leaked from my pen. Make of it what you will. I'm going for coffee.
Long ago, in a
courthouse in Virginia, a trial was held for a man accused of something so hideous
and despicable that no one dare talk about it.
Even the attorneys involved refused to take notes. One even began wearing fake nose and glasses,
so as not to be recognized or associated with the case.
The judge, a
stern woman with excessive nose hair, known only as Juris Prudence, presided with a gavel carved from
petrified wood — a relic said to silence even the most unruly defendants.
Cliff
Hanger, the accused, sat motionless, his eyes hidden behind mirrored sunglasses
despite the courtroom’s dim lighting. Rumors swirled that he had once been a
trapeze artist, a magician, or worse — a screenwriter for reality television.
No one knew
exactly what he had done. The charge sheet was sealed. The bailiff refused to
touch it, claiming it burned his fingertips.
The
stenographer typed nonsense — recipes, limericks, fragments of forgotten
nursery rhymes — as if the truth itself refused to be recorded.
Witnesses
were called, but none spoke. One brought a box labeled “Exhibit A” and left it
unopened on the stand. It hummed faintly. Another simply pointed at Cliff and
wept.
The trial
stretched on for days, then weeks. The courthouse clock stopped ticking. The
calendar shed its numbers. Outside, the seasons changed twice in a single
afternoon.
And then,
just as the jury was about to deliver its verdict, Cliff Hanger stood up,
cleared his throat, and said—
Well, that’s
where the record of the trial ends.
The three boys who disrupted the class were told to stay after school. While waiting for the teacher to return from the front office, they watched in amazement as the eraser, up at the chalkboard, began to move on its own. It was erasing all the writing that had been left on the board.
One of the boys became so
unnerved that he ran from the room and didn’t slow down until he was halfway
home. The two remaining boys sat there stunned, mouths open.
Then, as if summoned by
some spirit, the chalk lifted itself from the tray and began to write. Slowly,
deliberately, it scrawled across the clean slate: “I see everything.”
The boys
exchanged a terrified glance. One whispered, “Is this some kind of prank?” But
the other shook his head, eyes wide. “No one’s here…”
Just then, the
classroom door creaked open. The teacher stepped in, oblivious to the
supernatural display that had just occurred. The chalk dropped silently to the
tray. The board was blank again.
The boys knew
what they saw and knew no one would ever believe them. They both understood they could never say
anything. That is, until now...
