This is an old "prose poem" (tells a story, doesn't have to rhyme, etc.) that I wrote a few years back. A good way to get a decent post in on the weekends, when I struggle to write anyway. Enjoy! "Too Risky" You told me not to pick it up It might be dirty, might have rust on it Might give me Tetanus But it looked interesting So I reached down and retrieved it It was about the size of a quarter But it wasn't a coin It was about the weight of a pocketwatch But it didn't tell time It was about the same texture as a cookie But it didn't taste very good I wasn't sure what it was So I stuck it in my pocket You said I shouldn't have Said I didn't know where it had been Might've come off some leper I might catch Tuberculosis I shrugged it off What did you know? You're just my older brother A little kid yourself I wouldn't listen When we got home I didn't tell Dad He's just like you In too many ways He would've said I shouldn't have taken it Maybe God had it there For a reason Maybe it had been there For hundreds of years In that very spot Maybe it had on it The dust of long-dead civilizations Maybe it might give me the Black Plague No, I didn't show it to Dad Or ever tell him But Mom, she found it in my pants When she took them to the wash And I had forgotten about it Because when we got in The soup was ready And the bread was hot And Mom, she said If we didn't eat the food While it was still warm Perhaps the ants would come And they would take the food away And we would have no food And then we would get gaunt And infected and might die We might even become Anorexic So I ate the soup and the bread And drank my milk Because if you don't drink your milk Then you don't have strong bones And you develop a Calcium Deficiency And then your arms fall off Least that's what my teacher said And she's pretty smart about things So when Mom found The whatever-it-was in my pants pocket And asked me about it I told her it was something That I picked up by the road And she said I was a smart boy For being so curious But she also warned me That curiosity has this tendency To kill cats And when the cats are dead And they start to decay and all If you touch the carcass You might get Gangrene So now when I see something Shiny and metal by the road I don't pick it up anymore It's just too risky to fool with. |
Saturday, January 14, 2012
Poems For Your Perusal: "Too Risky"
Friday, January 13, 2012
My Ten Favorite Horror Movies Of All Time
Happy Friday the 13th!
As I've mentioned here before, I've always enjoyed reading horror stories and watching horror movies. Why? I don't really know. There's probably some deep, dark psychological reason for it, but I don't really want to delve that deep. So, for now, let's just say "for some reason" I like them. A lot.
So, in honor of Friday the 13th, I'm going to go the well-traveled route of bloggers across the world and give you a list of my 10 favorite horror movies of all time.
WARNING: There will be video links. While they're not too graphic, they may be a little disturbing, especially if you don't normally like these types of movies.
So, here you have them, more or less in no particular order – although the last two listed here are my top two favorites:
10) Misery (1990) – Being holed up in an office all day, having to write descriptions for things that I could sometimes care less about, seems like child's play compared to being holed up in a cabin in the middle of nowhere and forced to write a novel by a crazy lady with an axe who claims to be "your number one fan."
9) The Birds (1963) – Of all the things to be scared of, who would have thought we, as a viewing public, would ever buy into the idea of attacking birds. But after one viewing of this Hitchcock classic, you'll never go into an attic alone, or a phone booth for that matter, without looking around cautiously, and listening for the flutter of beating wings.
8) The Exorcist (1973) – This controversial film has sparked plenty of criticism and support over the years, and for good reason. Its frank portrayal of a demon-possessed girl and the people around her whom this affects is equally fascinating and horrifying. And while it's all done up for Hollywood, the fact that demon possession is actually possible makes this fictionalized depiction of it all the more disturbing.
7) A Nightmare On Elm Street (1984) – I never saw this movie as a kid, which is probably a good thing, because I've always been a vivid dreamer, and I might have taken it too much to heart. The idea of dreams – well, nightmares – being more than just dreams and being able to affect your real life, and even kill you is truly disturbing. Not to mention the guy who makes all this possible, Freddy Krueger.
6) The Ring (2002) – The concept of watching a videotape that causes you to die within 7 days of viewing it is, admittedly, far-fetched. But then you watch the movie, and the videotape itself within the context of the film, and well, there's just something unbearably creepy about it. The Japanese movie that this version was based on, entitled Ringu, is apparently even better, but I've never seen it. Incidentally, this was the first scary movie that I ever convinced Mary to see with me while we were dating. It was also the last. She's not a scary movies kind of girl at all. Not. One. Bit.
5) Night Of The Living Dead (1968) – The sheer fact that this movie is in black-and-white (at least originally – there is at least one "colorized" version out there somewhere) lends an overall creepier feel to the whole thing. It's the ultimate, and maybe even the original zombie movie. What makes it so horrifying is that the whole thing seems so real. These are normal people being terrorized by undead creatures who were also once normal people. Most of them still wear the clothes and general appearance of their former lives. But they're coming for you. And you're locked up in a spooky old farmhouse with a bunch of strangers, just trying to survive. You're in the moment with these people, and you want out. Like, now!
4) Stephen King's IT (1990) – Now this one, I did see as a kid. I was 12 when it was first broadcast on ABC as a two-part miniseries. I was already reading Stephen King books by that time, and so I taped it. The first time I saw it, I was just as scared as the ninth or tenth time I watched it. It was horrible, it was wonderful, it was fascinating, and it was terrifying. One of the main characters from the film, a young boy about my age, has a stuttering problem. After watching this movie several times in a short period of time, I also developed a stuttering problem. It was, fortunately, short-lived, but it just goes to show you how deeply I was affected by it. That being said, it was then and still is one of my favorites. Incidentally, I still don't care for clowns, and this movie is also responsible for that.
3) The Amityville Horror (1979) – There's nothing like a good haunted house story. And this is one of the best. The very architecture of the house (the attic windows look like glowing eyes) tells you something very bad has happened and will continue to happen here. The actors play their parts so well, you almost believe that it's based on a true story, which is how it was portrayed at the time. It's fiction, but it's very good fiction. And I'm never moving to Amityville, New York. For any reason.
2) Poltergeist (1982) – This is another horror movie that I did see as a kid, and remember being fascinated and terrified. I loved it! Like Amityville, it's, at the core, a haunted house movie. But in this one, we see some truly bizarre and disturbing things happening to a basically nice family. It also offers a warning to prospective real estate developers: Don't build over a cemetery. The dead might not like it, and might have some unfinished business with you. "They're here...."
1) Psycho (1960) – Ah yes, the innocent young innkeeper who "wouldn't harm a fly" and his unwitting victims, who only wanted to stop in at the Bates Motel for the night to get some shut-eye before starting back on their journey to wherever. But his "guests", like Marion Crane for example, they never leave. And are never heard from again. What's that all about? Better ask Norman's mother if you want the real story. This is Alfred Hitchcock's masterpiece, and my all-time favorite horror movie. They don't make them any better than this one!
NOTE: For some reason, the blog site stopped letting me add the videos with thumbnails after the seventh one. Hopefully, they'll still show up. If not, I'll try again later.
As I've mentioned here before, I've always enjoyed reading horror stories and watching horror movies. Why? I don't really know. There's probably some deep, dark psychological reason for it, but I don't really want to delve that deep. So, for now, let's just say "for some reason" I like them. A lot.
So, in honor of Friday the 13th, I'm going to go the well-traveled route of bloggers across the world and give you a list of my 10 favorite horror movies of all time.
WARNING: There will be video links. While they're not too graphic, they may be a little disturbing, especially if you don't normally like these types of movies.
So, here you have them, more or less in no particular order – although the last two listed here are my top two favorites:
10) Misery (1990) – Being holed up in an office all day, having to write descriptions for things that I could sometimes care less about, seems like child's play compared to being holed up in a cabin in the middle of nowhere and forced to write a novel by a crazy lady with an axe who claims to be "your number one fan."
9) The Birds (1963) – Of all the things to be scared of, who would have thought we, as a viewing public, would ever buy into the idea of attacking birds. But after one viewing of this Hitchcock classic, you'll never go into an attic alone, or a phone booth for that matter, without looking around cautiously, and listening for the flutter of beating wings.
8) The Exorcist (1973) – This controversial film has sparked plenty of criticism and support over the years, and for good reason. Its frank portrayal of a demon-possessed girl and the people around her whom this affects is equally fascinating and horrifying. And while it's all done up for Hollywood, the fact that demon possession is actually possible makes this fictionalized depiction of it all the more disturbing.
7) A Nightmare On Elm Street (1984) – I never saw this movie as a kid, which is probably a good thing, because I've always been a vivid dreamer, and I might have taken it too much to heart. The idea of dreams – well, nightmares – being more than just dreams and being able to affect your real life, and even kill you is truly disturbing. Not to mention the guy who makes all this possible, Freddy Krueger.
6) The Ring (2002) – The concept of watching a videotape that causes you to die within 7 days of viewing it is, admittedly, far-fetched. But then you watch the movie, and the videotape itself within the context of the film, and well, there's just something unbearably creepy about it. The Japanese movie that this version was based on, entitled Ringu, is apparently even better, but I've never seen it. Incidentally, this was the first scary movie that I ever convinced Mary to see with me while we were dating. It was also the last. She's not a scary movies kind of girl at all. Not. One. Bit.
5) Night Of The Living Dead (1968) – The sheer fact that this movie is in black-and-white (at least originally – there is at least one "colorized" version out there somewhere) lends an overall creepier feel to the whole thing. It's the ultimate, and maybe even the original zombie movie. What makes it so horrifying is that the whole thing seems so real. These are normal people being terrorized by undead creatures who were also once normal people. Most of them still wear the clothes and general appearance of their former lives. But they're coming for you. And you're locked up in a spooky old farmhouse with a bunch of strangers, just trying to survive. You're in the moment with these people, and you want out. Like, now!
4) Stephen King's IT (1990) – Now this one, I did see as a kid. I was 12 when it was first broadcast on ABC as a two-part miniseries. I was already reading Stephen King books by that time, and so I taped it. The first time I saw it, I was just as scared as the ninth or tenth time I watched it. It was horrible, it was wonderful, it was fascinating, and it was terrifying. One of the main characters from the film, a young boy about my age, has a stuttering problem. After watching this movie several times in a short period of time, I also developed a stuttering problem. It was, fortunately, short-lived, but it just goes to show you how deeply I was affected by it. That being said, it was then and still is one of my favorites. Incidentally, I still don't care for clowns, and this movie is also responsible for that.
3) The Amityville Horror (1979) – There's nothing like a good haunted house story. And this is one of the best. The very architecture of the house (the attic windows look like glowing eyes) tells you something very bad has happened and will continue to happen here. The actors play their parts so well, you almost believe that it's based on a true story, which is how it was portrayed at the time. It's fiction, but it's very good fiction. And I'm never moving to Amityville, New York. For any reason.
2) Poltergeist (1982) – This is another horror movie that I did see as a kid, and remember being fascinated and terrified. I loved it! Like Amityville, it's, at the core, a haunted house movie. But in this one, we see some truly bizarre and disturbing things happening to a basically nice family. It also offers a warning to prospective real estate developers: Don't build over a cemetery. The dead might not like it, and might have some unfinished business with you. "They're here...."
1) Psycho (1960) – Ah yes, the innocent young innkeeper who "wouldn't harm a fly" and his unwitting victims, who only wanted to stop in at the Bates Motel for the night to get some shut-eye before starting back on their journey to wherever. But his "guests", like Marion Crane for example, they never leave. And are never heard from again. What's that all about? Better ask Norman's mother if you want the real story. This is Alfred Hitchcock's masterpiece, and my all-time favorite horror movie. They don't make them any better than this one!
NOTE: For some reason, the blog site stopped letting me add the videos with thumbnails after the seventh one. Hopefully, they'll still show up. If not, I'll try again later.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
A Clamor Of Collective Nouns
I know very few people who are as fascinated with the English language as I am (although the few of you I do know are probably reading this right now).
The idiomatic and inconsistent idiosyncrasies that make English so difficult for some to learn are also what make it so beautiful to read and to write.
Take collective nouns, for instance. For the vocabulary-challenged and the non-grammarians, a collective noun is a word used to describe a group of objects, whether it be a group of animals, people, inanimate objects, or even concepts. You'll know them when you see them – some are quite common.
For example: How often have you accused your children of storming through the house "like a herd of buffalo"? You know that fish travel in schools, bees come in swarms, and that dogs and their cousins, the wolves, travel in packs. But you may not know some of the more obscure collective nouns which have come into common – and sometimes rare – use over the many years that the English language has been developing.
When you see some of these, you'll swear that the originators of the terms were endowed with an overactive imagination, or blessed with an abundance of free time, or simply under the influence of very powerful narcotics. But these are all real, and they're all quite weird. Enjoy!
1) At The Water's Edge. While traversing the shores of a stream, river, or even the ocean, you might at any time happen upon a congregation of alligators, a bask of crocodiles, a stand of flamingos, a bloat of hippopotamuses, a mess of iguanas, a fling of sandpipers, an escargatoire of snails, a gulp of cormorants, a knot of toads, or a pod of walruses.
2) In The Water. If you feel like swimming in this particular body of water, whether it's the stream, river, or ocean, you might be lucky enough to encounter a shoal of barbels, a bed of eels, a fluther of jellyfish, a bale of turtles, a hover of trout, or a gam of whales.
3) In The Jungle. If you tire of swimming and want to take a walk on the wild side, perhaps you might fancy a stroll through the jungle. You just may meet up with a shrewdness of apes, a flange of baboons, a destruction of wildcats, a band of gorillas, a leap of leopards, a pandemonium of parrots, a crash of rhinoceroses, an ambush of tigers, a cohort of zebras, or – my personal favorite, for obvious reasons – a cackle of hyenas (or hyena, or hyenae, or hyenæ).
4) On The Plains. If the jungle's not your thing, maybe you'd like to saunter along on the plains, or perhaps the prairie. In so doing, you might perchance catch a glimpse of a gang of elk, a muster of peacocks, an array of hedgehogs, a busyness of ferrets, a mob of kangaroos, a company of moles, or even a blush of boys (that one confuses me).
5) In The Forest. OK, so you're tired of open land and want to get back under a canopy of trees. While walking in the woods, you never know what you might see. Perhaps a cloud of bats if there's a cave nearby, or an army of caterpillars, a parcel of hogs, a descent of woodpeckers, a parliament of owls, a leash of foxes, a bouquet of pheasants, a covey of grouse, a gaze of raccoons, a rafter of turkeys, or – if it's a particularly warm night and your body is full of tasty blood – a scourge of mosquitoes.
6) In The Air. Alas, if you've had your fill of the shore, the water, the jungle, the plains, and the forest, and you feel inclined to take to the sky – assuming you have functional wings, which is assuming a lot – you might be lucky enough to fly alongside a bellowing of bullfinches, a murder of crows, a convocation of eagles, a watch of nightingales, a building of rooks, or – another personal favorite – an unkindness of ravens.
Well, that's about enough of these for now. One was probably enough, but fifty or so collective nouns – well, that's a flurry. Which is the collective noun for a group of words. Of which there are too many here. I'm done. Really, I am. Done.
WAR AND PEACE UPDATE: I'm on Chapter 10 of Book 1 (of 16), which equates to roughly 3% of the book. Slowly but surely, I'll get there one of these days.
The idiomatic and inconsistent idiosyncrasies that make English so difficult for some to learn are also what make it so beautiful to read and to write.
Take collective nouns, for instance. For the vocabulary-challenged and the non-grammarians, a collective noun is a word used to describe a group of objects, whether it be a group of animals, people, inanimate objects, or even concepts. You'll know them when you see them – some are quite common.
For example: How often have you accused your children of storming through the house "like a herd of buffalo"? You know that fish travel in schools, bees come in swarms, and that dogs and their cousins, the wolves, travel in packs. But you may not know some of the more obscure collective nouns which have come into common – and sometimes rare – use over the many years that the English language has been developing.
When you see some of these, you'll swear that the originators of the terms were endowed with an overactive imagination, or blessed with an abundance of free time, or simply under the influence of very powerful narcotics. But these are all real, and they're all quite weird. Enjoy!
1) At The Water's Edge. While traversing the shores of a stream, river, or even the ocean, you might at any time happen upon a congregation of alligators, a bask of crocodiles, a stand of flamingos, a bloat of hippopotamuses, a mess of iguanas, a fling of sandpipers, an escargatoire of snails, a gulp of cormorants, a knot of toads, or a pod of walruses.
2) In The Water. If you feel like swimming in this particular body of water, whether it's the stream, river, or ocean, you might be lucky enough to encounter a shoal of barbels, a bed of eels, a fluther of jellyfish, a bale of turtles, a hover of trout, or a gam of whales.
3) In The Jungle. If you tire of swimming and want to take a walk on the wild side, perhaps you might fancy a stroll through the jungle. You just may meet up with a shrewdness of apes, a flange of baboons, a destruction of wildcats, a band of gorillas, a leap of leopards, a pandemonium of parrots, a crash of rhinoceroses, an ambush of tigers, a cohort of zebras, or – my personal favorite, for obvious reasons – a cackle of hyenas (or hyena, or hyenae, or hyenæ).
4) On The Plains. If the jungle's not your thing, maybe you'd like to saunter along on the plains, or perhaps the prairie. In so doing, you might perchance catch a glimpse of a gang of elk, a muster of peacocks, an array of hedgehogs, a busyness of ferrets, a mob of kangaroos, a company of moles, or even a blush of boys (that one confuses me).
5) In The Forest. OK, so you're tired of open land and want to get back under a canopy of trees. While walking in the woods, you never know what you might see. Perhaps a cloud of bats if there's a cave nearby, or an army of caterpillars, a parcel of hogs, a descent of woodpeckers, a parliament of owls, a leash of foxes, a bouquet of pheasants, a covey of grouse, a gaze of raccoons, a rafter of turkeys, or – if it's a particularly warm night and your body is full of tasty blood – a scourge of mosquitoes.
6) In The Air. Alas, if you've had your fill of the shore, the water, the jungle, the plains, and the forest, and you feel inclined to take to the sky – assuming you have functional wings, which is assuming a lot – you might be lucky enough to fly alongside a bellowing of bullfinches, a murder of crows, a convocation of eagles, a watch of nightingales, a building of rooks, or – another personal favorite – an unkindness of ravens.
Well, that's about enough of these for now. One was probably enough, but fifty or so collective nouns – well, that's a flurry. Which is the collective noun for a group of words. Of which there are too many here. I'm done. Really, I am. Done.
WAR AND PEACE UPDATE: I'm on Chapter 10 of Book 1 (of 16), which equates to roughly 3% of the book. Slowly but surely, I'll get there one of these days.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Flash Fiction: "Creak" – An Original Short Story
And now for something completely different...A story I just wrote, inspired by one of my biggest fears, but otherwise entirely fictional. If you're easily frightened, please be aware that this just may do the trick for you. But don't let that stop you from reading it. Just maybe don't read it by yourself, or in the dark, or even at night. Regarding the story's ending, don't hate me for being vague – just use your imagination. That's what stories are made for anyway.
The sound – whatever it was – awakened me instantly. Which is saying something, since I sleep deeply and wake slowly.
I couldn't tell exactly where it originated, except that it was not in this room. Downstairs? The kitchen? It could have been a rattling pan. But who rattled it? Are the cats playing around in the sink again? I knew I should have rinsed off those plates before going to bed.
Listen. Wait. Maybe it will happen again. And it does.
What is that?
Not a pan. Most definitely not a pan. But something metallic. The tea kettle? The salad tongs? A carving knife?
A carving knife. I don't know how I know, but I know what's made that sound. Something – someone – has lifted a carving knife from out of the stainless-steel sink, scraping it ever so softly against the side, and set it back down again.
Set it down? But why?
And there it is again. Now they've picked it up again. This is not good.
"They" – really? – "they"? Who exactly do I think is down there? An intruder? A psychopathic killer? Really, my imagination is kicking into overdrive again.
Because it's probably just the cats doing something stupid. Come to think of it, I didn't rinse the carving knife either. It still has the smell – and obviously the taste – of chicken on its blade. That's what it is. The cats are licking the knife and it's jostling around in the sink.
But that doesn't explain what I heard last night.
It wasn't so loud last night. But the noise was similar. No, it was the same. Never mind that I hadn't used the carving knife last night, or that it wasn't even in the sink at the time. Was it? I can't be sure.
My mind is awake, alert, aware. But my body is slow to follow.
I get out of bed, creep over to the chair, and slip on my t-shirt. Trying to avoid all the places in the floor that creak with the slightest movement, I stoop down and reach under the bed. The bayonet is right where I left it.
What kind of idiot keeps a Spanish-American War-era bayonet (no rifle, mind you – just the bayonet) under their bed for protection?
Don't ask. It's sharp, and it works. At least it would if I ever needed to use it. Which I may right now.
Don't even think like that! It's nothing, it's the cats being stupid. I'm sure it is.
A creak below. The first floor of my house is all tile and linoleum. There's nothing to creak. So what was it?
The stairs creak. It's an old house. Everything creaks. Not tile, not linoleum. But the stairs do creak, every bit as much as the floors up here do.
Someone is on the stairs.
This cannot be happening. These are the kinds of things that good fiction – or at least passably good fiction – are made of. This doesn't happen in real life.
It would be too risky to invade a home that's occupied. Wouldn't it?
I haven't made any enemies – at least none that I know of. So it can't be personal. This doesn't make sense. Why is there someone on my stairs? There can't be!
But there is. A second creak confirms my worst fear. Someone is on the stairs, and they're coming for me.
Slowly, so as not to make a sound, I slide the razor-sharp bayonet from its metal sheath. The light from the moon coming through in a sliver from the window reveals a faint glimmer at the bayonet's tip.
I set the sheath down, and brandish the bayonet, as though I actually know what I'm doing. I don't.
I've watched a lot of crime shows on television, and horror movies, but nothing in the realm of the unreal has prepared me for this reality.
Another creak. Ten stair steps below, my fate approaches. I am not ready for this. But I can do nothing to stop it.
It wasn't supposed to be like this. But then, how was it supposed to be? No one ever said that life is fair, or happy endings are inevitable.
The creaks are coming faster now. I must have betrayed my presence somehow, and they – whoever they, or he, or she is – they know I am awake, and that I am waiting for them. And while this gives me pause, it gives them confidence.
The door knob turns slowly, and the door opens inward. Even in the dim light, the face that stares back at me from the doorway is clearly seen.
And I know. This is a fight I cannot win. I acknowledge this fact as the bayonet slips from my hand and hits the floor with a thud. And I brace myself for what I already know is coming.
The sound – whatever it was – awakened me instantly. Which is saying something, since I sleep deeply and wake slowly.
I couldn't tell exactly where it originated, except that it was not in this room. Downstairs? The kitchen? It could have been a rattling pan. But who rattled it? Are the cats playing around in the sink again? I knew I should have rinsed off those plates before going to bed.
Listen. Wait. Maybe it will happen again. And it does.
What is that?
Not a pan. Most definitely not a pan. But something metallic. The tea kettle? The salad tongs? A carving knife?
A carving knife. I don't know how I know, but I know what's made that sound. Something – someone – has lifted a carving knife from out of the stainless-steel sink, scraping it ever so softly against the side, and set it back down again.
Set it down? But why?
And there it is again. Now they've picked it up again. This is not good.
"They" – really? – "they"? Who exactly do I think is down there? An intruder? A psychopathic killer? Really, my imagination is kicking into overdrive again.
Because it's probably just the cats doing something stupid. Come to think of it, I didn't rinse the carving knife either. It still has the smell – and obviously the taste – of chicken on its blade. That's what it is. The cats are licking the knife and it's jostling around in the sink.
But that doesn't explain what I heard last night.
It wasn't so loud last night. But the noise was similar. No, it was the same. Never mind that I hadn't used the carving knife last night, or that it wasn't even in the sink at the time. Was it? I can't be sure.
My mind is awake, alert, aware. But my body is slow to follow.
I get out of bed, creep over to the chair, and slip on my t-shirt. Trying to avoid all the places in the floor that creak with the slightest movement, I stoop down and reach under the bed. The bayonet is right where I left it.
What kind of idiot keeps a Spanish-American War-era bayonet (no rifle, mind you – just the bayonet) under their bed for protection?
Don't ask. It's sharp, and it works. At least it would if I ever needed to use it. Which I may right now.
Don't even think like that! It's nothing, it's the cats being stupid. I'm sure it is.
A creak below. The first floor of my house is all tile and linoleum. There's nothing to creak. So what was it?
The stairs creak. It's an old house. Everything creaks. Not tile, not linoleum. But the stairs do creak, every bit as much as the floors up here do.
Someone is on the stairs.
This cannot be happening. These are the kinds of things that good fiction – or at least passably good fiction – are made of. This doesn't happen in real life.
It would be too risky to invade a home that's occupied. Wouldn't it?
I haven't made any enemies – at least none that I know of. So it can't be personal. This doesn't make sense. Why is there someone on my stairs? There can't be!
But there is. A second creak confirms my worst fear. Someone is on the stairs, and they're coming for me.
Slowly, so as not to make a sound, I slide the razor-sharp bayonet from its metal sheath. The light from the moon coming through in a sliver from the window reveals a faint glimmer at the bayonet's tip.
I set the sheath down, and brandish the bayonet, as though I actually know what I'm doing. I don't.
I've watched a lot of crime shows on television, and horror movies, but nothing in the realm of the unreal has prepared me for this reality.
Another creak. Ten stair steps below, my fate approaches. I am not ready for this. But I can do nothing to stop it.
It wasn't supposed to be like this. But then, how was it supposed to be? No one ever said that life is fair, or happy endings are inevitable.
The creaks are coming faster now. I must have betrayed my presence somehow, and they – whoever they, or he, or she is – they know I am awake, and that I am waiting for them. And while this gives me pause, it gives them confidence.
The door knob turns slowly, and the door opens inward. Even in the dim light, the face that stares back at me from the doorway is clearly seen.
And I know. This is a fight I cannot win. I acknowledge this fact as the bayonet slips from my hand and hits the floor with a thud. And I brace myself for what I already know is coming.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
War And Peace, Water Leaks, And Wonderful Eats
It's a weird life sometimes. I don't know how to qualify that statement. It just is, that's all.
I started reading War And Peace last night at the gym (yes, we've started working out again – New Year's resolutions and all that jazz), fully expecting to drudge my way through it much like I did 20 years ago when I tried to read it then. So far, I have been pleasantly surprised. Maybe I'm smarter now than I was then (let's hope so!), maybe I've read enough works of literature in the ensuing years that I simply "get it" more, or maybe I'm simply reading a better translation on the Kindle. I just know that 1,000+ locations (out of 29,827), or 3%, into it, I'm actually enjoying it.
I spent my lunch break listening to two plumbers talk shop and pretended to understand them. Then found out that our really expensive plumbing problem – a leak somewhere between the shutoff valve and the water meter – may end up being a little more expensive – but will likely be a better, more permanent fix. So, bad news and good news all in one on that front.
Monday, January 9, 2012
You're Really Gonna Read THAT?
So, my wife and I were discussing my completely indiscriminate reading habits yesterday, and that, coupled with the memory of having watched Happy New Year, Charlie Brown a week or so ago, caused an inkling of a thought to spring from my scattered mind.
Hmm...there's a lot in that first paragraph, so maybe I should break it down a little.
First, my indiscriminate reading habits. Put simply, I will read anything. While I tend to enjoy things like horror, true crime, and mysteries more than other genres, I have also been known to read history books, literary fiction, children's books, teen fiction, Christian living books, Westerns, comic strip collections, books about donkeys – you name it! And, surprisingly enough, I enjoy almost all of them. Every now and then, I will start reading something that I simply can't get into, and will ultimately abandon without finishing it. But that's rare.
Secondly, the Happy New Year, Charlie Brown special that I watched. The plot is basically that Charlie Brown has been assigned the monumental task of reading War And Peace, a 1,000-plus page mega-novel, over the Christmas holidays and must give a book report on it upon returning to school. Charlie Brown, not unlike myself, is a slow reader, and he struggles with this densely written tome (a great word to describe massive novels like this one, by the way). Charlie sees his friends enjoying their Christmas break, attending a New Year's Eve party, and etc. while he sits on the sidelines reading his book.
[Aside: I've never figured out why Charlie Brown is the only one of all his friends – several of whom attend the same school he does – who has to read this book over the holidays. Maybe the clarinet-speaking teacher just hates Charlie Brown. Or maybe they've all been assigned the book, and none of them cares enough to actually complete the assignment (being the husband of a teacher myself, I wouldn't be surprised if that were the case). Or maybe the others all read the Cliff's Notes version and have already prepared their book reports. But I digress...]
Anyway, putting two and two together has got me thinking that maybe I should attempt – again – to read War And Peace myself. Why? Here are a few reasons (Disclaimer: I didn't say they were good reasons):
1) To be able to say that I read it. Sort of an avid reader's Purple Heart, if you will.
2) To finish what I started over 20 years ago. I first attempted to read this behemoth of a book when I was 12 years old. I got about 100 pages into it and gave up. I didn't half understand it anyway, and I had better things to do. Hey, I was 12! (Incidentally, this wasn't the only stupid monumental task I attempted during that time period. I also tried to read the dictionary from cover to cover, but I only got through the B's. I won't be restarting that one!)
3) I've always wanted to read something by Tolstoy. Yes, I am quite aware that Tolstoy wrote other, much shorter works, including a few novellas. There are lots easier Tolstoy works that I could start with that wouldn't cause me as much grief as this one is likely to, but...
4) I like a challenge. 'Nuff said.
So, here are the ground rules, and I'm telling you, so I can hold myself accountable. I can read the book from a physical copy (which I'll have to go out and buy, or rent from the library), or on the computer, or on my Kindle (public domain books are free – wahoo!), but I can't cheat and listen to the audiobook version of it. Not only will it be harder to quantify my page count (which I intend to update here as often as I read it), but it will also go much too quickly to be considered a real challenge.
Can I do it? I have no idea. But I'm game to try it.
Hey, I'll read anything, right? Here goes nothing!
Hmm...there's a lot in that first paragraph, so maybe I should break it down a little.
First, my indiscriminate reading habits. Put simply, I will read anything. While I tend to enjoy things like horror, true crime, and mysteries more than other genres, I have also been known to read history books, literary fiction, children's books, teen fiction, Christian living books, Westerns, comic strip collections, books about donkeys – you name it! And, surprisingly enough, I enjoy almost all of them. Every now and then, I will start reading something that I simply can't get into, and will ultimately abandon without finishing it. But that's rare.
Secondly, the Happy New Year, Charlie Brown special that I watched. The plot is basically that Charlie Brown has been assigned the monumental task of reading War And Peace, a 1,000-plus page mega-novel, over the Christmas holidays and must give a book report on it upon returning to school. Charlie Brown, not unlike myself, is a slow reader, and he struggles with this densely written tome (a great word to describe massive novels like this one, by the way). Charlie sees his friends enjoying their Christmas break, attending a New Year's Eve party, and etc. while he sits on the sidelines reading his book.
[Aside: I've never figured out why Charlie Brown is the only one of all his friends – several of whom attend the same school he does – who has to read this book over the holidays. Maybe the clarinet-speaking teacher just hates Charlie Brown. Or maybe they've all been assigned the book, and none of them cares enough to actually complete the assignment (being the husband of a teacher myself, I wouldn't be surprised if that were the case). Or maybe the others all read the Cliff's Notes version and have already prepared their book reports. But I digress...]
Anyway, putting two and two together has got me thinking that maybe I should attempt – again – to read War And Peace myself. Why? Here are a few reasons (Disclaimer: I didn't say they were good reasons):
1) To be able to say that I read it. Sort of an avid reader's Purple Heart, if you will.
2) To finish what I started over 20 years ago. I first attempted to read this behemoth of a book when I was 12 years old. I got about 100 pages into it and gave up. I didn't half understand it anyway, and I had better things to do. Hey, I was 12! (Incidentally, this wasn't the only stupid monumental task I attempted during that time period. I also tried to read the dictionary from cover to cover, but I only got through the B's. I won't be restarting that one!)
3) I've always wanted to read something by Tolstoy. Yes, I am quite aware that Tolstoy wrote other, much shorter works, including a few novellas. There are lots easier Tolstoy works that I could start with that wouldn't cause me as much grief as this one is likely to, but...
4) I like a challenge. 'Nuff said.
So, here are the ground rules, and I'm telling you, so I can hold myself accountable. I can read the book from a physical copy (which I'll have to go out and buy, or rent from the library), or on the computer, or on my Kindle (public domain books are free – wahoo!), but I can't cheat and listen to the audiobook version of it. Not only will it be harder to quantify my page count (which I intend to update here as often as I read it), but it will also go much too quickly to be considered a real challenge.
Can I do it? I have no idea. But I'm game to try it.
Hey, I'll read anything, right? Here goes nothing!
Sunday, January 8, 2012
When Writing Becomes Exercise
I'm finding this blog-post-a-day-for-a-whole-year thing to be a real challenge. Especially on the weekends.
You'd think I'd have more time to think of things to write about, and actually write even more on the weekends. But so far they've been the hardest.
Maybe I'm just more inspired to write about things that interest me when I'm supposed to be writing about shirts and pants and jackets and hats (i.e. things that don't really interest me) when I'm at work.
Maybe I just need to plan ahead a little.
Either way, there has been and will be very little of substance to this post, and for that I apologize.
Oh well...there's always tomorrow.
You'd think I'd have more time to think of things to write about, and actually write even more on the weekends. But so far they've been the hardest.
Maybe I'm just more inspired to write about things that interest me when I'm supposed to be writing about shirts and pants and jackets and hats (i.e. things that don't really interest me) when I'm at work.
Maybe I just need to plan ahead a little.
Either way, there has been and will be very little of substance to this post, and for that I apologize.
Oh well...there's always tomorrow.
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