Call to Arms 3

To quote William Daniels as he sings in the movie 1776 as John Adams, "Is anybody there?"

One Day at a Town Meeting

Gentlemen, I stand before you, a simple farmer, and no orator, as Mr. Danett is, but I come before you to refute what he has said.

He has claimed that the blood shed at Lexington was God's punishment for a great sin, the rebellion committed by those whom he called "rebel scum." He goes on to state that all measures imposed against the citizens of Massachusetts are acts of justice.

Well then, gentlemen, I plead before you to answer me: Was it justice that Boston was blockaded, thus depriving the city of much of its sustenance and wealth? Was it justice that our right to hold town meetings was revoked by those who had no authority in the matter? Was it right that soldiers were quartered in our homes against our will?

If there be any among those seated who would confirm these inquiries, I pity your blindness and your ignorance, and yea, gentlemen, I call it blindness to a tyrannical government which has, with astonishing regularity, continued to revoke our rights until we are reduced to mere slaves of the crown.

Mr. Howard, you yourself have stated that you would not tolerate that seven, and yes, I repeat, seven British officers were quartered in your home against your will, and that your wife, already supporting a family of eight, had no choice but to clean their laundry, cook for them, when all you could produce by your trade was enough food for five, and ensure that they would sleep well in your house, and in your own beds! You yourself bristled at this imposition on your liberties, and yet you did nothing!

Mr. Addicock, you were the first of those from Woburn to create support for the formation of the minutemen in your town! You yourself trained them, giving your estate for the time being to another so that it might not fall into disrepair, and paid for muskets, powder, and ammunition out of your own pocket! Such measures reduced you to the level of one destitute, and yet you still stood by our cause. Well, are you standing with us now?

All of you, whether you be farmers, tradesmen, or merchants, listen to me when I say that we can no longer stand idle when our blood has been spilt on our own soil, and as the Almighty God is my witness, that blood cries from the ground a warning, a warning that unless we prepare, unless we train, unless we act now, we will meet the same fate as our slaughtered brethren.

The slaughter at Lexington has marked the beginning of a struggle, and one that cannot be fought on paper and in a parliament. It is too late to use such measures to ensure peace. No, sirs, this is the beginning of a war, and it will be fought by our sons, our fathers, and our grandfathers who will gladly sacrifice their lives for the sake of their liberties. Upright are the men who will stand up for truth and justice. Honorable are they who will take up arms against tyranny. And blessed are those who will fight until such tyranny is no more.

If there be any in this room who are willing to follow me the encampment around Boston, then follow me. If not, remain here, idle and useless, while blood is shed for your sakes.

I have a proposition.

I have a proposition for all BIMA 2008 writers. For every post put on this blog, I will put up five posts.

This is an experiment where I'm trying to see how describing a thought process is written. The title is "Morristown."

I wake up.
I didn't want to.
But I'm a soldier.
So I won't complain.
The rigors of the winter have been successful.
For I have frostbite.
My feet are numb and heavy.
So I rub them 'till they sting.
There are worse things, though.
I won't think of them.
I won't think of seeing my friends die.
I won't think of knowing that they're never coming back.
So I go back to sleep.
Two hours later, I still can't sleep.
I get up.
I see my brother staring at me.
His eyes don't move.
I don't want to live anymore.
God, this wasn't supposed to happen.
He was a good man, a good soldier.
He had a wife and child.
Why?
He was the only family I had left.
Will you leave me with nothing?
It isn't fair.
You took him away.
Now he is never coming back.
Why?
What am I supposed to do now?
His musket has a bayonet.
I could stab myself.
Then I wouldn't be alone.
But that would be selfish.
General Washington needs men anyway.
He can afford to lost someone who has lost his will to live.
No.

The Answer to Why I Love Writing About the American Revolution

This is not really a piece to be posted on this blog, but it is for anyone who thinks I'm obsessed with the American Revolution. I felt that it was the simplest way to tell the BIMA '08 writers the following message, even if anyone is yelling at me to sod off for using blog space for something he or she might think unnecessary.

I was never obsessed with the American Revolution. The word "obsession" comes from the Latin root "obsessio, -onis" a blockade, a blocking up, a siege. The Unabridged Random House Dictionary defines obsession as the domination of one's thoughts or feelings by a persistant idea, image, desire, etc. I can confidentally now say that I am not obsessed with it for the following reasons.

First of all, my thoughts are not being blocked by the A.R. It is not taking over me. It is not a point of frustration for me. It is not a restriction I have imposed upon my writing. It is not a passing fancy (and I've gone through two-six month obsessions before ith different periods in history, such as ancient Rome, the Golden Age of pirates, and the dinosaurs). Above all, it is not an interest.

For me, the AR is a way of life. It is part of who I am. I share its memories. Although I was not alive during that period, it is still part of me. I am not denying anything when I say this. The AR was a part of my soul that had to be discovered, and now that I have discovered it, I am responsbile for nurturing that part of my soul.

Then why do I write about it and not just learn about it? Let me sidetrack for a moment to a memory from the AR. In a book by David Hackett Fischer, a professor at Brandeis University, Paul Revere's Ride, he describes the following scene: It is April nineteenth, 1775, two or three in the morning. Militiamen all across Massachusetts are receiving the alarm that "The Regulars are out!" and they are doing what they've signed up for: getting ready within a minutes notice. As one man is about the leave his family to join his company, he and his wife make eye contact. Then he says, "Take good care of the children." She never sees him again. True story.

Why should that affect me? Because I know how it feels to lose someone I love; a boy I once loved died and I remember lying in bed, night after night, crying, "Santi, my love!" (his name was Santiago). When I saw that I was connected to that woman who was alive over two hundred years ago, I recognized that if I didn't tell the stories of those men and women who lived during the AR, then I am personally responsible for forgetting how much blood was shed so that, as Ester Forbes wrote, "a man can stand up." It is amazing what our founders, and I'm referring to the soldiers as well as the generals, were willing to do so that men could stand up.

I posted a poem a while back, "I Weep for Our Continental Soldiers." While it was not my best poem, it was part of the early realization that, as pompous and egotistic and bloody unbelieveable as it sounds, I am part of the remembrance of the AR. Please understand that when I said, "I weep," I was not joking in that I have shed tears for it, and not just while watching movies from that period.

A Time Traveling Guide to the Perplexed Fanatic

Note- This guide is only meant to be a guide for perplexed history fanatics, so if you were browsing through the "Guidebooks of Fanatics" section of your local Borders or Barnes and Noble, go away try reading the work of the sodding bastard whose work is all of the five books to my left. Because any man who happens to be more successful than me simply because he writes about the history of pornography has either permanently lost his sense of humor and deserves to to be guillotined, or has lost his sense of humor, spent several days looking for it desperately, and then remembered that he had to no sense of humor from the start. As for the gentleman picking one of my rivals books off the shelf, you can fuck off.

"A Time Traveling Guide to the Perplexed Fanatic: Written for Anyone Who Doesn't Read 'The Guidebook for Idiots'"

By a Perplexed Fanatic

Table of Contents
1. An introduction for anyone who reads These damn things, and they're always so bloody boring anyway. Not mine, though. My introduction will have you laughing so hard your stomach will tie itself into a slip knot.- page one
2. Chapter One: Where I admit that I am more cynical than sarcastic, that I have no sense of humor whatsoever, and that I can see so far into the future that I know at exactly what time your wife will trip over her too-long wedding dress.
3. Chapter Three: Whoops! Looks like the printer forgot how to count.
4. Chapter Four: Why it is necessary for BIMA 2008 writers to post if they don't wish for me to grab the eighteenth-century musket I keep in my closet and unleash holy heck.
5. Chapter Five: Where I gladly conclude this book and announce my retirement from the life of a writer, and I announce that I will begin a lifetime of work at the Hospital of Uninspired Writers, where I expect to meet Shakespeare, Dickenson, and Alcott very soon.

I Weep for Our Blessed Continental Soldiers- This is a very personal piece.

I lay awake in bed, tormented by the scream of the dead and dying
Soldiers who fought two hundred years ago.
Silly girl, such tears have no place so late and far from their inspiration!
So sang the embittered psalmist, as I recall.

I can still hear the bullets at Lexington. Isn't that odd?
That I can still here the random shot,
That I can see the smoke and blood and feel my legs
Running from the regulars,
Seeing them spill down the blood-soaked soil of Breed's Hill,
Someone's hand crunches beneath my feet,
"Don't fire until you can see the whites of their eyes!"
Have you ever fired a musket before?
I half-know the motions from reading about it and seeing it done.

One shot is loud.
A broadside is louder, and the volume can be tuned out,
But not the blood, the crushed skulls underfoot,
The constant waves of men that tumble and knock down their
Comrades who are marching up the hill.

Then New York and Fort Washington.
May God bless the souls of those
Unfortunates who were bayoneted to trees by the Hessians.
May God bless all of our brave soldiers who died that day.

I suffer with them when they call smallpox and dysentery
And the flu and colds and measles and venereal disease,
And it is terrible at Valley Forge, where I am stuck inside a hut
In a winter that sucks the warm breath out of my lungs
Like an icy vacuum.

Call to Arms Number Two

When in the course of BIMA events it becomes necessary for the BIMA 2008 eight writers to post on their blog, and to assume, among the powers of all writers maniacal and mad, that they will continue to post on the blog, a decent respect to their welfares before I go threaten them with the musket I keep in my back pocket requires that I should declares the causes which impel me to threaten them unless they post.

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all BIMA 2008 writers must post on their blog, that HaShem has blessed them with this extraordinary power to create something from nothing, and that they had better damned well use it on this blog or I will use that musket I mentioned therefore.

In witness thereof I have hereunto affirmed that I will come after them with my musket (and I know how to use it) unless they post.

The Answer

I have a question for myself:
Why? I mean, what does everything in the world come down to?
What is the final answer?
Science and math and language and breath can only explain so much.
What is the answer to "why?"

Of course, there are some why's that can be answered,
For they stem from human stupidity.
The parents who leave their children to die in the gutters?
Because they were stupid and didn't choose see the miracles in front of them
When they were perfectly capable of doing so.

But that still leaves the other why's unanswered.
Why do we die? Oh, that can be explained
By how our bodies nurture the soil,
Earth would be over-populated,
No one wants to live on seeing every war and death camp-
All true reasons.
But why? Why is something so?
Why is it that there is something beyond human comprehension,
Something eternally vast and majestic,
Yet it requires a greater will and love of all to hear and feel and touch it?

This answer has been, is, and always will be: God.

Frustration

You never quit, do you?
I admire that in some people,
The stubborn will that seems to be completely absent
In the generally dispassionate person in the back
Who are bored with eating and breathing-
Those are the sort of people who look at the successful ones
Ahead of them, and loathe them intensely because they have not
Strength to rise up against sloth and ignorance and fear to
Step out of the norm, for Christ's sake!

Just Before Death

Down in the depths of darkness,
Chained to an iron wall,
Naked, I wept
Then I heard her, a soft, trickling murmur,
A whisper, a word, "promises you give"
As the Great Bard has sung before
In a stream of love and sadness
A ray of light struck from a crystal sphere
To push away the sorrow and pain and regret and shame and agony and death
Leaving nothing but peace

But then her voice leaves,
And her shadow crumbles into the murky dust
That floats in drifts to the tiny window
Through which rain and mud are thrown by God and man
Leaving me covered in a fine layer of silt,
To suffocate under eternity

The chains have rusted and blow away,
Burnt shards of bone piled outside the tiny window
The darkness swept clean of everything
Everything but the darkness

Unloved

Her hair fell
Across her back, Gossamer tumbled
Effortlessly, her hair clouded in my face
Dreamily I kissed her
Hair, dancing the cold, autumn breeze,
A bit of warmth cleansing with
Waves of silken, neatly

Folded, wire threads scraped my face like
A single, iron hand struck me across
My mouth bled, my tears
Crashing into the dirty
Fingers clawed open my throat, spilling
Into a crimson puddle, I sank, collapsed,
Unloved

Um, sorry...

Sorry about my last post. I most likely will not carry it out.

Call to Arms

I hereby swear by whatever gods of literature there may be that if all BIMA 2008 writers do not post at least one thing by midnight, January 31st, I will myself will delete every post that I myself added to this blog. So I plead with all BIMA 2008 writers, with Ethan, and with Jon: PLEASE POST SOMETHING SOON!

I know that I am whistling in the dark when I ask all 2008 BIMA writers to write or comment at least once before the New Year. If you do not, I will: personally hunt down every single one of you and methodically disembowl you, starting from the feet and working my way up; throw your remains to the whale that ate Jonah; and then, after God stones me to death, I will overhear the angels saying, "Hmm...I wonder what would have happenned to the BIMA 2008 writers if they had posted regularly and if Abbie had not been a hypocrite about the matter."

In the Wind

I feel the stars weeping salty tears from the heavens.
I feel the the wind blowing dust in my eyes.
Blinded and torn and lamenting my family
My lover now gone, my soul is reborn.

Heavenly light from the skies is darkened and dimmed.
The stone cities crumble beneath the dark waves.
Haunted and bleeding, the phoenix flies south again.
Can my soul not do the soul as that bird?

I grieve as I wander through forest so black and cold,
Through trees long since burnt, but again they did rise,
And yet the proud mortals cut them down in shame again.
Fall on your swords, fly your banners and cry!

My cloak of mourning now billows in a sudden breeze,
Nay not a breeze, but the wind from the fire,
A fire now absent, only in the wind remains
A force strong enough to toss me about.

I push back against the wind, weak mortal that am.
Fall I in the dust, never again to rise.
Do not find the wind; let it fill you with laughter
The laughter you sing just before you die.

I lie here in wait for the approach of Death.
He does not come yet, and I make for to rise.
But there in the distance, his black cloak soaring so high,
I see him, and I lay my head down to die.

Guess- Originally, the confusing bits were spaced away from the first collumn, but damnable blog editing pushed them to the side.

And suddenly "!EERF" m'I
Thermosphere glass sphere?
Ionosphere as a bird
Mesosphere
Stratosphere
Ozone layer
Troposphere n
Humus
Topsoil
Eluviation layer
Subsoil
Regolith
Bedrock fearful of a fiery death in metallic hell
Regolith
Subsoil
Eluviation layer Goin’
Topsoil d
Humus o
Troposphere w able to breath easy
Ozone Layer I’m being rip qeb traqa
Stratosphere
Mesosphere
Ionosphere veils of color dancing, hitting a solid glass sphere
Thermosphere Choking beneath the
And suddenly I'm, "FREE!"

Lover

In the cool morning light, my eyes reflect the sun
And the wind shifts and turns all about my withered form
In my flesh, a fire burns, a bright candle in my heart
And my white robes billow in the sky

My tongue tastes of ash, ashes from a sacred fire
Cold feet bathed in a biting, silver spring
Tender breasts of gold shimmer in the emptiness
Marble eyes staring blankly just ahead of the hillocks

Hands of stone upon the tomb lift the doors of living hell
Better to be part of the earth than the sky
Withered flesh 'neath flaking copper, bristling at your silent touch
Light a candle for my lover, burning bright

A simple shift of gentle blackness cloaks the night
Alabaster souls floating by your side
Lovers never should depart when their years are years apart
Light a candle for my lover, burning bright

Open lips like jagged scales, bent and twisted by false coin
Let the heavens pour their torrents upon my shoulders
And I see them pinch your smile, closed your eyes for ever while
Light a candle for my lover, burning bright, may they die

Glowing discus toss yourself from soft treetops to the ground
Go deep down, escape this hell deep in the sky
Never embitter, my heart, love the world, never part
Light a candle for my lover burning bright

Untitled, as of yet

This is a poem I'm trying to write for a school publication. My sister and my mom both said it was too obscure and that they didn't know what it was about. If you guys can't figure it out too, then I'll have to make it a little plainer.

I gaze out.
Green, green
Everywhere green

I glance up.
Black, then a sliver of of something brighter--
Maybe yellow, maybe orange--
And then a clammy gray
That climbs up,
Curving above me,
Sealing me in.

I look out again.
A flash of blue, swiftly,
Swirled with whites and friendly gray,
And then green again,
Brown on the bottom.

I peer down.
A black river runs backward
Faster, faster, faster
Albino dolphins gleam when they leap,
And blackness swallows them almost instantly,
But they rise and fall again.
The river should grab us,
But the orange-yellow beast is strong.

I stare out, transfixed.
The green keeps falling Behind,
BUt more Springs up ahead.
Everywhere green.

What Could Have Happened During American Revolution: A Satire of Eighteenth Century British Politicians

This person is commander-in-chief of British forces in America, General Lord Frederick Sackville. He inherits an immense estate from his father, Lord Edmund Rockingham, and the estate is accompanied by a huge sum of money: four million guineas. However, little Freddie has no clue as to how to manage his financial affairs. He drinks, gambles, keeps a mistress, and journeys often to the east half of London where he openly consorts with prostitutes. His mother suffers from epilepsy, and his military family violently opposes King George William Frederick Hanover, which distresses this patriotic Briton. In an attempt to aid his fellow parliamentarian, he gives most of his money to Charles James Fox, a horny member of the House of Commons, but Fox spends half of it on wine, and the other half gambling. Because he faces much harsh criticism from parliament, he prefers the solitude of his estate. In America, he now faces a mutiny led by his officers, leading to countless retreats from the superior American armies and growing hostility towards him in London.

To Respond with All Haste

To respond with all haste to your call to arms against the legions of Google executives who seek to lay siege to apparently submissive and inactive blogs, here is a dream that I am using for a story. The story will be very long, and so far the only good part of it is this dream in the very beginning.

He could see a tall man resting his hand on a split-rail fence, standing in knee-deep, rising snow. He wore a gray woolen cloak lined with red and a general's hat. Under the cloak was a dark blue uniform with yellow facings and silver buttons that corresponded to his yellow britches. Shrouding his feet were a pair of black, leather boots that rose to just below his knees. Through the gently falling, lace-white flakes he realized that the man's face was strong yet filled with sadness, and his striking blue eyes betrayed a haunting fatigue.
Suddenly, an intense pain erupted in his feet, and he looked down, saw they were bare and bleeding. Instead of his cloak and uniform, he wore a tattered, brown coat and worn, leather britches. A dark, red stain spread across the canvas of his shirt already wet and freezing from the snow. He reeled, grasped the fence to support himself, and collapsed with fatigue from a thousand marches and battles and memories. His ear stung sharply.
Footsteps brought a red-coated soldier. He gazed into his eyes, saw that he was no longer a man, but a boy of sixteen. The soldier raised his musket, the barrel aimed at his victim's chest, the bayonet gleaming in the winter light. For a long moment neither moved, one held down by the weight of a single bullet in his flesh, the other by his insane anger. Then the tension holding the redcoat snapped, and the bayonet pierced the center of the wound of the already, dying, dying, dead boy in front of him.

My dears!

It seems our beloved blog is becoming a bloth! How ridiculous and unfair. And you know what happens to bloths? They die a slow and painful death. At the hands of google executives.
And this, my friends, is why we must keep posting!
So... um... something of value? Anyone?

Here's a poem!

Nobody Knows, Just We Two

Daddy

Rubs my back and

Croons songs that haven’t

Been sold in twenty years

Except on the hidden

Discount racks.

Slowly,

He unrolls me

Where I’m wound tight,

Crumpled on the floor like

An unborn child.

He eases me back,

Holding me

Close to him.

As if I am five and

I fell off my bicycle.

Singing

He dances me in slow

Side to side motions.

If I could cry,

I would be allowed to

Cover his shirt with water and salt.

Instead,

I listen, breathing in

His scent and his voice.

He doesn’t ask,

Only answers.

He dances me around the

Kitchen, repeating the

Same songs over again,

Like one of his old records

Stuck on a single point.

I don’t mind,

Even when he forgets the

Words and has to hum them

Or, worse, substitutes his own.

He resolutely sings me down

Until I feel human again.

Mazal Tov

Congratulations to the BIMA Writers for a wonderful day of readings at the Arts Festival. You all surpassed my wildest expectations and made me very proud.

Keep on writing (and posting your work on this blog).

Thanks for being such a great group of young writers.

JON

Reality Unseen

Clean-cut façade

Near impossible to see

the difference between the falsehood

and the reality unseen .

Two-faced Janus,

Deceiving as an elf

hiding behind the images

fashioned by oneself.

Looking glasses

Glazed in lies

created by magazines

and images flickering on screens.

Reflected in silver

Tainted with fading truth,

we find ourselves lost

within our fight to be part of the norm.

Using appearance as a shield

With words as a sword,

to keep ones image

we all wage our wars.

Fear of secrets being told

Those of new and those of old,

We hide behind our web of lies

Our glistening masks.

Those camouflage screens

That have become part of our very beings.

When We Saw the Heavens Aflame

When we saw the heavens aflame,
So were our hearts and eyes.
A burning madness, but no desire,
For filled with gladness were our hearts.

Glorious flags of forty nations
Flapped brightly in the midnight breeze.
Danced we, for the time had come
To fill the dark with our joyous cries.

For we know, but never admit,
That self-doubt is a master.
For we recognize, but never acknowledge,
That we chain ourselves to ourselves.

Now we walk the path undaunted.
Now we praise the martyrs right.
This is our chance. We take it gladly.
Free of guilt and regret, we dance.

She Speaks in Butterflies

This is the final version being put in the anthology.


She Speaks in Butterflies

She is soft.
She is soft,
soft copper waves of hair
and curving brows
Soft fabrics,
thin knit cotton and light,
clinging to her gently glowing skin
Her eyes like water, flowing
dreamily downhill.

She speaks in butterflies:
Not butterfly language, or butterfly tongues,
but in little bright-winged insects
flowing, flying from her mouth
Flapping their wings
to push puffs of air
building words
growing poetry.

She speaks in butterflies,
butterflies with finely feathered wings
feathery soft, like she is
dancing and swishing
and pouring, pouring
out of her mouth in shades of
turquoise, gold, violet, red;
Weaving words into wonder
with every flick and swoop
brushing listeners’ ears
with a wisp of their wings

Butterflies twirl
making silent air sing
making empty space shine
Until, at last, the final dance;
Vanishing
in little puffs of light
a whispered ending:
She speaks in butterflies.

Boxes

Should this be a poem or prose poetry? Any other edits? Here's both a prosetry and a poetry version:

Boxes

I am in a box.
It is a nice box, I think, looking around:
There are candles in one corner,
a challah;
there’s a Torah over there,
next to a bookshelf with ancient,
aging, fraying books;
Someone is cooking chicken soup on the other side,
and nearby, a man with tassels hanging from his shirt
is swaying over a prayerbook, chanting,
while a little girl spins a dreidl
by his feet.

Then another box appears around me,
its walls closing in
The praying man is on the other side
though the little girl is still here
now scrawling out a sign that says
“No Boys Allowed”
and pasting it to a wall.
Near her is a shelf with Cosmo, Good Housekeeping, American Girl magazines
racks and racks of dresses and tight jeans and jewelry and make-up,
and everything is pink
(I hate the color pink.)

Then another box surrounds me,
its walls slamming down;
It cuts off all the dresses and the pink,
which is nice,
But space is getting tight now.
This box has rainbow walls;
In one corner,
women with short haircuts and baggy jeans
are shouting about marriage rights,
waving protest signs.
In another, two girls are making out
so I look away.

Then, slam, a box — I’m a teenager.
Slam, a box — I’m white.
Slam, I’m the oldest child,
Slam, I’m a nerd.
Slam, I’m a brunette.
Slam.
Slam.
Slam.

Slam,
I am alone
in a tiny,
dark
room, curled
into a ball
so I can
just barely fit
within the
walls
of thousands,
millions,
of boxes.

......................................................................................................................................................................

Boxes

I am in a box. It is a nice box, I think, looking around: there are candles in one corner, a challah; there’s a Torah over there, next to a bookshelf with ancient, aging, fraying books. Someone is cooking chicken soup on the other side, and nearby, a man with tassels hanging from his shirt is swaying over a prayerbook, chanting, while a little girl spins a dreidl by his feet.

Then another box appears around me, its walls closing in. The praying man is on the other side, though the little girl is still here, now scrawling out a sign that says “No Boys Allowed” and pasting it to a wall. Near her is a shelf with Cosmo, Good Housekeeping, American Girl magazines, racks and racks of dresses and tight jeans and jewelry and make-up, and everything is pink. (I hate the color pink.)

Then another box surrounds me, its walls slamming down: it cuts off all the dresses and the pink, which is nice, but space is getting tight now. This box has rainbow walls; in one corner, women with short haircuts and baggy jeans are shouting about marriage rights, waving protest signs. In another, two girls are making out, so I look away.

Then, slam, a box — I’m a teenager. Slam, a box — I’m white. Slam, I’m the oldest child. Slam, I’m a nerd. Slam, I’m a brunette. Slam. Slam. Slam.

Slam,
I am alone
in a tiny,
dark
room, curled
into a ball
so I can
just barely fit
within the
walls
of thousands,
millions,
of boxes.

Steffen

Based on the photograph taken by Collier Schorr entitled 'Steffen'.

I pay the taxi driver and step out of the car, my legs wobbling while I try to stop my heels from sinking into the gravel. Unfortunately, it is my fate to break the heel of my right foot and I cannot help but groan aloud as I look down.

"Are you all right?" A half-worried, half-amused voice comes from before me, and I look up to see Steffen standing in the doorway of his family's quaint country cottage. He is trying to hide a smile, but I can see the laughter in his eyes; my ego demands of me that I do not beg for his aid, so I respond with, "of course, I'm fine."

To prove my point, I bend over, pull at the strappy contraptions that adorn my feet and relieve myself of the anguish that most women subjugate themselves to in order to appeal to the opposite sex. Yes, my relationship with Steffen has advanced to the degree that I am meeting his family, but even so, I know that I have to make a good impression; and no good impression, in my experience, has ever been successful without a pair of heels.

Nevertheless, the heels have been shed and so I am praying that my past experiences will be proven wrong as I tread across the gravel, trying not to cringe, and reach Steffen, who is now leaning on the porch railing. "Hello," I finally greet him and he smiles before kissing me and then grabs my hand.

"My family is in the kitchen, preparing a meal fit for a king," he says as he leads me down a hall, just before he enters a doorway, though he stops me from following with a hand motion, and closes the door behind him. I stand there like an idiot, unsure of what is going on but a minute or two later he walks out with a pair of flip-flops in his right hand. "Do they fit?" I take them and slip my feet into them. I look up at him and say, "perfect." He grins before taking my hand again and leads me back to our origin and down another hall which, finally, leads to the kitchen.

The five people within stop what they are doing, one, I assume she is Steffen's mother, stops cutting lettuce with the knife in midair. "Oh, she's gorgeous!" she says causing me to blush and Steffen to look slightly embarrassed, which he relates by crossing his arms and narrowing his eyes. I can’t help but laugh at his embarrassment.

"It's fine, really," I tell him, still smiling. "Thank you," I say, turning to his mother. "I am Gabrielle."

Steffen's mother open her mouth, but a little blond girl, interrupts. "I'm Laura, you know, right? Laura, the little sister?" She appears to be about ten and very excited. "That's Mama, obviously. And Papa," she points to a man who has the same strong face as Steffen, albeit with a bit more age. She then continues, "that's Uncle Franz Schorr and Aunt Collier. She's American, like you!" I look to the last two in the kitchen and the middle aged, mostly balding, man with a slightly disturbing handle bar mustache and beady black eyes nods while his brunette wife smiles warmly; she seems very American, but perhaps I merely think that because Laura has mentioned it. I open my mouth to speak, but Laura interrupts again. "Are you going to marry Steffen? Because I want to wear a pretty dress!"

"Laura!" her five relations shout at her at once, Steffen louder than the rest and, yet again, I notice his uneas iness but this time I do not laugh at him but rather I just smile at Laura's bubbliness. The small blond girl seems as if she is generally a very enthusiastic child. The family starts to work again, as if they are all unsure what else to say, and as they do so I notice some of the tension flee; I am relieved that Laura isn’t further pursuing the question. I like Steffen very much but... Well, I met him less than a year ago!

Steffen walks over to where his father stands, using an indoor grill to cook either tilapia or halibut; I am glad to see that it is not pork for despite the fact that I am not a practicing Jew, I still do not eat pig. I want to help and glance around, trying to find something to do. Steffen’s aunt, Collier Schorr, motions to me to come over to her. I move and see that she is making dough. She gives me an apologetic look around and says in a comforting, American tone, “I’m sorry; I overslept and Sarah, Steffen’s mother, should have known better than to trust me to make the sourdough bread. Maybe we can have it as dessert, though.” She laughs at her own words and I can’t help but laugh with her and soon I am helping her shape the dough.

While I help, I notice that Mrs. Barbarostrase is finishing the salad while Steffen, his father, and his uncle are grilling, and Laura is bringing dishes through a doorway, down a hall which, after a quick question, I learn leads to an outside alcove.

Just as Mrs. Schorr and I put the dough into the oven, the little blond announces, “I’m ready!” in a sing-song voice. I wait a moment and then Steffen beckons so I follow him into a small grove with a prettily set table. We take seats opposite his aunt and uncle, while Steffen sits between me and Laura, with his parents sitting opposite one another, at each end of the table. Mr. Barbarostrase offers us wine, even Laura, who drinks a mouthful, makes a face, and then demands water. We start to eat the fish, the salad, and several other dishes which were prepared in advance and the meal is very comfortable; I find myself liking Steffen’s family a great deal.

We eat until we are full and then Collier realizes that she has yet to take out the bread and brings it to the table, thanking goodness that the oven t imer worked. Laura frowns and whines that she wants to eat the chocolate chip cookies she made as dessert and Steffen tells her that they shall have two courses of dessert, letting nothing go to waste; but savoring both the bread and cookies independently. Seeing him so at ease with his family makes me like my boyfriend even more than prior to the meeting.

After the bread is finished, while we wait for Laura to retrieve the cookies, Collier says, “oh! I almost forgot! I developed the picture!” She reaches into her purse and passes around a framed photo; everyone smiles an odd sort-of smile and I wonder what I shall see, for nobody is making a sound. Steffen passes it to me and I nearly drop it. “Is this a sick joke?” I demand as I stare at a picture of my boyfriend wearing the uniform of a Nazi. The photo slips out of my shaking hands, the glass of the frame breaking as it lands on the table; I say nothing and as the family stares at me in shock, which quickly turns to hurried explanations which I tune out, I kick off the flip-flops and walk to the front of the house.

There is a shout from behind me and I turn around, primarily out of desperation; I do not want to leave. I like Steffen and his family a great deal and the logical part of my mind tells me that he is no neo-Nazi. The Jewish part of my soul, however, shouts out to me that no German, unless they are Jewish, is to be trusted. But I stop and turn because I am a logical person.

It is Steffen; he is out of breath from running after me. As he approaches, I see that he has the flip-flops in his left hand. “What the hell is wrong?” he implores of me.

“What’s wrong?” I seethe, wondering how he can be so callous. He is aware of my heritage, even if I am not a practicing Jew. I told him about my grandmother who was in Dachau, for she died three months ago. And he had comforted me! Yet he had been a supporter of Hitler then! How could his family support that? They had seemed so nice, too! And yet none of them had said anything earlier... “How could you support the murder of eleven million people?” I demanded.

Steffen looked as if I had slapped him. He inhaled deeply and shook his head, “I don’t! You think because I were that uniform that I am automatically a Nazi sympathizer?” I nod and his eyes narrow; he is glaring at me as he has never done so before and for the first time since I’ve known him, I wonder if he is capable of hitting me out of rage. I never thought so before but that look... It is horrible; it is one of disbelief, dislike, and a little bit of pain. “Do you think I am capable of that?” he challenges me.

I stand there for a moment as I grapple with my thoughts. I never did before but... “I didn’t. But, how could you wear that if you don’t? How could anyone? We live in a free world but that... ” Why is nothing ever as simple as we desire it to be? I came to meet his family; not to confront him. And yet, I thought I knew him, hence the meeting. I am completely baffled.

And he sees this confusion and the anger on his face changes to something else. Recognition, perhaps? “Gabi, Gabi, Gabi... I forgot that you didn’t know. I thought Aunt Collier told you about it when you were baking. She’s Jewish too; she’s an artist. A Jewish artist.”

“Wait, what?” Collier’s a Jewish artist. And her nephew’s a neo-Nazi?

“Collier. Is. A. Artist. A Jewish artist who is using that picture for her exhibit to show that what you see isn’t always the whole truth,” he says calmly and my eyes grow wide. I say the only thing that I can: “oh.”

It’s nothing brilliant, but I cannot comprehend this; I am no artist. I’m majoring in childhood education and as a result the only art that I understand is finger-paintings. Steffen is watching me and I decide that I need to sit down, so I walk over to the porch steps, brush some dust away, and take a seat. He sits down besides me and looks at me expectantly.

“So... You’re not a supporter of the Nazi’s?” I simply had to ask the question; I needed to hear him answer, to reassure me.

Steffen turns his face away, runs a hand through his dusk-colored hair, sighs then turns back. His eyes bare into mine and he says, “I do not support the neo-Nazi cause and I posed for my aunt for that precise reason; she’s trying to explain the difference between German’s now and then. We’re not our predecessors.”

I say nothing, for there are no words and Steffen seems to understand this. I stand up, take his hand and murmur an apology. And then we go back to the table and I compliment his aunt on her photography skills. The mood is slightly tense but I see that Collier knows this and she realizes that it is her fault.

And I realize something; that’s the point of her art, isn’t it?

Alright, so I'm planning on putting this in the BIMA writer's anthology so any critique would be loved. Oh, and for some reason the indents aren't showing up for the first portion of the story, but there are paragraph breaks.
-Edited at 3:45 but still not complete, of course. Critique still adored!

Synonyms for said, from http://www.thecaveonline.com/

Synonyms for "Said"

GENERAL

SYNONYM	MEANING
added	to embellish or enhance an argument
continued	to further an earlier point
stated	to say, usually confined to quotes or paraphrases from documents, or to official statements
announced	to declare publicly or formally
asserted	to state positively, with great confidence but no objective proof
commented	to make a remark to explain, interpret, or criticize
declared	to make known clearly and openly
observed	to mention casually
remarked	to make a brief, casual statement of opinion
reported	to give an account of; to carry message; to give a formal statement

The following verbs should be limited to the specific circumstances described by the definitions:

ACKNOWLEDGING OR REVEALING

SYNONYM	MEANING
acknowledged	implies reluctant disclosure of something that might have been a secret
admitted	implies reluctance to disclose, grant, or concede, and usually refers to facts rather than their implication
affirmed	implies deep conviction and unlikelihood of contradiction
alleged	to assert or declare, especially without proof
avowed	implies boldly declaring, often in the face of hostility
conceded	similar to acknowledge and admit
confessed	may apply to an admission of a weakness, failure, omission, or guilt
disclosed	to reveal something previously concealed
divulged	to reveal something that should have remained secret or private, which may imply a breach of confidence
revealed	to make something known that had been secret or hidden

INQUISITIVE

SYNONYM	MEANING
begged	to ask in a humble or earnest manner
demanded	to ask for boldly or urgently
implored	to ask with great fervor, implying desperation or great distress
insisted	to demand strongly, to declare firmly
pleaded	to answer a legal charge, to offer as an excuse or defense, to implore or beg

EXPLANATORY

SYNONYM	MEANING
answered	to respond to a question
explained	to make an explanation
rejoined	to answer an objection
replied	to answer a question or comment
responded	to reply to a question or comment
retorted	to reply to a charge or criticism in a sharp, witty way
returned	to reply to a charge or criticism in a sharp, witty way; to answer an objection

ARGUMENTATIVE

SYNONYM	MEANING
contended	to argue or dispute
countered	to dispute
emphasized	to stress
exclaimed	to speak suddenly or vehemently
maintained	to assert, to support by argument, to affirm
proclaimed	to announce officially
proposed	to set forth a design or plan

SUGGESTIVE

SYNONYM	MEANING
hinted	implies slight or remote suggestion
implied	similar to suggest, but may indicate a more definite or logical relation of the unexpressed idea to the expressed
insinuated	refers to conveying a usually unpleasant idea in a sly, underhanded manner
intimated	stresses delicacy of suggestion
suggested	to propose as a possibility, to convey indirectly by putting an idea into the mind by association

TONE

The following words all describe manners of speaking or tones of voice and should be used when necessary and appropriate.

SYNONYM	MEANING
barked	to speak or shout sharply
bellowed	to roar, to cry out loudly in anger or fear
cackled	to laugh cynically or sneer; implies sinister intent
cried	to call for help, to shout, to sob, to weep
croaked	to make a sound like a frog or raven, to talk dismally
declaimed	to speak in a pompous way or deliver a tirade
drawled	to speak in a way that prolongs the vowels
joked	to make a joke
mumbled	to utter inarticulate or almost inaudible sounds
murmured	to speak in a low, indistinct voice
muttered	to speak angry or discontented words in a low, indistinct voice
roared	to utter a loud, deep sound
scolded	to find fault with angrily
shouted	to make a loud cry or call
shrieked	to make a loud, piercing cry or sound
wailed	to express grief or pain through long, loud cries
whispered	to speak softly, especially to avoid being overheard

A Quick Death, Please, a Quick Death

“Hold your fire!” he roared to hold back those who would have. “Don’t fire ‘til you can see the whites of their eyes!”

He’s dug in as far as he can and still see to fire. His mind goes back home to think of the girl who waits for him, who knows that he must help to free this land from King George, that a new flag must fly. As a white bug crawls on hand, he thinks of the day he left to fight. The Brits march near, but not so that he can see their eyes. He shakes, knows he will die, steels self. A hard glint in his eye bright as the dove who calls, its cry stamped ‘neath the pound of his heart. So close now, close he can see their eyes. Their eyes flash white like the harsh sun as it burns his skin.

“Fire!”

He’s pulls, a slight pause, a new sound heard so oft ere this day, pierce the red and white and black coat in front of him. The Brit lies to his heart that he will not fall, but his heart knows the truth. He calls his heart to still it, but his call falls dead on his numb lips. He thinks of the glare of the sun in his brown eyes, still thinks he lives, that his heart still beats. But his heart lies still, will not give ear to his plea, sleeps for all time in the soil’s blood.

“Reload!”

Moves his hand fast to the box at his waist, takes it out, tears it with his teeth. Then, out of naught but peace, the shock in his eyes, a harsh pain in his chest, near his heart. As he dies, his mouth full of blood, he thinks of the girl who waits for him, who knows he won’t come back, won’t be there for him, how he won’t be there for her. He lies there, prays for death to come. His hope heard, saints fly down, see him as he lies there, can’t die, can’t die, wants so much to die. Quick, stop his heart, he shouts to God. A quick death, he prays. Please, a quick death. Please. And so he lies there, cold, in spite of the heat of this blessed day.

This Being the Story of How Morgan Freeman Shot Mayland Thompson

When Mayland Thompson was sitting there at the bar, he shouted that he wanted to be buried with a twelve-year-old girl. Leastways, he said that after he’d drunk three tankards of whiskey and got knifed in the shoulder by the barman, Morgan Freeman. Freeman, who could smoke a pipe for sixteen hours straight and sing like the Virgin Mary, who could shoot his old flintlock farther than Daniel Morgan while dancing a jig, who once drunk a barrel of the Swamp Fox’s “Swamp Elixir” and recited Christmas mass perfect, and who’s hobby was raping three-year-old men (believe me, soldier, he knew how to), Freeman, had knifed Thompson. I thinks it was over the fact that Thompson had just declared that he was dirtier hog that Freeman himself. Drunkards are always doing things like this. Now, soldier, don’t think for a minute that Freeman got away with that; believe me when I says that this was Thompson we’re talkin’ ‘bout. Soldier, when ye knife Mayland Thompson, don’t bother to say, “Sweet Jesus, help me,” ‘cause Thompson can draw a pistol faster than ye can blink.

So’s how does it get to be that Freeman lives? I’ll tell ye for a hard dollar.

Thanks, soldier.

Just so’s ye want to hear about how Freeman got away, soldier? I’ll tell ye, he had the mind to duck ‘cause Thompson could draw his pistol and fire before ye even blinked. Now, Thompson never misses, and he’s so shocked real quick when he does. Freeman had enough time to grab a musket from above the fireplace. Soldier, he ran that bayonet so quick through Thompson’s chest that ye heard his heart stop (and believe me, soldier, ye’ll know soon enough what it sounds like when a man’s heart stops). But, just ‘cause Thompson’s heart’s bleedin’ don’t mean that he ain’t alive. Thompson just pulls it out, wrenches it out o’ Freeman’s hands, and gives him his eternal damnation on Earth.

And that, soldier, is why no one as yet had had the nerve to fire the Thompson-Freeman musket that hangs just over yonder fireplace. No one ain’t ever cleaned it either. They says that if a rifleman ever touches that blood, he’s a cursed man. I ain’t never touched it, soldier, and I never will.

Kayla

Kayla stares
Creepily captured in a lasting pose
Flaking finish behind
betraying.
Her poverty,
the few but memorable nights
where her rumbling stomach
kept her awake.
Her new dress fits itchy,
with the awful formality
of this birthday portrait.

Grownups are more in the habit of lying
(or tacting, if one is so inclined).
There's nothing wrong,
We don't need help,
We're just going through a rough patch.
They teach her to say things like
I left my lunch at home.
I walked into something.
I fell down the stairs.

Her friends and relatives,
mostly relatives,
gathering around
tell her, smile for the camera.
But Kayla won't.
She's tired of lying.

Short Short Story (Please Critique)

Martin leaned over the railing, emptying the contents of his stomach into the teeming waters below. His comrade, Ryan, laughed at the sight of his gawky frame bent over retching seaward. Martin looked up and glared at the boy, wiping his mouth of vomit. "What are you laughing at?" Ryan said nothing, just slipped below deck to his hammock and diary.
April 25th, 39th day at sea.
Smell and the dark oppressive here. Writing sparingly to save candle. Fear for the safety of my order. Can't trust anyone here. Feel so isolated. Must keep on. Have a mission. God, I miss home. I miss
"Meyers!" The captain shouted from the deck, "get your ass back up here!"
Ryan grumbled his way up to where his superior... was not.
"Captain?" He called, "Captain?"
"He's sleeping." Said martin, all in dark: dark hair, dark eyes, dark mood. A farmer, his hands were calloused, and his strong, tall body threatening.
"Oh," Ryan said, squinting. God, his head hurt, "Did you call me?"
"No. You alright?" For Ryan had sat down and was gently rocking himself.
"No." He said, his eyes shut tight, "No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no. What the hell is that noise?"
Martin dropped down beside the troubled boy, his face alarmed and mistrusting. "What noise?" He asked cautiously.
"Hey," said Ryan, his eyes open now, and too bright, "you want to see something?" Bright sparks sprung from his fingertips, and he released them with a careless gesture. They shattered on the floor into miniature beams of light. Ryan cried, and his tears were like honey running down his face.
Martin eyed him. What the hell was he trying to do? Ryan kept opening and closing his fist, waving his hands about like a madman. "I'm going to get the captain."
Ryan didn't notice, lost as he was in his reverie. He didn't notice when the captain came, wiping sleep from his eyes, or when Martin, grunting with effort, carried him downstairs to his hammock. His eyes were too filled with bursts of light.

To Replace the Old

This is a poem I wrote one day; it hasn't been revised at all and I need some critique. It's a fairly cliched topic, so pardon anything that seems so.

I watch her as she steps outside

for the first time in our world

her dress flutters in the wind

bare feet flow in the grass

she has slept for far too long

awakened in a new place.

He watches me, i know he does

a gaze beats into the back of my head

it's like I'm newborn

this world is just that strange to me

a place, a place out of a dream.

Skyscrapers no longer adorn the skyline

cities are frowned upon,

primarily out of fear,

no human desires to repeat the past  

computers are no longer in existence

music players are extinct

entertainment is nothing more than voices

either simply just tales 

or song of beauty.

It is peaceful

there is no hurrying to or fro

stress is nonexistent

working together

creating a new, better world

that is the only solution

for man's destruction has been great.

This world, it has made me see

i shudder at my long-dead friends

and the horror that they caused

how horrid must it have been to survive

that oh-so horrible warring time

civilization has finally caused it's final disaster.

She takes a step and i wonder

what does she think of all this

it is new to her

for she says she is old

her world has been destroyed

but, perhaps, it can be replaced with the new. 

New, fabulous word for the Lexicon

Gaudismal- the state of being happy in the face of a terrible situation. Ex. 1: Stacy was gaudismal even though she had a bad test grade.

Never Forgotten

The grandfathers, the pious water carriers and greasy godfearing butchers,
stayed in their cemeteries across the ocean.
But they are not really separated; they are apart of us.
In every breath we take we remember the ones oh so far away;
Burried underneath the holy dirt they lie until the time comes to return.
They have gone on to a better place while we stay here to continue.
We go on because they have lived and fallen.
"What would they have done?" we ask without a response.
Their faces, carved into our minds, will never fade.

Half-Lie

It wasn't the fact that you lied

lying is a common enough trait among humans

Nor was it the fact that I felt wanted

The fact that it was you and not me is inconsequential

What causes me pain is the fact that I knew

I always knew, from the very start

I saw you with her

Walking, talking

and wanted it to be me

So I tried, hard

and it worked

but she was still there

and the worst part was I wanted her to stay

she made me laugh and talk

and you wouldn't talk to me, only her

so some part of me, the sensible part, knew

knew that it would end

I laughed when it ended

I had been beaten to the punch

But it still hurts

Not because of you

but because I refused to accept

what had been right before me

I wish there was a villain

But c'est la vie

and not a sordid fairy tale

We are human

And soon

when I say 'I'm fine'

It'll be the truth

and not a half-lie

Knots

Knotted hands,
Browned from the sun
Lay on the wood
Indistinguishable, one from the other

Cords, a twisted rope
Bind you to the altar
Bind you to the world

Iron links
Secure you
Cling to you
Coldly

A single chain
Thin and gold and beautiful
Holds you down

You cannot fly
You cannot be free
You suffer in silence
You suffer alone

But knotted hands,
Old, browned, withered,
Untie you,
Let you go,
And then they melt back into the wood
Silent saviors
Unthanked
Unknown
But for you--
Unforgettable

Ziedona idille :: Nonography

If you have seen the BIMA writer's lexicon, you will have seen the definition of the word 'nonographer' as being 'someone who reads languages that they don't understand aloud'. In our class today (July 13th, 2008) we became nonographer's and read some poems in other languages and 'translated' them as we thought them to be. The first one we did was called Ziedona idille.

Ziedona idille 

Man tecina- linu audeklis, 

Uz plavas balinat klats.

Es eju par vinu sapnodams,

Un tu pie rokas man nac.

Spid zale bezeligactinas

Un pienenu ziedu zelts,

Un debess par zemi nolaizas 

Ka  zilgans zida telts.

Ap baltiem namiem abeles zied,

Plaukst varpas tiruma, 

Un smiedamies musos noskatas 

Mazi berni celmala,

Zale iebridusi,

Pirkstinus mute ieliksui.

Our Translation

My wife- light of my life, 

In pleasing ballet flats.

You are the wine of my soul,

And your foot rocks my heart.

Adorned with bedazzling diamonds

And delicate are your very feet.

And your love is like seventy wildebeests

That trample my affection.

I will tie down your name so you can't leave me,

Praised be your voluptuous offering,

And you sing me nostalgic music

Mazes of desire enrapture me.

Iridescent diamonds,

Their glittering is silenced before you.

A Spring idyll 

My trail- a bolt of linen,

Lain out over the meadow to bleach in the sun.

I stroll upon it, dreaming,

And you came and take me by my hand.

The primrose glistens in the grass

And the dandelions' blossoms gold,

And the heavens settle down upon the land

Like a silken azure tent.

About the white houses, apple trees bloom,

The long grasses flower in the clearing,

And giggling as they look upon us

Toddlers by the roadside,

Waded into the grass,

Little fingers in their mouths. 

Ode to the Drunk

The music fills the air

the scene is set

walking into the bar are several pairs

no one realizes who is not there

but the mood is right

and a frequent customer will not return

the drinks are served

the cards are dealt

a glance at the clock

the absence is felt

the room is silent

a finger is raised

to the corpse in the snow

outside the cheery place

the snow is red

and the whites of his eyes are cold.

An ode to the drunk,

who will never grow old. 

Ten to One

10: I told myself that I hated him, but I lied.

9: He was a pain in the ass, but nice.

8: It was snowing when he saved my life.

7: I was locked out of my house.

6: He bought me a warm drink.

5: Then he took me home.

4: And after I realized.

3: It wasn't hate.

2: Something different. 

1: Love. 

"Loved Fiercely"

Danced the sacred rites
Ancient drums doth tremble
On my quest for thine smile
Four lonely wrens cried

Ancient drums doth tremble
Beat ceremony and call
Four lonely wrens cried
To tell all that war was naught

Beat ceremony and call
For the treaty hath been signed
To tell all that war was naught
After tearing flesh from spirit

For the treaty hath been signed
Now we can embrace
After tearing flesh from spirit
But he flees my hands

Now we can embrace
After tears floweth fast
But he flees my hands
Needing time to mend

After tears floweth fast
He walked the forest lone
Needing time to mend
He sought my care and love

He walked the forest lone
Collapsing in mine arms
He sought my care and love
For he'd seen so many dire days

Collapsing in mine arms
Wept that he saw his brother die
For he'd seen so many dire days
Tears flooded mine shoulders

Wept that he saw his brother die
Min tears mingled with his
Tears flooded mine shoulders
Held fast not to part

Mine tears mingled with his
Unhurriedly sobs slow
Held fast not to part
Gazing with eyes aglow

Story Machine prompts

Hi BIMA writers -- if you would like to keep working with the Story Machine prompts, here are some to choose from (one from column A, one from Column B):

Column A
A wedding planner
A US Senator
A pilot
A dairy farmer
A dog groomer
A clown
A flight attendant
A police officer
A proofreader


Column B
eats dog food
auditions for Project Runway
rides a tricycle for work
wears a powdered wig
sends a message in a bottle
buys a $500 beach towel
buries a toothbrush
trades clothes with a toddler
unravels a sweater

Why Censoring is Evil

Once upon a time there was nothing.
Then God created a book called Everything.
Everything contained Earth, the Heavens, Hell, and Emotions,
All things that were.

At first the characters were happy.
Everything had been given to them.
All that was needed was courage,
Courage to take advantage of possibilities.

So the people danced for joy,
Because they had been taught by God how to dance.
Then they held a service for God,
Each man, woman, child, grandchild, and newborn praying.

Even though their prayers were different,
God still heard and smiled, for it was good.
Though they all spoke differently,
It was as one voice that they shouted, voices trembling with joy.

But one day, as a lone figure was walking in the rain,
It suddenly started to hail.
As the ice struck the figure's cheek,
Angry revenge was plotted.

This figure was very important,
For it held to power to take rather than give.

First, the sky was banned because three men were struck by lightening.
Next went the children,
Slaughtered because of their dependence on others.
After that the land was taken away in rusty chains,
And the people dealt the sea a crushing blow
Because sailors drowned, and they were afraid.

Then they dragged Knowledge away from her home,
Screaming and kicking and biting to escape Ignorance and Fear, the police.
The books were empty and sought to weep,
But water was gone because someone lost a sailboat in the pond, didn't they?

And then, because Wisdom had been hanged for preventing a war,
There was no more prayer.
And God was sad, for prayer had been a sign that the people loved,
But there was no love, because they had forgotten how.

Finally they took away the rest,
All that remained, the people.

Then they tried to take away nothing.
But there was nothing left.



Not even God.

Found poetry from “When God is Your Favorite Writer”

These stories
That timeworn anthology
That faint scent
of myths
Truths
Enmeshed with love
And comforting from the grave.

My faith in love
Would begin then
Time would slow
Our worlds fused
Through twisted strands:
The sacred and the profane.

Then
The painful alienation
Her anguished betrayal
Fell in evil:
Kill every living thing
Every newborn love
The last vestiges of belief
Slip away.

These familiar stories
Remain
The sadness, desolation
The old, weathered pages
Finally emerged
Torn into love.

The Game

I didn't fall in love as much as I tripped over my sneakers and then dove into it wholeheartedly, discovering the beauty. I loved the scent of the ball, the sweat creeping down my back, my dirty kneepads like shields, like medieval armor. The kneepads work with the net. The net is stretched out like a fence, protecting. Protecting me and my team, or protecting the other team, it doesn't matter. The net is a challenge; it guards the no-man's-land.
And then I feel it: the exhilaration of the ball coming down before me, the adrenaline pumping my fist into my opposite hand, crouching, rising, making contact, watching the ball continuing on when my arms have stopped. Its stripe pattern swirls dizzily as it gains height and as it drops, hopefully on the other side, hopefully where the net will obscure it from my gaze.
That's when it's beautiful. When the ball drops behind the challenge and the net's strings distort the stripes and the ball is wreathed, hidden, covered in mosaics, tiny off-white slivers of leather looking like they were broken apart and smashed and then glued back together. The ball keeps falling, and the mosaics shift, dancing and swirling.
When it hits the ground, I imagine what should happen. It should break, the shards should fall apart and explode everywhere, showering us all in glittering, glorious, leather mosaics. Except my team; except the people guarded by the net as it sways gently in the breeze of our hard breathing.

Radiant Jews

The words were overpowering
My connection was sacred
Because I ceased
To label God

I have a good reason
To love

Not only the stories
From the grave
And those star-crossed lovers
Fused, timeless electricity
Twisted around me
Rich and alive

I could have understanding
I could have forever

I began to fill in the
Sandals of the ancient people:
Bloodthirsty, promised, new born
Devastated, invaded, free, moral
Awestruck, alienated, angry
Altogether crazy

I wondered if you had to kiss them
I needed to know
Because the ritual was calm
But emptied
And abandoned

I loved, I tried, I read, I found
I thought, I welcomed, I longed

Everyday I rushed
Without divine inspiration
Into the unknown


Found poem from Yael Goldstein's Essay "When God Is Your Favorite Writer."

pantoum (malaysian form of poetry)

I remember being afraid of the loneliness.
But the sky will always be there above us.
Together, yet so far apart, we stand.
We must hold onto each other.
But the sky will always be there above us.
How can we survive in this chaotic world?
We must hold onto each other.
Be there.
How can we survive in this chaotic world?
Don’t let fear overtake you; do not forget who you are.
Never let go of the dream.
There is always someone there.
Don’t let fear overtake you; do not forget who you are.
Can’t waste a second in regret, everything happens for a reason.
There is always someone there.
And he is always watching.

How Schnorrer Hershel Came to Make Us All Meshuganners

Now, child, I want you should understand how Hershel came to be. In the beginning, when Earth was young and didn't get good grades on Chumash tests, because she was so obnoxious, God, praised be he, created Adam and Eve. Now, child, we all know what happened to that. How those two shlemiels be so meshuganneh as to disobey HaShem, praised be He? Well, after Adam and Eve left and Cain was so jealous that he broke his brother's nose, the Garden of Eden was as quiet as your grandfather after he's had too much Manaschevitz. HaShem, praised be he, was thinking of trying again to make babies. But no raw materials he had, child, since everythin gwas swimming with the fishes and it would be rude to talk to Noah's family when they were seasick. So he took some stars, water, and pure rain to make a man called Schnorrer Hershel.
Now, child, that God had his Schnorrer Hershel, he decided to tell him how to make babies. He also wanted he should tell Hershel his future.
"Schnorrer Hershel," God said, "I want you should make babies."
"But I don't want I should make babies," Hershel said. "Too messy. And every time I try, my Gefilte (for he had a wife named Gefilte) wants she should do it in public like those no-good Etruscans."
"Hershel, shut up!" God shouted, for in those days HaShem was allowed to be mean once a day. "Hershel, I want you should make babies on your lonesome."
"How should I do that, God?" Hershel asked, baffled.
"By making a special baby-challah dough that you'll want you should bake at 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit after some no-good Americans invent ways to measure how hot it is when you sweat."
"But what happens to to Gefilte?"
"She's going to be prime minister of Ukraine after Karl Marx goes to heaven."
"What happens to me?"
"God (for HaShem liked to hear his name said back then before his Bubbie gave Him a good spanking), must I tell you everything? After you have made a man instead of a baby, and that man dies, you will go into the woods and the Messiah will come to you. No, Schnorrer Hershel, not that long-haired meshugganer from the Holy Land."
"Okay. But one question, HaShem. What if I get it wrong?"
"You're supposed to get it wrong! You're a schnnorer!"

Our people is a fiery sun

based on the poem "Dead Men Don't Praise God" by Jacob Glatstein (Or Yankev Glatshteyn)

Our people is a fiery sun
a giant conflagration
and a source of light.
Through the ages
we've survived,
burning.
an eternal candle (neir tamid)
In the flames of blood liebels;
Blois, Trent.
Never forget
we have been
burned like Nadav
and Avihu in foreign
fire.

The tongues of
Inquisition's flames
waggled at many
hidden brethren.
Women who swept floors
the wrong way.
Men who claimed allergies
to pork as paella
was passed around.
They did not escape
Nimrod's furnace unscathed.

The mouth of God
is full of bad taste
from the ashes and smoke
of crematoriums.
It's a wonder he doesn't choke,
and belch some heaven and
hell onto earth.
(It's a wonder we don't choke.)

The ever-burning people
play like David played in desperation
We write like Ezra, but without divine inspiration
We sing like Deborah, even as the
barbed wire strangles us.
We help, we hold, we create,
We burn, we choke, we die
through the ages, for
our people is a fiery sun.

Sweat

This poem was written after we took a walk to the cemetery and were icky afterward.

Sweat
Glistening on my forehead,
Beading above my lip,
Resting near my shirt collar,
Clinging to my hair,
Trickling along the back of my neck,
Slipping toward the bottom of my back,
Dripping down my legs,
Soaking the seat of my pants,
Pooling in that hollow between my chest and my stomach,
Lining my underarms,

Covering, encompassing, drowning me,
This salty, sticky, sweat.

Fanfiction

I don't care if Jon kills me. This is the link to my fanfiction on Shurtugal.com, a fan site for the Inheritance Cycle (Eragon, Eldest, Brisingr coming in September) by Christopher Paolini. My penname is InkBlot. Most of my stories are actual fanfiction, though they can probably stand alone if they have to. The poems are all original poetry, and most of them are actually from BIMA last year.

http://fanfiction.shurtugal.com/viewuser.php?uid=2078

I Watch Her Everyday

Some critique would be loved as this needs some more work.

I watch her every day on my way to work;

she rarely moves and when she does it’s merely go find a comfortable spot.

In the winter her skins cracks from snow;

after years she has become numb to the conditions of the weather.

She has aged more rapidly than most;

her life is unrelenting with no respites.

I watch her every day on my way to work;

there is little that changes from day to day.

A scarf may be there from a trip to a tenement overnight;
an old hat may be another addition.

The thing that will never change is her small little can;

it has the word ‘Give’ on it a multitude of times, for she cannot speak.

I watch her every day on my way to work;

there are bags in her hand, bags of nothingness.

I have never looked within them;

I imagine rags and more plastic bags.

Nothing and everything;

a life of destitution, sorrow, and pain.

I watch her every day on my way to work;

standing beneath the sign of the East Broadway Cafeteria.

It’s a busy place;

even so, she rarely makes enough to buy more than a cup of soup.

She must have a family somewhere;

I wonder who they are and what they do.

People dismiss her, bustling pass, going on their way.

I try to help when I can;

the world is hard and money is hard to make.

She is the nameless beggar with a hard life;

I watch her every day on my way to work.