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I Am
Where are you from? they ask.
Your mom’s from here. Your dad’s from there, they say.
I’m from here, from today, same as everyone else, I say.
No, where are you really from? they insist.
I ask Abuelo because he knows everything,
and like me, he looks like he doesn’t belong.
Where am I from?
Abuelo thinks. His eyes squint, like he’s looking inside his heart for an answer.
You come from the Pampas, the open free land, he says.
You’re from the gaucho, brave and strong. From the brown river that cleanses and feeds the land that gives us the grain for our bread, the milk from the cows.
You’re from mountains so high they tickle Señor Cielo’s belly,
where the condor roosts his family
and the jaguar prowls the night.
But you’re also from the warm, blue oceans,
and the elegant palm trees that stretch their fingers to caress the waves.
You’re from a tiny singing frog that calls the island people home when the sun goes to sleep.
You’re from hurricanes and dark storms.
From the copper warriors that rode the ocean and worshipped the silver moon.
You’re from sea explorers, from their courage and their maps.
From two cousins that escaped war in the land that Jesus walked,
From these new shores where they built a home for all of us.
You’re from the grandmothers who look for their grandchildren, waiting, always waiting in a plaza, their white handkerchiefs wrapping the sorrow of their thoughts.
You’re from Pacific and Atlantic, Mediterranean and Caribbean.
You come from the sunshine that lights our path in this world and the rain that washes away our mistakes.
But Abuelo, I ask, Where am I really from?
Abuelo laughs. You want a place?
Then know that you’re from here, he points to his temple,
from my dreams of freedom and books.
He points to his heart,
You’re from here, from my love and the love of all those before us,
those who dreamed of you, free to ask questions and have a future.
You’re from all of us.
I am.
I’m not from here, and I’m not from there. I’m from dreams and hopes,
from hard work and love.
I am.
Yamile Saied Méndez was born and raised in Argentina, but has lived in Utah half of her life. She's a mother of five, lover of futbol, Irish dancing, and books. She's a free lance writer and a MFA candidate at the Vermont College of Fine Arts. Her musings can be read at www.yamilesmendez.com
By Julie Daines
This year, I'm sharing some awesome Haiku. Most of these were written by my friends for a competition, and I'm posting them without permission, so oops.
Anyway, here are some great Haiku poems about books:
Swan Song (Haiku by T.J. Reed)
Young girl, heart of gold
Devil roaming happily
Will the world end?
Keturah and Lord Death (Haiku by Michelle Ratto)
death permeates all
life and love in the village
and forces a choice
The Hunger Games (Haiku by Christine Tyler)
Thanks for the burnt bread
If you kiss me you get soup
I'd like to frost you
To Kill A Mockingbird (Haiku by Scott Rhoades)
Fearing boogieman
two finches learn tolerance
among injustice
Pride and Prejudice (Haiku by Taffy Lovell)
Rich men want a wife
It's a universal law
Mother's want the match
The Hobbit (Haiku by Scott Rhoades)
He's number thirteen
with some dwarves and a wizard
What's in his pocket?
Where the Wild Things Are (Haiku by Rachel Taylor)
They held Max up high
"And now let the wild rumpus begin"
They all roared out loud.
The Body Finder (Haiku by Taffy Lovell)
I hear the echoes
From the missing and the dead
And the one who killed
Have you got a book Haiku you'd like to share? Leave it in the comments.
By: T.J. Reed
Brent’s dusty boots thumped on the hardwood floor of his father’s home; the same boots that Brent had stood on the streets of Baghdad in. He carefully closed the door behind him and shifted the cardboard carrier that held his and his dad’s coffees back to his strong hand. He had practiced this scenario every morning for the past two months since they had called a nurse in to take care of him. Every morning, at 7:30 am, Brent would arrive with their coffees and that day’s copy of USA Today. The coffee needed to be black for his father which matched his personality; strong.
He had served in the Marine Corps during the Vietnam War, then had spent several years working as an armored truck driver after that, and that is when the cancer came. It had hit him quickly, much more quickly than Brent had anticipated. He had always assumed that he would have more time with his dad, one more day, one more hour, a minute. But, that all changed when Orville called and told him that they had found cancer, “running all up in me,” as he had put it.
“He has been waiting for you this morning.” The short nurse in the kitchen said.
“Yeah, I am a couple minutes late. The lady at the coffee house tried to put sugar in dad’s coffee. Had to wait while she brewed a whole new pot.”
“He has been talking to Big Tiny again. He says that he is going home today.” She said with a smile.
Over the past week, Brent’s father had been telling him stories about a young man that had been coming to the house to visit him that went by the name Big Tiny. The doctors had told Brent that he would slowly start to slip into this sort of state; speaking to people that was not there or forgetting who people was all together. Brent had just gone with it. He would sit with his coffee and listen to Orville tell him about the glorious things that Big Tiny would tell him of Heaven. Brent had decided that if this was how his father was going to lose his mind, he was ok with it.
Brent slowly opened the door to his father’s bedroom to find him staring at the ceiling, his eyes bright and wide with excitement.
“Good morning son!” His father tried to shout hoarsely from the confines of his bed.
“Hey old man. I got your coffee. You sure look happy this morning. You feeling better?”
“I don’t feel a thing son. Big Tiny said today I get to go home. He told me I get my retirement papers for my service here.” The old man tried to laugh and began to cough. Brent pulled a napkin from a box next the bed and handed it to his father which he then used to dab the speckles of blood from his lips and then just stared at his son.
“Big Tiny says that he has a job for me.” His father, though his eyes were bright with excitement, Brent came to the quick realization that his father was telling him that he was slowly slipping away. He could see it in the color of his skin and in the way he labored for breath. They had assumed that this would have happened a week ago, but Orville had proved too tough for death, as he did in Vietnam, and had fought it out for one more week.
“He does?” Brent said as he fought back tears.
Orville looked up at the ceiling again as if staring into Heaven itself, tears of his own slowly cupping the corners of his eyes and then streaking down the many creases and wrinkles on his face.
“Yep. Says my service is requested. Feels good to be wanted again, to be able to serve again, you know?” Orville smiled and looked at his son. “He says that you don’t need to worry about me and we will meet again.”
“He said all that, huh?” Brent said smiling now as he took his father’s hand. In the moment that his fingers touched his dads, it was as if a lightning bolt had struck Brent. The room flashed white, his hair stood on end, and then everything was as it was. Brent blinked his eyes several times and looked at his father.
“Can you see him now? He is talking to you.” Orville said to his son.
Brent looked at the foot of the bed and seen a soldier standing in his desert fatigues, full body armor, and his helmet held in gloved hands as he smiled a goofy smile that Brent knew all too well. The man possessed the face that had been in his dreams for the past 7 years since he had been killed in an ambush in Iraq.
“Tony?”
“Hey buddy.” Tony said. “You got one heck of an old man. This guy will talk your ear off if you let him.”
“Tony?” Brent repeated.
“Yep.” Tony started laughing.
“Why does he call you Big Tiny?” Brent said laughing as a mixture of tears of joy and sadness flooded his eyes.
“When he first asked my name, I said Big Tony. The old man is hard of hearing, I guess he heard Big Tiny and I just haven’t had the heart to correct him.”
The two laughed. They laughed like old friends do when they have not seen each other in a very long time and Brent noticed that his father was not laughing. The grip on his hand had lightened and his fingers were slipping from his grip. Brent looked at his father, his eyes nearly closed but he was smiling.
“Don’t worry Brent. I got this. I will make sure your old man gets where he needs to go. That is my job now. I am a courier; a courier for the poor tortured souls that is us. We give everyone a gentle welcome into their ever after and bring them to their families. Remember how we always joked that we would be guarding the gates of Heaven or the streets of gold. Apparently, those things don’t need any guarding brother. What they need is us collecting up our brothers and sisters and bringing them home.” Tony smiled again.
Brent used his free arm to wipe the tears from his face. “He said you had a job for him.”
“Well, I don’t. The old man upstairs does. He is going to make him a courier too. I already have a man to train him up for the task.”
Brent turned his head to look back at his father and found that his eyes were now closed. The weak grip that he had held on his hand was now gone but his body was lying with his arms stiffly placed alongside his legs as if he was in the position of attention. There were two young men now standing at the far side of the bed dressed in an older style of military uniform that Brent recognized from a few pictures that his father had shared with him of Vietnam. The dark green uniforms looked like they were fresh out of the box; crisp and clean without speck of dust on them.
“Brent, I would like you to meet Bryan Meeks. I haven’t seen this young man in fifty years!” Brent’s father said as he laughed and hugged his long lost friend, a friend that he had lost in Vietnam and had worn a bracelet every day of his life to remember that friend. Brent looked down at his own wrist and stared at the thin metal bracelet he wore for Tony. A bracelet that he never took off and that was a constant reminder of a friend he had lost in a foreign land. Brent looked up and all of his new friends were gone along with his father.
He cried.
He let the tears for his father fall to the floor along with the tears of closure for a friend that he had always hoped that he could see again someday. He knew that whenever it was his time to go, there would be a young man in uniform prepared to escort him to the other side and he hoped that his name was Big Tiny.
Written for the memories of my fallen brothers:
Pfc. Alva L. Gaylord May 5th, 2006
Spec. Matthew F. Straughter January 31st, 2008
Staff Sgt. Bradley J. Skelton February 6th, 2008
Sgt. Denis D. Kisseloff May 14th, 2010
Rest in peace brothers and I hope you enjoy your new jobs. I cannot wait to see you all again when my time comes and I hope that you all show up to escort me home.
Dear Editor:
With great interest, I read your special issue about biometric computer authentication (March, 2014). My firm has been looking for a viable biometrics solution for quite some time and several of the products you reviewed look promising.
However, we have one question that remains unanswered by any of the articles in this otherwise excellent issue: Do any of these products work for the undead?
You see, we take being an equal opportunity employer quite seriously. Hiring the undead keeps us in compliance with the Americans with Disabilities Act and contributes to a diverse work environment. We also recognize that there are certain advantages to hiring people who have risen from the grave. For one thing, they seldom object to working the night shift. In fact, they prefer it. As long as the shift ends before sunrise, you can count on zombies to remain alert and productive way into the wee hours of the morning. They also tend not to require expensive health benefits or group life insurance.
But for these prized workers, traditional passwords don't do any good because people tend to forget them when their brains rot and leak out of their ears. Unfortunately, biometric authentication often brings its own set of problems.
It's hard to log in to the network with a fingerprint reader when your fingerprints have decayed and your finger tends to remain in the reader after you pull your hand away. Likewise, iris recognition devices are problematic when the eyes keep falling out of the head and dangle well below the beam from the reader. Face recognition? Forget it. As the face deteriorates, new patches of mold or the continual changing of the shape of a rotting face with its sagging skin and ever-more-deviating septum renders such systems useless.
Some of our employees have suggested that it might be useful to have a device that allows the employee to pull the bowels from his belly and run them through a scanner. This might help solve the problem, but it raises an obvious security issue: What's to stop somebody from pulling the guts out of a coworker and using them to gain access to a restricted system? DNA-based devices have similar security problems. We even tried odor-based biometrics, but quickly learned that this type of device overloads and fails when the workplace houses more than a small number of rotting corpses.
As you can see, current biometrics don't work for an organization like ours. In this economy, more and more people seem to be dying every day, and as they venture forth from their coffins to seek suitable employment, biometric authentication seems like the way to go.
If the research you did for your special issue provided insight into how to use biometrics for this under-appreciated segment of the workforce, we would love to hear about it.
Thank you,
Rip Morguenstern,
VP of Security
Liquid Putrefaction, Inc.
-->
Ma, where will we be for Christmas this year?
In the Salt Lake Valley.
Will we get there before Christmas?
I hope so, little one.
But isn’t it Christmas right now?
No, dear, not yet.
But there is so much snow.
I know. Come along.
My feet hurt.
Let me see. I have a little flour sack. Let me wrap them.
I’m hungry too.
We all are. I have a little leather left. Chew it as we walk.
Will Pa be home for Christmas?
No, love, he can’t be with us anymore.
Where is he?
We had to leave him with the others.
Will the wolves hurt him?
We covered him good with sage brush.
Will we see him again, Ma?
Yes.
Will he miss us?
I think he will be sad to not be with us. Do you know who was born on Christmas?
Jesus?
Yes. And His Mother and Father loved Him very much.
Did He grow big like me?
Yes, He did. And one day Jesus had to leave His family even when He didn’t want to leave.
Just like Pa.
Yes, and Pa is with Jesus in Heaven.
Pa gets to spend Christmas with Jesus?
He does.
He gets to have the best Christmas.
I think you’re right.
I still wish Pa was with us, pulling me in the handcart.
Do you want to get in the handcart now?
May I? The rocks are hurting my feet.
Let me put you in with sister.
Sister is so cold, Ma.
Wrap your arms around her and hold her close.
Will she spend Christmas with Jesus, too?
I would miss her terribly if she did, dear.
Can you hear the singing?
It must be the other Saints singing.
I can’t see no other handcarts. Didn’t angels sing when Jesus was born?
Yes.
I think the angels are singing for us tonight so we are not alone.
I believe you are right, little one.
“I really like pizza,” Eliot said, chomping down on a piece of pepperoni.
“Uh, okay?” Ben scrunched his face. “That was sort of random.”
“No. I think pizza--” Eliot stopped to stare intensely at the slice in his hand. “--Pizza explains everything.”
“Is this pizza drugged?”
“No, stupid.” Eliot laughed, shoving him a little. “I’m serious!” Eliot insisted.
“Okay, what about pizza explains everything?”
“Well, take the pizza when you first open it. It’s full. It’s round. You have the whole thing to eat. At the beginning of life, you have everything to look forward to. The smells, the tastes; I mean, there’s a whole pizza!”
Ben wasn’t convinced. He still thought Eliot was being loopy.
“Then once you eat a couple of slices, it looks like pac-man.”
“Pac-man?” Ben snorted. “What does pac-man have to do with anything?”
“Pac-man is like a legend. An iconic representation of all things fun. And it was one of the first video games. Look at where we are now because of that pellet-eater!”
Ben reached for another slice. “Well, now there’s only half a pizza. How’s that representative of ‘everything?’”
“Because half a pizza looks like a smile. And when life is half gone, you’re old enough to look
back and see everywhere you’ve been and realize how much has happened. At the same time, if it hasn’t been good, you’re young enough you can make changes and get on track to get that smile; there’s half a pizza left, after all.”
“Half a pizza... or a pirate hat.” Ben stated sarcastically, turning the pizza box around.
Eliot rolled his eyes.
Ben continued. “Okay, smartie-pants, what about when there’s only one slice? Let me guess. It represents you’re about to kick the bucket, but there’s one good morsel left?” Ben shook his head. “That’s depressing.”
“No, no, no. When there’s one piece left, it like a spike or a stake. You’ve got one last shot at revenge before it’s all over.”
“That’s dumb. One slice is the shape of a triangle. That means it’s like the Triforce. Link’s
ultimate achievement. He saved the world! You know Zelda was the best game ever made. Now that’s everything explained!” Ben congratulated himself.
Eliot shook his head. “I’ll give you the triangle bit. But not for another game. We already
explained those. An upright triangle is representative of spirit, divinity, fire, life, prosperity and harmony. And the reversed triangle is denotative of mother earth, water, rain and grace. Triangles are often used for God and the holy trinity. When upright and downward triangles are put together, they form the Star of David, symbolizing balance and knowledge.”
Ben stared at Eliot in surprise. “Are we still talking about pizza?” Eliot just smiled. Ben nodded his head. “This is pretty crazy, but I like it.” He thought for a moment. “Hey, I got one.” He turned his slice of pizza around and took a few bites out of the crust. “If you bite out the middle, ad nibble the edge, it sorta looks like a heart. That’s what everything is all about, right? Love?”
Eliot nodded. “Now you see what I’m talking about. Pizza explains everything.”
Satan’s Bad Day
By Emily Simmons
Satan woke up Thursday feeling out of sorts. He didn’t get out of bed for breakfast but picked at his bowl of Lucky Charms until the marshmallows got soggy and turned the milk an unnatural blue-gray color.
Hector arrived with the day’s schedule. “Good morning! And how’s the Lord of the Underworld today?” Hector opened the window; the rotten-egg odor and the screams of the souls drowning in eternal torment in the nearby lake always brightened the day. He spied the devil’s uneaten cereal and listless expression.
“Boss, what’s the matter with you? You look like your dog just got reincarnated.”
“Nothing. I don’t know. I don’t feel like myself today.” Satan sighed deeply.
Sometimes I Run
Sometimes I run
not to get in shape
but to get away from all the shapes
in my life.
Sometimes I run
and I race my shadow
but I always let it win
because if I came face to face with my shadow
after all these years of chasing
what would I say to it?
Sometimes I run
until time slows down
stops
4 Comments on 30 Days: Poetry by Brooke Wilson, last added: 4/28/2011
By Anji Sandage
Arrrg! Captain One-eyed Zack was in a terrible mood. He had gotten up on the wrong side of his bunk again. “Round up all those smarmy scallywags in the hold!” Captain Zack hollered, “and have them walk the plank!”
“But sir, you already had them walk the plank yesterday sir!” Red-beard Roy, Captain Zack’s first mate, pointed out to the beach where their ship was anchored. Half a dozen ragged men were sitting in the sand twiddling their thumbs and looking wide eyed and frazzled.
“Well, so I did.” Captain Zack growled. Then he brightened momentarily. “Round them up – they can walk the plank again.
The men on the beach grumbled. “Aw, I jest got me-self dried out Cap’n” one of the men complained as he got in line with the others.
Just as the captain began to snarl a response, Red cut in. “Ain’t you gettin’ tired of that Capn’? They a’ready walked the plank 12 times this week.” His eye twitched nervously.
“Arrrgh! Right you are mate!” Captain Zach scratched his chin thoughtfully with a gold dagger. Red’s eye momentarily stopped twitching, and he sighed heavily.
“Then we’ll throw them to the sharks!” Captain Zack roared triumphantly. The men who were now climbing back up the side of the ship paled.
Red’s eye began twitching again. “But sir, there are no sharks here. Besides, who will swab the deck?”
“Right you are again!” Captain Zack wheeled around to face the men who were cautiously climbing back over the side of the ship. “So, we’ll swab the deck first. Then we can go find some sharks!”
The ragged sailors hurriedly grabbed their mops. None of them bothered to point out that the deck had already been swabbed several times that day already.
Red-beard Roy pulled at his straggly red beard. “Ay Captain. We’ve been waiting in this here cove for a week and no sign of a ship to plunder, and no wind to fill the sails.”
Captain One-eyed Zack growled in agreement.
Maybe what you need is some relaxation. Let up on the scurvy blokes a bit? What say ye, Capn’?” Red’s eye twitched.
Captain Zack whirled around. Red jumped. “What do you suggest then, matey? A picnic? Har Har Har!” Captain Zack roared with laughter.
“Why n-n-not Capn’?” Red stammered, his eye now twitching violently. So far Captain Zach had not made him walk the plank. He laughed nervously. “A picnic could be just what you need.”
“WELL THEN WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR!?” Captain Zach hollered.
Red-beard Roy nearly jumped out of his skin “y-y-yes sir, a picnic it is then, sir!”
He ran over to where the crew was swabbing the deck. “Stow your swabs gentlemen!” Red hollered. “Capn’s orders!”
The sailors stopped mopping.
“To the sharks, then?” asked a pirate known as Hangnail Harry.
“We’re having a picnic. On the beach. Capn’s orders Harry. So go to it lads!” Red growled. He may have been nervous around the captain, but he was still a pirate to be feared.
It wasn’t long before there was a hearty spread, with pickled herring, salmagundi stew, honey cakes, and Jugs of ale all around. Buzzard-toe Joe stoked a huge fire while Rotten Pete organized pirate games, like catch the cannon ball, hangman, and pin the hat on the pirate. (Cross-eyed Carl talked him out of using real pirates and daggers to pin the hats onto.) After the games, Peg-leg Larry and Toothless Tom pulled out a harmonica and a banjo and soon there was dancing around the fire.
Of course Captain One-eye jack won at hangman and got to fire the cannon for ‘catch the cannon ball.’ The next day he was like a new pirate. The wind kicked up and they set sail for new coves and ships to plunder. When they came across a small fleet in the early afternoon, he was even very polite (for a pirate), and while plundering he only took a few prisoners to replace those of his crew lost playing hangman and he didn’t make anyone walk th
Angel and Iron
This is a day of celebrations. It is my birthday, and it is my wedding day. I rejoice in neither.
They tell me that now I’m fifteen, I am old enough to marry. They are wrong. They also tell me our two kingdoms must unite. I am to be his second wife. His first wife died in childbirth. I have never met him.
My handmaiden fits a veil of netted, snow-white silk atop my head, securing it in place with a silver crown. I enter the great hall with my face covered. He waits for me, standing before the priest.
I walk slowly, keeping my head high and shoulders straight. I clasp my hands in front of me to hide the trembling. He is twice my age. A great warrior. Perhaps if he were not so great, I would not be here now, marrying this man to spare my people war.
I take my place beside him. He turns to me, lifting my veil with a flourish, sending it high over my head. It floats down my back silently, like the fall of angel wings. His eyes are the color of raw iron, partly brown and partly grey. They catch and hold my gaze, digging deep as the mines from whence the iron came. I don’t want this man to know me. I look away.
The priest says his part. A gold band slips onto my finger. My husband leans down to kiss me. I close my eyes, lift my mouth, and brace myself. His lips touch my cheek. He laughs so softly, it is nothing more than a breath on my skin.
A cheer rises from the crowd. He grasps my hand and lifts it. His skin is rough and worn. We dine together, at the head of the table. He keeps my goblet filled. When the music starts, leads me onto the floor. I curtsey to him, then we move to the song of the harp, performing the steps of the wedding dance.
“You’re beautiful,” he says.
You are very old. I don’t say it. “Thank you, my lord.”
His iron eyes are on me, watching. Perhaps this is how he became such a fine warrior—observing with patience the movements of others. I feel him stripping away my barriers, exposing my weakness without saying a word.
I turn, moving with the music in a circle around him.
“You are unhappy?” he asks.
“No, my lord.” I try to smile, but I’ve forgotten how.
“I can see that you are. Why should you not be? No girl wants a stranger for a husband.”
No, indeed. But if I let the words out, I fear the tears will follow. I stare at his boots.
“Maerwyn.” He says my name. “Come with me.” He takes my hand and leads me from the great hall, towing me up the narrow, stone steps. Up
ROOSTER TAIL
By Lana Krumwiede
Danny Oldham had a rooster tail, which would have been fine if he were a rooster. But for a ten-year-old boy, a rooster tail was a bad thing. It was what Danny’s mom called the hair that stuck straight up at the top of his head.
Today was picture day and Mom was fussing with Danny’s hair in front of the bathroom mirror.
“What’s that smell?” Danny said.
“Special hair gel,” Mom said. “We’re going to fix that rooster tail and get a great school picture this year.”
“Smells like coconut.” Danny scrunched his nose. “I hate coconut.”
“We’ll send it out in all the Christmas cards.” Mom said.
“Coconut?” Danny asked.
“No, silly. Your school picture.”
Danny’s shoulders slumped. He picked up the bottle and read out loud. “Ultra Strength Hair Gel. Cool Tropical Scent.” Geez Louise. This coconut gunk had better work.
At school, Danny’s teacher gathered the school-picture order forms. “We’ll go to the photographer right after lunch,” she said.
Hopefully Ultra Strength meant after-lunch strength.
When Danny went to the restroom during Science, he checked his hair in the mirror. So far, so good.
When he passed the library, Danny glanced in the big glass window. Rooster tail under control.
At lunch, Danny sat with his best friend, Mayank.
“I’ll be glad when school pictures are over,” Danny said.
“I know what you mean,” said Mayank. “The girls are checking their hair every minute. It’s driving me crazy.”
Danny frowned and swallowed his milk.
Mayank handed him a pudding cup. “This will cheer you up. Isn’t butterscotch your favorite?”
4 Comments on 30 Days: "Rooster Tail" by Lana Krumwiede, last added: 4/21/2011
Princess Philippa Potts
Philippa Potts is a princess of uncommon beauty.
(illus. note: page turn / Picture a squat lumpy not-quite human looking figure in schlumpy slippers, fuzzy footy pajamas and frizzy Barbie-like hair.)
With her unequaled sense of style, her singular taste in design, accompanied by her extraordinary commanding presence, it is beyond question that everything about Philippa is unique.
Except for her mother.
Philippa’s mother was rather typical. For a mother that is.
As a matter of fact, she’s probably a lot like yours.
(illus. note: Mother is a shadowy giant figure, only ever seen from about the waist down. Philippa ha
by Deren Hansen
Some said the house was haunted.
Some screamed and ran as it shambled up the street, leaving a wake of bits of itself in the gouged asphalt.
I fished the business card out of my wallet as the house shoved one parked car into the back end of another. “Dr. Closer, Paranormal Real Estate Agent.” It still smelled like a bad joke—just what everyone else would say if I told them a house in my neighborhood decided to go for a stroll.
“Somebody do something!” Mrs. Garcia wailed. “It’s heading for my house.”
One after another, the front windows shattered.
The teenagers who had been daring each other to stand in front of the moving mass of masonry ran shrieking up the street.
“Idiots!” old Mr. Polypapanos yelled. “Whose bright idea was that?”
The house, lurching slowly from side to side, pushed the parked cars through the prize rosebushes and onto the Kravitt’s lawn.
“Ay, Dios mio,” Mrs. Garcia cried, “can no one stop it?”
There was nothing else to do. I flipped the card over, swallowed my pride, and made the call.
“Stop playing with your phone,” Mr. Polypapanos said. He rapped his cane on my head before I could leave a message. “Get in there and … and turn it off.”
“Me?”
“No one else is spry enough.” He jabbed his cane at my chest. “Now, quit wasting time.”
I wasn’t sure what was left of the front porch would support my weight, but, frankly the animated house was less frightening than Mr. Polypapanos, so I jumped.
The screen door unlatched and slammed into me when I landed. I managed to grab it before the porch crumbled beneath me. The house shuddered as it ground over the chunks of concrete.
Mr. Polypapanos shouted something that, between the rumble of the house and Mrs. Garcia’s crying, I couldn’t hear. But I didn’t need his advice: knowing that I would be hamburger if I lost my grip and followed the porch under the house was more than sufficiently motivating.
Not that I could ever do it again—because I’m not quite sure how I did it—but in a fit of coordination that would have shut old Coach Henderson up, I pushed off the brick wall and swung myself around in time to kick the front door open.
I had a hard time picking myself up: a house isn’t supposed to move like a boat in a force-five wind.
Looking around, I felt sick—and not from the motion: the house had been stripped. Everything was gone: the carpets; the curtains; even the cupboard doors. The green light that pulsed from the equipment closet made what was left of the kitchen cabinets look like so many eyeless skulls.
The floor bucked, I lost my footing, rolled though the suddenly open back door, and landed in the middle of the scarred asphalt.
A gloved hand at the end of a trench coat sleeve pulled me to my feet and I found myself face to face with a man who looked like a cross between a shaman and gum-shoe detective.
“I am Dr. Fagergren Closer, IV.” He smiled grimly. “I knew you would call.”
“Can you stop it,” I asked, trying to catch my breath.
“No.”
“What?”
“You will stop it.”
“How?”
He dropped a four-foot-long copper spike onto my bruised arms. “That house,” he pointed with his chin, “it has been possessed by a zombie bank. We must repossess it by staking a claim.” He handed me a small sledge hammer. “Drive this through the floor where the green light is strongest.
So far we don't have enough participants to have a story every single day of April, but we're close! Yesterday we let the focus be on our writing contest winners. Today I'd like to cover the ground rules for the project and send out yet another request for people to sign up.
Every day (theoretically) in April, a different writer/artist shares their work on the blog. Anything written should be 500 words or less, be any age level, any genre. Once you sign up, I will email you your assigned day. On or before that day you email me your story/art and I will post it to the blog.
This is the third year we've done the 30 days, 30 stories project. It is always a lot of fun! Usually, by the end of the month, all of the days are full. Check back regularly to see everyone's contributions and be sure to leave comments! We LOVE comments!
30 Days, 30 Stories Project
This whole blog started as a way to showcase the work of those participating in our first "30 Days, 30 Stories" project. It's almost April again and we're collecting names for people who want to join us.
Every author who joins is assigned a day to post a story or poem (500 or so words) to the blog. Any age, any genre-- preferably for kids/teens. Each day is a different work of art.
Want to join? Leave a comment below and I'll add you to the list. Assigned days and more info will be going out in a week.
By:
Darcy Pattison,
on 11/30/2010
Blog:
Darcy Pattison's Revision Notes
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Fun story. Those are some pretty insightful kids!
Man, I never thought pizza could be so symbolic. Good job, David.
@Cathy: Your life will never be the same, mwahaha. Everytime you and yours eat pizza, you will think of this story. :D
@Julie: Well... "kids" is relative. I purposely refrained from defining age in this story. And the rules for 30 days submissions said the story could be for any age level. Maybe I cheated a little :P
Fun story. Way to make a lesson fun to read! But what kind pizza was it? And did it have anchovies? Anchovies are sadly maligned in this part of the country. :)
Seriously, though, nice job.
@Scott: Thanks for the comment. I pretty much had to leave out everything, including the flavor of the pizza. It was in there originally, but word limit is so frustrating sometimes. My final version is still 34 words over, and I left out relatively all detail about these people other than their names. Sacrifices, I guess. :)
Wow!
Hi David, You know I'll never take pizza for granted again... Good way to make me really see pizza and think of pac-man, pellet-eater, revenge, you and on and on . . .
I really enjoyed it,
Marion Steiger
Yummy pizza. We had some tonight. Glad I ate before I read your story or I would have tried to play Pac Man with my slices and my kids :) lol