26 July 2017
04 August 2015
Shuper
Jane Elliot waited patiently at the crosswalk. She was the nanny for a wealthy family who lived near, but not within, the city. The girl in her care, both young and a single child, held her hand firmly, so as to not lose hold of the sole source of her emotional and physical care. Jane distractedly smiled down at her. Jane had just, on the previous night, been caught with the girl’s father by his wife. The wife was angry, the husband wavering on his own future, and Jane was torn. Jane was only eighteen and should have had a long life stretched before her, full of opportunities, and she saw many of them from her vantage point on the corner. The family she worked for was rich, and most of their friends were rich. Some of these friends, having been informed of her transgressions by the child’s mother, were eager to hire her for services outside of legal professions, and Jane had not hesitated to put them into consideration. Jane had been pleasantly surprised to discover how much fun and profit she could draw by using her youth and vivaciousness to toy with men, and lacking either scruples or oversight, was eager to exploit this knowledge. She was considering several of these offers when the light turned green and she, with the childs hand in hers, stepped off the curb and into her destiny.
A large blue van, driven by an elderly man who knew nothing of Jane and was unconnected with her in any way aside from trying to drive past her at this intersection at this particular time, began to drive past her, heading in the same direction but blocking slightly Jane’s view to her left of what had been oncoming traffic. Had the driver of the van been turning to his right, he would have waited a moment for Jane and the girl to have crossed the street sufficiently for him to turn. As it was, he himself was attentive enough only to watch the stoplight switch to green and begin to pull forward through the intersection when a man driving a delivery truck nodded off and drove through the light, crosswise to the van and hitting it with such force that it flew sideways, into Jane and the girl, who themselves were thrown like rag dolls down the street. The driver of the delivery truck, here nameless, would spend a substantial amount of time in the hospital before being jailed. The driver of the van, a Raymond Phillips, would spend the rest of his day in the hospital before being discharged with orders for several days of bedrest to heal his strains and bruises for he was lucky enough to have no broken bones or other serious injury. He would spend his bedrest trying to teach his dog to play fetch and wondering if he would ever again see a nurse he found to be mesmerizing even if she was of a plain appearance. Neither of these things would ever come to pass.
Jane and the girl were fatally injured when they flew against the side of a small diner specializing in Welsh cuisine. Standing near the entryway trying to beg from the exiting patrons some meager coin or biscuit for her breakfast, waited Helen White, a homeless young woman who was in every regard not dependent on wealth Jane’s superior. She was possessed of brown, wavy hair that hung just past her shoulders, a face that as radiant of warmth as it was pleasing to view, her skin and clothes, despite her situation in life, were spotless, and although her form was masked by bulky clothing overly warm for the season, she was not unduly heavy but held a shape that most would desire of her or envy. Helen, predisposed to help others whenever the opportunity arose, moved with great haste to where the two had landed and with care to not touch their now soiled and bloodied clothing, bent over the little girl. “Adele,” was the feebly-voiced reply, followed by several shuddered breaths as the girl looked up at what she mistakenly believed was her savior. The girl reached up and tried to take Helen’s hand. Helen gazed down at Adele for a moment before relenting and taking the girls hand. The clasp lasted no more than fifteen seconds before Helen was pushed aside by others who had been passing by and had been witness to the accident. Helen turned away and tried to move down the street when a firm hand clasped her shoulder.
“She’s done something. The little girl is clean. There will be questions if she’s not fine,” said the woman holding her shoulder. That woman was Sarya Foster. Sarya was tall, slightly overweight, and had dyed blonde hair artificially curled well past the point of ludicrousness. Sarya was overweight, but possessed no great width across her shoulders, giving her the appearance of being much heavier than she actually was and which combined with her blockish countenance to create an intimidating presence. Helen was intimidated by her look and grasp, as was Steve, her hitherto silent companion.
Steve Dallas, the man to whom Sarya spoke, was a non-descript man. Any person who knew him would recognize him, but he was singularly indistinguishable. Any two people, if asked to describe him, would be unable to agree on what his most significant feature was and if compelled to describe him, even a person who had a perfect recollection for faces would become befuddled with ambiguities. Steve indistinguishably moved from Sarya’s side to that of Adele, upon whom several passersby were performing CPR. Several others were trying CPR on Jane, and a number of people in the small crowd gathered around this portion of the accident scene were querying each other as to if any emergency services had been called. A number of approaching sirens answered that question each time it was asked, but none of this bore any importance to Steve whose task had been to ensure the little girl was fine. He did this by taking her hand gently in his until she sputtered back to life. The two people performing CPR, a young man and woman, both congratulated each other on what appeared to be the successful conclusion of their joint efforts and, distracted by the energy of the moment, fell madly into a mutual love that would be perceived as unrequired and would be pushed aside to haunt them for the remainder of their many, unshared days.
Goe, trying new things some of the time.18 May 2015
The Subject
The subject is a juvenile Terran male. The subject maintains a place of residence with its parents and other juvenile members of immediate family. The subject is a student at a local educational facility. The subjects father is a minor economist with a local vehicle maintenance organization. The subjects mother appears to be a sociological researcher specializing in relationship formation during various chronological periods. As of three cycles ago, the subject has been under constant surveillance through all methods available to the observation team. The subject is unaware of being observed.
The subject was located by the cluster research team, lead by Dr. Ehsre, using the prophecies of the God-King Atpmet and the God-King Noitcip, the analysis of individual behavioral trends performed independently but with near-identical results by all five worldminds of the Rova system, and projections by the Post-Anachronistic Behavioral Simulator Software(PABSS) run on both of the n-dimensional computer system worlds allocated to this project. Every piece of local technology has been replaced or breached to facilitate observation, and the replacement of local flora and fauna with synthetic surveillance duplicates is continuing. Immediately available conclusions are as above, secondary conclusions to follow, but subject has been confirmed as the third God-King.
Analysis of behavior and educational records indicates that the subject is not aware of its destiny or developed enough for deification in the near future. The mother of the God-King's mortal dynasty has not been researched or identified pending further information or instructions from project supervisors. Subject is courting a fellow student who was not revealed in prior research, who has already abandoned commitment to the subject in pursuit of other opportunities, and has been deemed of no serious consequence.
Academically, the subject does not appear to be noteworthy. The subject is inattentive and of fluctuating disposition, typical characteristics of this particular species/gender/age group. The general irrelevance of the subjects non-academic activities would seem to contra-indicate ascension, but the subject spends more time in introspection than is normal for this species, and considers answers to simple questions at such a depth as to draw the ire of a rote-minded society and be ridiculed as lacking intelligence.
The subject has drawn the attention of groups other than ours. Our ongoing research of all aspects of this world (which is predicted to produce an additional three God-Kings, their consorts, and mortal dynasties, the entirety of those from this galactic cluster) has determined that there are five existant organizations on this world actively looking for the subject to fulfill their own prophecies, and covert surveillance by sub-planetary governmental agencies who have managed to calculate that the subject is important but not why or how the subject has this importance. Research indicates there are another twelve to nineteen additional groups seeking the subject but without exerting enough energies into their search to draw our attention or confirm their existence.
However, primary confirmation of the subject comes from the angels. The angels have not revealed themselves to any of the local populace. The angels seem to have revealed themselves to us primarily to ensure that we knew that we were being observed as well. The angels have not communicated with us or interfered with our observations or reporting. It is said that three angels could destroy a God-King, but we have observed at least fifteen protecting the subject. They have steadied the subjects balance, woken the subject to prevent truancy, and treated various ailments and injuries. The angels have likewise stood back and watched with their typical blank facade as the subject tripped and fell, slept through important functions, and suffered serious illnesses albeit no serious injuries.
The angels are as cryptic as their master or the prophecies. We do not know if we are to impart wisdom to the subject or let it develop naturally. The angels appear to know and act within an inconsistent framework. Advice is whispered surreptitiously one moment and in the next, the subjects mind is clouded, simple concepts obfuscated.
We do not know if we should assist the subject. We do not know if we should help or hinder the other organizations seeking the subject. We do not know if we should approach the angels to offer our assistance to their plans. We do await your instructions.
Goe, ta-da!28 August 2014
The city on Dite
03 March 2013
another try
25 December 2012
Generic Adventure revisited
30 August 2012
Yay?
27 June 2011
05 May 2011
Bridal Bear
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finished
Hearts in her eyes.
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The frilly back.
Goe, sleepy...
16 January 2011
04 August 2010
the giraffe resumed.
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shoulders are a bit tricky to put together, made more complex by the need for the chest piece (tiny thing filling the armpit area).
31 July 2010
and done
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and tada!
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and back to the giraffe...
More bear
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and body with leg attached and flange uncrumpled.
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the flange permits the leg to rotate, like a ball-n-socket joint, making the bear posable. superglue on the flange (done carefully so as not to glue the leg in place) makes the paper stiffer and less likely to re-crumpled so it doesn't become unattached in the future.
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faceless
From this space for sublet |
30 July 2010
29 July 2010
Starting a new giraffe
30 January 2010
everything comes to an end.
The passengers on the bus we were waiting for arrived while we were still trying to comprehend what had happened. They came floating up, standing and sitting on nothing and then, as startled by this as we were, they fell to the ground. Backpacks, purses, and bodies formed a heap in the lane which did almost nothing to stop the bus when it finally arrived and neatly parked atop them. The doors promptly opened revealing the driver, the upper part of his body projecting out of the dashboard. He turned and mouthed something, maybe words of fright or a last guttural gasp before he died. I couldn't hear him over the screaming of the crushed, the noise of the engine, and the mayhem that was ensuing all around us.
We waited in the bus shelter for help, not unable to pull others to safety, but unwilling to risk being struck by the vehicles and debris that seemed to come in no pattern and without visible cause. We put out several small fires in pockets and purses caused by burning cellphones, but mostly we just waited. Help should have come already, it's far past time.
Goe, would like to be a better writer.
30 October 2009
ironic, dontcha think?
Goe, really does think.
30 September 2009
woohoo! Slaugherhouse revisited!
"No State shall make or enforce any law which shall abridge the privileges or immunities of citizens of the United States" from the fourteenth amendment.
the supreme court said that that phrase is meaningless in 1873 or so.
that it's being taken seriously again is important.
Goe, happy about this.
26 August 2009
Dreaming of Charlie
She began moving again, now in a more steady stroll. Soldiers were standing outside smoking, she hadn't noticed them before. As she climbed the steps, they gave her the feigned smiles of terrified men. She smiled back instinctively and wondered why they were there. She opened the door and entered. The living room had also been redone. It now had a walkway looping all the way around the upper floor with a finely carved railing that clashed with the plaster walls. It both seemed to fit and not, but she couldn't put her finger on why. Soldiers were gathered around a table at the center of the room looking at documents. They weren't happy men and their conversation stopped as she had entered.
“Oh, it's you,” said Charlie, dressed as an army officer. “We were hoping for more.”
“What's going on?” she asked.
He shook his head and led her to a bedroom door that opened to reveal not a bedroom, but stairs leading upwards. He waited for her to clear several steps before following. When they reached the upper floor, he again took the lead long enough to open another door, this time to what would have been right above her grandparents bedroom. She entered and stepped to the left. He followed and moved to the right. The room was almost as large as she remembered the small house having been once. Soldiers stood in the corners, staring at their own feet. They were wearing what appeared to be some sort of middle ages armor, made of plastics instead of iron, and all had rifles pointed downwards at the stone floor.
In the center of the room, spanning some ten feet across, was a hole, lined with a stone wall like that of an old-fashioned well. Charlie shouted something incomprehensible and all of the soldiers moved to the wall, lifting their rifles just enough to clear the wall before pointing down into the darkness. Charlie, now wearing armor and carrying a weapon, had a spot at the wall, and she stepped forward to see what he and the others were doing here.
A fluttering noise came up from the blackness and dark shapes began rising. They looked like giant bats and the soldiers began firing Although some of the shapes rose slower, none fell back into the darkness. After a few seconds, the shapes began to clear the opening and circle the room behind them. Afraid to look behind her, she saw them circling the room behind the soldiers, who circled the wall in turn. They formed an almost solid column now, a few feet across at the center of the hole and rising to the ceiling where they spread out to the walls.
The soldiers stopped firing and she looked at the one next to her. Instead of reloading, he leaned forward and looked down at the rising shapes. The rising column grew rapidly in width, but despite the seemingly endless flow, the creatures were not visibly increasing their numbers in the room. She looked at the column and wondered where they were all going when everything went black.
“I was dreaming of you,” Karen said to Charlie when she saw him for lunch.
“Was it a good dream?” he asked, picking at his fries.
“Not really. I would tell Dave about it but he'd just get jealous.” She tilted her head in an overly dramatic way to let him know she was thinking of something he wasn't supposed to understand. “I never dream about him. Why is that, do you think?”
“Maybe your subconscious doesn't love him like you do. Maybe it's still got a thing for your ex-husband?”
“I don't dream about him either, anymore. It's almost always people from work.”
“How is work?”
“Boring. No more layoffs at least. They want us to make a story out of some artists stealing each others work, like people can't have similar ideas or even different ideas with the same result.”
“Or maybe neither the ideas or the result is original. You could always go for the snark angle: which is the greater crime? Stealing the concept, stealing the creation, or destroying the culture by passing crap off as art?”
“It's not crap.” she said, grabbing one of his fries and stabbing at the ketchup with it. “Just because you don't understand it doesn't make it crap.”
“I didn't say that I don't understand it. I did say that it's crap, but it's unoriginal crap. Things that are unoriginal are usually pretty easy to figure out and the original stuff almost always has some zen sort of 'could mean anything you want it to' approach to it. And please stop trying to kill my ketchup.”
“Sorry.”
She look at him at she chewed the weaponized french fry. Not a lot bothered Charlie but she had bruised his ego enough with the implication of ignorance that he was starting to sulk.
“I'm sorry.”
“It's okay,” he said in a tone of voice that boldly hinted the opposite, “The ketchup had it coming. It was looking at me funny earlier.”
“I'm going on an art walk tomorrow to see the whatever it is that is supposed to be stolen. You can come if you want. I'd like that.”
“I think I might like it too.”
Charlie carefully smoothed out the ketchup with a remaining fry, unaware that Karen was staring with tilted head.
The first gallery had a cat. The art displayed consisted of a glazed sculpture of the cat, a number of photographs of the cat, and t-shirts with photographs of the cat.
“I think the message in this art is that these people like cats.” said Charlie.
“Yeah, do you think they'd let me pet it?”
“Maybe, it's supposed to be a world famous cat.”
“Well, it is. They sell a lot of pictures on the internet.”
“I'm sure a lot of sex toys are also sold online, but that doesn't make Granny's World Famous Dildo's into art.”
Karen threw her head back and laughed. “I still want to pet the cat.”
The second gallery had sculpted dioramas of ceramic bodied figures with wire limbs hunting and gathering amid the ruins of a city built of lego blocks.
“So did they steal the idea of bad sculpture?” said Charlie, pointing at foot-high figures involved in a ceremony on library steps.
“It's not bad. Sculpting things is really hard.”
“Something being hard increases the likelihood of someone doing it wrong and the results being bad. The mosaic lizards in northeast are good, this is bad.”
“Whatever. Just because you're not good at something doesn't make them bad at it.”
“Doesn't make them good at it either.”
“Whatever, dude. That little guy there looks kind of like you.” Karen pointed at a priest figure.
“I thought I was taller.”
“Do you have any idea what people see when they look at you?”
“No. Not a clue.”
“They see that guy, but taller.”
Charlie looked at the figure for a moment. “Maybe they have a cat that we haven't spotted yet?”
The third gallery had drawings hung on the walls of people in concentration camps, but instead of dark and dreary conditions, corporate logos and vending machines abounded.
“I don't see any bad sculpture here.”
“Dude, seriously, have you ever tried to make something out of clay? It's really freakin' hard.”
“They're doing something they suck at and think they do it well. They should know what they can and can't physically do. It doesn't matter if I can or can't do it, what matters is what they can, or in this case, can't do.”
“Then how would anybody ever get better?”
\ “By playing to their strengths. If you can draw, draw, if you can make things out of clay, make things out of clay. Don't do what you're bad at. I can't make things out of clay so I don't.”
“You also don't date.”
“Exactly!”
“Not 'exactly'! If you want to be good at something, you have to try. And you do need to get out more.”
“I'm out now. And I don't see a cat.”
“No, no kitty here.”
“It can't be stray fur. You can't steal fur. Cats give it away for free.”
“Whatever dude.”
“Any clue as to what they're mad at each other for stealing?”
“No, the guy we sent down to do the interviews found out that they're worried it'll hurt their prices if the works aren't original.”
“I thought controversy made things more expensive.”
Karen didn't answer. She traced the outline of one of the prisoners with her finger, head tilted to one side.
At the fourth gallery, statues made of broken bottles fused together formed a football team.
“You can see through these and I don't see a cat anywhere.”
“I don't think it's about a cat,” said Karen, slowly circling a crouched player.
“How come none of these artists are starving. Aren't they supposed to be starving?”
“I don't know. Maybe they sell a lot of their work?”
“If they sold a lot, wouldn't they be sell-outs and not artists? Isn't that how it works?”
“No,” whispered Karen, reading the placard of a player holding a ball over his head. “Don't be so silly.”
“Are you sure? I thought that it wasn't really art unless it was suffered for.”
“No,” said Karen, gently tapping the nose of another player. “Art is art, the suffering just makes it interesting, and as for selling out, it's just toe-may-toe poe-taw-toe.”
“Now you're the one being silly.”
“I may be silly, but I think I figured it out,” replied Karen, tapping Charlie gently on the nose.
At the fifth gallery, body parts mounted to the walls gave the illusion of people passing through those walls, while holding up other things.
“Is it something symbolic? Like nature's inhumanity towards man?” asked Charlie, studying a towel draped over a waiter's arm mounted on the wall.
“I don't think so, I'd have to check with some guys at the office to find out for sure, but it is kind of weird.”
“What's weird is that they want seven hundred dollars for this arm and couldn't find a towel with a higher thread count.”
“Maybe they didn't want anything too fancy schmancy?” asked Karen, standing by a bodyless head that faced upwards, with candles sitting where there should have been eyes.
“I could understand the not-fancy, but the schmansy is a must for what will undoubtedly become the pink flamingo of the future.”
“That's kind of harsh.”
“Yes, much like this towel, which is not smooth, gentle, or fluffy.”
“A towel critic now, are we?”
“Yes, but only in the evenings. It doesn't come with dental so I'm keeping the day job for now.”
The sixth gallery had paintings of animals dressing, living, and mingling with humans.
“This looks like something from Richard Scary,” said Charlie.
“I remember those. I used to spend hours pouring over them when I was little.”
“Me too. I would try to make up stories for each and every person.”
“I do that in food courts. People watching is a lot of fun.” said Karen, tapping her finger on nothing in front of a painting of three people, a goat, a badget, and an alien waiting at a bus stop in the rain. “Bus stops just aren't as fun. You can't look around at others so much without them seeing and thinking that you're creepy.”
“Maybe they don't think you're creepy. Maybe they're flattered by the attention? And why are those people in the back staring at me?”
“Because you're creepy.”
“Really?”
“No. You really don't have any idea how anybody sees you, do you?”
“No. Not really. You've asked me that twice now, is there a reason?”
“You're the reason,” answered Karen, pointing at the painting.
Goe, thought it would be longer when he started it.
16 August 2009
Richard Marx
1) he doesn't listen to the rolling stones and doesn't know that he can't get no satisfaction, no no no, hey hey hey, that's what they say.
2) he's really being satisfied but keeps claiming this to extort more from people forced to listen to him sing.
3) he has no attention span and forgets that he is unsatisfied after a few minutes of singing and goes to the next song.
Goe, going with a combo of 1 and 3