So me...

Have to click it..

My Lover...

Oh how I have missed you. It has been to long since I gently caressed you with my tongue and undressed you slowly in the car. You are so sweet to me, your supple curves get my heart racing and I start to lose control of the steering wheel as I reach for you. The only thing that would be better would be if there were two of you, so one could watch as I nibble on the other. Honeybuns are sooooo good.

Bad Influence

The See-and-Say is possibly one of the most dangerous toys around. It looks innocent enough until you realize the motive behind it. This simple toy is meant to brainwash our children into becoming addicted gamblers. It tempts them with the joy of randomness, but the problem is they never learn a valuable lesson. With a See-and-Say you always win, pull the handle and you get a horse sound. Congrats Timmy, you won! Pull the lever and you hear a sheep sound. Wow Timmy you won again, when you pull this handle you always win...just like with slot machines! WRONG! Please be wary of this dangerous toy and the habits it tries to teach our children, because you don't always win in life...just ask this guy. (He's homeless..)

Corn Chips are from Satan

Looks are deceiving. Especially when it comes to potato chip bags. When you first partake of the visual beauty of the packaging that is the potato chip bag, you find your self expecting enough potato chips to last quite a while. Upon opening this treasure trove of potato goodness you are struck with the horror that it is mostly filled with air and only one-third of the bag contains chips.

The experience is not the same when it comes to a bag of corn chips. When you take a bag of corn chips into your hands you really feel like you have something. There is a significant weight to the bag as soon as you grasp it in your hand and you can tell there is no large pocket of air to act as a buffer to the outside world. Upon opening the bag of corn chips their golden glory shines out like the dawning sun! There are thousands upon thousands of corn chips in a single bag, enough to last all week, more than enough to cover the entire kitchen floor. I hate you corn chips, from the depths of my soul I hate you.

Instead of following the pack and putting less chips per bag like everyone else, you decide to have enough in your bag that it floods my kitchen floor when my 18 month old decides to inevitably dump them out. You know what I hate? I hate Fritos...Corn Chips.

Smelly Cat

My wife decided to move the litter box into the laundry room/office just to make sure my 2 year old stays out of it. So there I am, all by my lonesome playing on the computer when I hear scratch scratch scratch in the litter box. I think to myself, "Wow cats really are cool. They are so much cleaner than dogs." Then the cat comes and climbs up my bare legs and takes a seat in my lap. At the exact same moment said cat sits down it hits me. The cat has eaten uranium and just created a nuclear warhead in the litter box. I commence to gagging.

In a state of panic I run out of the room into the kitchen to get as far away as possible from the encroaching abomination to the sense of smell. There is no getting away from it, if I snorted bleach it would not be enough to cleanse the rampant horror abiding in my nose. I throw open the cabinet doors under the kitchen sink and start throwing out everything that isn't poisonous, because this is not a mere smell anymore. It is a living breathing horror from the seventh level of hell with a thousand devouring maws of razor sharp teeth waiting to feast on my soul should I venture back into the computer room.

I armor myself for battle by spraying my entire body with a combination of Febreeze and Lysol. Then I pulled my shirt over my nose and started towards the office. I took one step into the green haze and could have sworn I heard the Lyson and Febreeze cans whimper in fear. I barrel rolled into the room with aerosol guns blazing, the smell had me surrounded but I finally beat it back and captured the source in 5 layers of plastic grocery bags. A few days later when I walked by the trash can it was placed in it seems the trash can had melted at the bottom and left a little hole. The cats evil creation is still looming out there, somewhere, waiting for the right time... TO STRIKE!!

Anyways... can someone reccomend a catfood to help with this or do they make feline butt plugs?

The Nose Knows

Ever since my Sledding accident I have had chronic sinus infections everytime the temperature drops or raises 10-15 degrees. I always thought that I was messed up because I only breathe out of one nostril at a time and it fluctuates between the different nostrils. Well I did some research today and found this interesting tid-bit:

Why is it we only breathe out of one Nostril?

"Because the brain cycles between hemispheres every 90 minutes or so, one becoming dominant over the other, when you breathe through your right nostril the left side of the brain is active and vice versa, it is believed that if you block one nostril you can engage the other hemisphere, logical hemisphere = right nostril (left hemisphere active), and creative hemisphere = left nostril (right hemisphere active). Research has found there really is such a thing as the nasal cycle (two to eight hours long) and that there is a connection between the predominant nostril and the opposite brain hemisphere.

A 1988 study found that right nostril breathing significantly increases blood glucose levels while left nostril breathing lowers it. Interestingly, yogis believe that diabetes is caused by a nasal cycle abnormality of predominantly breathing through the right nostril for many years. A 1993 study found that forced right nostril breathing (four times a day for one month) significantly increased oxygen consumption compared to breathing through the left nostril.A 1994 study published in the International Journal of Psychophysiology found that alternate nostril breathing appears to have a balancing effect on the functional activity of the left and right hemisphere of the brain. Your left brain is the logical structured side while your right brain is the creative imaginative side. "

So I tested this and about every hour and a half I DO switch the nostrils I am breathing predominantly out of. HOW WEIRD IS THAT?!?!

My Fuzz Overfloweth

This may sound absolutely stupid, but I feel like my recent downward spiral is because I am sick of all my hair. I feel nasty all the time with longer than normal hair, but the stupid barber shop has been closed everytime I go to get it cut. I am also sleep deprived because I have not gotten a new mask for my CPAP machine so when I don't use it I am not really getting any rest. Taking Nyquill last night did not help at all like I hoped it would. I didn't shake off the groggy feeling until late this afternoon and I still have to stand up really slow.

Devin made the Cullen family on the SIMS and we are in a constant battle for computer time. I think its funny though..

Speaker to the Dead

I just finished a book called Speaker to the Dead, by Orson Scott Card. It was an amazing book and has become one of my favorites. It is mostly about how the human race would interact with an alien species after they had annihilated the first alien species they encountered. Buried within the plot of this book though is a very unique idea on funerals called a "Speaking." It can be done when the person dies or even years later. The Speaker learns about the person from friends, families, enemys, everyone. Then he speaks the truth about the person. He talks about their faults, their goals, their accomplishments, their unspoken sins, and secrets. He reveals everything no matter the pain it would cause to those left behind.
Anyways thought it was neat..

Adventures of The Little Old Lady

Aboard the Little Old Lady, in the Lower Belt.

Commander Altimas stands on the bridge of the Little Old Lady with his arms crossed behind his back, he seems to be contemplating the workings of the universe as he stares through the view port.

A young female with short blond hair approaches Altimas and stands at attention."Commander Altimas, the status reports you requested have been uploaded to your hand held and are available for access. Is there anything else I can assist you with before you retire for the night?"

"Would you join me for a glass of wine Lieutenant Franks, in celebration of our recent victory?"

"I would love to sir. Menage troi?"

Altimas eyes widen and he leans closer to Franks and whispers, "Who would be the third, Franks?"

Franks cheeks turn blazingly red as she answers, "Commander, that is the brand of wine you had imported from Mars last week."

"Oh... right, right. I think I'll actually have the Cock's table wine tonight my dear."

"But sir, you hate Cock's."

"You bet your blouse I do! Most heterosexual man in the galaxy!"

" The wine sir... "

" Right, right you are...Where were we?"

" Retiring to your quarters, sir, for a glass of wine."

" Ah, yes I remember now. A Glass of wine," replied Altimas as he nudged Lieutenant Franks and winked knowingly.

" And only a glass of wine...sir."

As Altimas held out his arm to escort Lieutenant Franks, the Little Old Lady shook and the lights on the deck grew dim. Altimas pulled his hand held from his pants pocket and broad casted across the entire ship."All hands report to assigned positions this is not a drill. I repeat this is not a drill."

Altimas quickly turned to Lieutenant Franks, " I need a status report Franks, pronto."

Looking down on her own hand held Franks stated, "Sir, we have a Mark Two Zerkerdrone attacking us, we seem to have a breach in our aft."

With a very puzzled look Altimas replied, "Well of course we do Franks, those come standard on all humans, you see when we take in food it goes through a digestive tract... "

" AFT sir, the aft of the Ship!" Franks replied seeming quite flustered.

"Oh, right you are. Well get engineering on it pronto. Have Lieutenant Roswell bring the ship around and lets show this antique what modern technology is really made of."

....To be Continued.

Good Times...

I have been playing a lot of Online Poker tournaments lately. I have read a few books and gained a greater understanding of the game itseld. My wife and I had the discussion on if it was Gambling or not. I think in some ways yes it is but in a lot of ways it is not. I consider gambling when you lay down money to try to win more on certain odds, like betting on horses or slot machines or craps. Poker is different. In poker you have to really play the other pesons hand more than your own. A lot of people think poker is about bluffing and that the pros really know how to bluff. That is not the case. To be good in poker you have to look at peoples betting patterns and judge how they react to your bets or lack of betting.

I had been winning a lot of small tournaments where the buy in was 1.00, last night I decided to step it up a notch since my bankroll, from my accumulated past winnings, on my online account could easily take a 3.00 hit. I entered the first 9 person tournament and won first place pretty easily, which earned me 13.00. Since the previous tournament was kinda short I decided to do another one. It gets down to me and two other guys. One guy is total turd and keeps going All-In every hand that is dealt just trying to gamble and win the blinds. So I wait patiently and get Ace-Ace in my hand. I play like I have a weak hand just checking the flop. He goes all in with Ace - King- King on the board. I have a full house and call him. He loses out of the tournament and sent me some dirty messages.

Then its me and another guy left. I have a substantial chip lead on him. I have 10,000 in chips and he has roughly 3,000. So we talk back and forth, he is from memphis. He wins a good hand on me and I have 8,000 to his 5,000. I get dealt A-10, Flop is A-8-10, I have a good two pair. I make a small bet and he calls. Next card is a 2, I make another small bet and he calls. So I pin him on having a pair, probably the 10. Well last card on the River is a 10. This gives me a full house, I can't be beat with whats on the board. I figure he has an Ace or a 10 for him to continue betting. I hope it's the 10 and bet enough to put him all in. He calls and had the 10 and I won another 13.00. If I have time tonight I may step it up another notch.

Couple Things..

First off my short Story, The Clock King has been published on www.southernfriedwierdness.com , Check it and the other stories out.

Last night I experienced one of the best things a father could experience. Thatcher would come around the corner and I would roar really loud and scare him. He would turn around and run to Devin in the living room as fast as he could and just giggling like a maniac. Its one of the best things in the world to see a child so full of laughter he has to hold his tummy. I had a great time with my family last night, I am a lucky man.

My wife caught me sleeping with this Hoe...

I am so ashamed...

Mostly... I am an idiot..

I have allowed a lot of things to interfere with my walk with God lately. I have spurned God's will for my life in lieu of doing things that I wanted to and ignorning God altogether. Kendall's blog post, for many a reason, was able to slip past the cracks in my hardened heart and allowed me to open up to God and release a lot of Anger, Hurt, and Frustration I had with him. I have been lucky to know God's will for my life and have not actively pursued it. I hope to change that now...

Dad was always able to just look at me and know if I was struggling in my walk no matter what mask I tried to hide behind. We had such similar souls that it was easy to see that in eachother. I think I have done both my Father and Heavenly Father a disservice in distancing myself from the church when it may have needed me most. Hopefully God will lead me to to the place he needs me and I will now be more willing to go that direction. Thanks for putting up with me the last year I know I have been different and standoff-ish.

Poke Me? Poke Him? Poker?

I've been on a Poker kick lately and have been playing a lot online. I donno what it is about the game but I really enjoy it. A lot of people look down on it as gambling but I have come to learn it is not just a game of chance like a slot machine, it really is a game of skill. Betting to High or Betting to Low can make you look to strong or to weak. Sometimes you want to look weak when you have a better hand to lure people into a false sense of victory. It really is a game that requires you to know how to anticipate actions and reactions. The way to win poker games is to set traps.

My only problem is I don't enjoy anything but No Limit Texas Holdem. I have a really good understanding of what is a good hand and what the odds are of winning in Texas Holdem. These other games are confusing to me. Like Omaha, Horse, Razz, etc. Anyways I am thinking about doing a poker night every 2nd and 4th Thursday of the month if anyone is interested. Maximum of 8 People and do like 5$ buy ins. Just be a Table game, no Tournaments as of right now. That way if you get put out early and want to buy back in you can. Let me know if your interested, be a good way to spend some guy time together.

Stink Storm

The Thunder Cometh
It Breaches my Britches
I think I sharted.

My Butt Hurts

Thatcher's birthday party was good this weekend. I really enjoyed spending time with family and friends. The best thing was Thatcher's expressions when opening his presents, it really makes me want to give him a present everyday. I went with Justin and Joshua to see Iron Man that same night and it was really good. Then I woke up early Sunday morning and went fishing with Justin. It started off great. The motor cranked right up and we went right to the spot I wanted to start fishing. Then it all went downhill from there.

First cast I got hung and lost my bait. Then I tied on a new one and lost it first cast, this pattern seemed to repeat itself quite a bit throughout the day. Then when we were ready to move the motor would not crank, then the pull cord would not go back in so we couldn't even keep trying to crank it. We had to trolling motor all the way back to the boat ramp. I backed the trailer to far back and when we pulled the boat up on the trailer it just floated off. Then I slipped on the boat ramp with about 4-5 people watching and apparently ruined my phone. Finally got the boat on the trailer and tied down and went home. I then watched about half of 300 and took a 6 hour nap. Then I hung out with the Family. Now I am back in Hell. Weekends are not near as long as they should be.

Badadow dow dow dow dow dow dow...

I am ready to get out in nature this weekend. Its as if millions of voices suddenly cried out in terror and were suddenly silenced. I fear something wonderful has happened. No more phone calls from irate people, just the soft trickle of running water and the scurrying of woodland animals. Me and Zane are going on a camping trip down the Sipsey river. We'll be away from all civilization and I can't freaking wait!!! It's been a long time since I went primitive camping. The last time was when me and my family went out to Wyoming and camped on the Snake river. It was one of the most amazing trips of my life. I have always been especially thankful for the ability my family had to always have a good time. No matter what situations we found ourself in we always had something to laugh about. I am sad Justin, Mom, and Dad won't be on this trip with me. I know Justin is probably relieved as the last time we did a float trip on the Sipsey I smashed his hand in the truck door before we even got in the boat.

Hopefully this trip will also make Zane more manly. I have lots of Manly activitys planned to rid Zane of his emotional womanly spurts of estrogen. We are going to chop trees just for the sake of hearing them crash to the ground. We will throw spears and rocks at woodland animals. And we will hunt for the almighty sasquatch and seek his wisdom from and ancient time. We will probably shit in the woods too. All of these will add hair to our chest and testosterone in uncontainable amounts. Wish us luck!

Best Friend

There has only been one person in my life that enjoyed doing all the same things I did. Maybe that was why he was such an awesome father. We both enjoyed all aspects of fishing. We fly fished for trout, we loved surf fishing for red fish, we both had dreams of moving to the coast and running a charter boat, and bass fishing was in our blood. I grew up having weekend long marathons of our favorite movies like Star Wars, Indiana Jones, James Bond, Highlander, and Westerns. We read the same books and constantly argued whose turn it was to buy the next one.



We enjoyed the same video games too. Dad knew Mech Warrior from the inside out, he turned it into a science and hour long discussions of theory and battle strategy. Both of us were involved in World of Warcraft and would help each other do quests and instances. The last time I talked to Dad, a year ago today was on the computer while we stayed up to late playing WoW. We talked about how church was really good that day, and how Jesse did an awesome job of bringing the message in Mike's absence. I told him not to stay up to late or Mom would be mad and he laughed and told me he loved me.



I awoke to Devin and my phone waking me up. I looked and it was 4:30 in the morning, I answered it and it was my Mom. The rock of our family was audibly shaken when she asked me to pickup my brother and get down to the hospital as soon as possible, she wouldn't even tell me what was wrong. I was furious on the way to get my brother and on the way to the hospital. I can't explain why, but I was steaming mad for no apparent reason. I remember walking in and seeing my mom standing outside a room with tears down her face. That was when it hit me I had lost my best friend. My brother asked Mom what was wrong and she said that Dad didn't make it. Even though I already knew, hearing those four words shattered my soul. I sobbed uncontrolably and then I realized I had to be strong for my brother and my Mom. I still resent Dad for leaving me with that responsibility, why wasn't I allowed to be broken?

The rest of the day is a blur. I remember Jesse cussing in the hallway and I remember driving by all these places on the way home where I had memories of me and Dad spending time together. I remember me and Justin just holding eachother and crying in the garage. I remember how I realized I had lost my best friend. There might never be another person that enjoys all the same things that I do. Thankfully my 11 Month old Son has already started to take his place in being my best friend. Hopefully one day I can be as good a father to my son as my Dad was to me.

What's going on...

Just wanted to let my readers know that the format of this site is going to change. The stories that are already up are going to stay and the ones I write for fun may still get posted but this will now be my primary blogging site. A lot of publishers frown on things already being "published" online and I am starting to submit a lot of my stories now. Thanks for all the prayers your lifting up for me and my family this week, we feel them and appreciate them.

Check out: http://www.southernfriedweirdness.com/

My short story called the Clock King is being published in this anthology to be released later this summer.

Thanks,
Forrest L. Carter Jr.

Breach of Culture

There is a burden upon this country that has been causing immense pain and discomfort for years. The pressure of this problem demands release and attention, but there seems to be no freedom from the prejudice placed upon that release. It constantly seeks to escape from the bowels of humanity and yet our culture has thrown the chains of etiquette upon it. This burden is flatulent retention.

What is flatulent retention? It is the practice of holding in your gas instead of letting it pass. We all suffer from the burden of flatulent retention, according to Justin Mullins in New Science magazine, "The average adult in the Western world farts roughly 10 times a day, releasing enough gas to inflate a party balloon."

I myself have suffered from flatulent retention since I was a small boy and my mother would no longer accept the "Pull my Finger" jokes in her household. I am a victim, just like you. We must learn to proudly raise our leg high, and let it fly! Tonight I will show you why we must throw off these chains of etiquette and stop the practice of flatulent retention. First we will explore the problem of this cultural epidemic and then we will delve into the solution that will free us from these bonds.

Our culture has placed an unspoken law about passing gas in public, and in knowing the problem better we can better understand the need for a solution. This unspoken law states that passing gas in public is rude and inappropriate. And it is more frowned upon the higher in society you are. According to Sydney Singer a biologist and anthroplogist that searches for cultural or lifestyle causes of diseases states, "The higher your status, the less acceptable your flatus."

The reason we accept this unspoken rule is because of the initial discomfort a flatulent causes. First is the odor, many a time have we been stuck in an elevator or a crowded car and been struck suddenly by this discomfort. Maybe if we knew more about the flatulent we would not turn our noses up at the issuer of this "air biscut." Dr. Michael Levitt is a man who has been up to his elbows in flatulent research and other stuff, for the majority of his professional career. In an interview in Discover magazine he states that, "Only about 1% of typical flatus consists of foul-smelling gases." Why should we judge the gas we pass because of 1% of it's mass? Another reason people look down on flatulence is because they think it is dirty and unsanitary. But according to the results of an experiment described in the British Medical Journal to see if "tooting" nurses would cause infections during surgeries; flatulents are filtered by the clothes we wear. Even if you happened upon an emittance from a nude behind it would not contain any harmful bacteria.

What we don't realize is that our acceptance of these stinky stereotypes are not allowing people to release their inhibitions and bring ease to their pain. According to Sydney Singer, whom I quoted earlier in my speech, he asserts that pressure in the colon leads to diverticulitis, a painful disease where colon pressure makes outward pockets and digestive matter collects and festers. The most common reason for increased colon pressure is not really a medical issue, it is the cultural issue of flatulent retention. When we hold in the urge to relieve nature's call we are causing unnecesary pressure that can lead to diverticulitis. Hopefully we can all band together and abolish the practice of flatulent retention to ease the suffering felt across the country.

The solution to this problem is to lead by example and, together, stop the practice of flatulent retention. Hopefully others will follow. It may seem silly, but we would not be the first ones to do this, according to emedicinehealth.com The Roman Emperor Claudius decreed that “all Roman citizens shall be allowed to pass gas whenever necessary.” Flatulence has even been turned into an art form. According to Richard Stiehm with Pediatrics magazine, "a Frenchman referred to as "Le Petomane became affluent as an effluent performer who played tunes with the gas from his rectum on the Moulin Rouge stage." We actually have the freedom in this country to pass gass whenever nature calls, but usually we put that call on hold till a more "appropriate" time. Let it go, I say! Would you rather suffer from embarassment or constant pain? We are all on the frontlines of the war against flatulent retention, it is our duty to rip a good one when we feel the need! The only solution is to raise awareness of the problem and start to pass gas when we feel the rumbly down in your tumbly.

I hope now you know the importance of stoping the practice of flatulent retention. I have shown you the problem we all suffer from and offered the only solution. (Hold up visual aid; whoopee cushion.) Hopefully we can view this item no longer as a symbol of humor and crudeness, but a symbol of freedom. The freedom to release the pressure from the depths of our bodies and souls. So once again I ask, no I beg you, raise up your ass and pass some gas, because it is better out than in. (Press down on whoopee cushion.)

Rednecks of Rivendell

We had been driving for hours through the mountain roads of Arkansas. Our quest for the flesh of the tasty trout had been successful and we were on the long trek back home when we happened through the town of Rivendell, Arkansas. The gas light had just blinked on and we decided to stop and fill up and look for somewhere to eat. We pulled our mighty Toyota Tacoma into the first gas station we saw, Lord ElRon's Kum and Go. I left my fellow adventurer Zane to pump the gas and I went inside to converse with the locals.

" Hail good citizens! We are passing through on the journey back from a long and arduous quest and hope to seek sustenance in this fair town," I announced as I walked through the chiming door. A man behind the counter with the most rocking mullet I have ever experienced and the pointy ears of an elf looked up from behind his MELFs magazine.
"Wellll hell boy! Welcome to the home of the Elves and the Dale Earnhardt fan club. I am Lord ElRon. If you need it, the pisser is in the back, and my daughter A. Owens makes a mean Lambis Bread and rabbit stew down at the Mother Elfin Cafe about two blocks down."
I saluted the man in thanks and returned to my fellow adventurers.
"Tis a strange land Sir Zane, tell my brother Justin to be wary of his tongue and let's seek to slay our hunger at this Mother Elfin Cafe."

So we mounted our mighty steed and drove the short distance to the cafe. When we arrived we noticed the cafe was full of the strange locals and we took a seat amongst them. A young waitress came over and asked us what we would have.
"Well I have heard the Lambis bread and Rabbit stew is quite good, we will all have a bit of that."
She put her hands on her hip and smiled, "Did Lord Elron tell you that? He just loves my Lambis corn bread and rabbit stew. I'll bring some right out."
As we waited for our order and took in the surroundings, these were not your normal elves we had read about in the tomes of old. Instead of long elegant bows of wood they had Tri-Cam Matthews compound bows and quivers of carbon fiber arrows. Instead of the graceful Toyota Avalon they drove Ford and Chevy pickup trucks with lifts and 33-inch mudders. We received our food and ate until we could eat no more.

When we arose to leave we noticed a few of the strange elves meandering around our mode of transportation. We walked out the door and I hailed them.
"Greetings!"
There were three of them, all with trucker hats and stained white tank tops. One of them smiled with several gaps showing ans said, " Boy, yalls got pretty ears! Sure would like to make you squeal like an Orc!" My jaw dropped and I rared back and punch the elf right in the cake hole. Then in the confusion we jumped in the truck and sped off towards the safety of home. Many a day my companions and I look back on the experience of Rivendell and shudder in disgust. Although...that was some really good Lambis corn bread at the Mother Elfin Cafe.

Moss. and the Sheriff

My father worked with his father every summer and after school when he became old enough. My grandad, Bebaw we called him, was a brick mason. He laid bricks for houses, blocks for foundations, and whatever else he could get work doing. Dad would mix the "mud" that was used to lay the bricks by hand using a a hoe and a wheelbarrow. He would also bring bricks off of a wooden palette up the scaffolding to my grandfather. Bebaw also hired a guy that worked with him full time, he was a black man named Moss.
Moss could not read or write and when Bebaw would give him his check each week he would get my Dad to sign it for him and take it to the bank. Then he would give most of it to Louise, the lady that lived with him, and he would take the rest and get drunker than Cooter Brown. H.R. would then drive down the middle of Bessemer Super Highway going about 15 miles per hour when he got drunk every Saturday. Like clockwork Bebaw would get a call from the Bessemer sheriff just about every Saturday saying, " I got yer negro down here, come pick him up." Dad and Bebaw would load up in the truck and drive down to the Bessemer police department. Dad would drive Moss home in his truck and Bebaw would follow and take Dad back home. This went on for some time until the sheriff finally got sick of it.
Like usual, the sheriff called Bebaw one Saturday and told him, "We got your negro down here again, but this time we won't let him out unless he has $500 bail. " So Bebaw went down to the police station and talked to Moss
"They arn't going to let you out unless you can give them $500 bail."
"Tell mista Lee to go talk to Weezy and get the money."
So Dad drove over to Moss' house and told Louise what the problem was. She went into the house and came out with a mason jar stuffed full of money. She gave it to Dad and went back into the house without so much as a word. Dad counted up the money and it only came to about $130. When Dad told Moss he didn't have enough money to post bail he said, "Well, don't you worry mista Lee, I'll be back to work come Monday or Tuesday."
Bebaw and Dad figured they wouldn't see Moss for months. After school on Monday, Dad was on his way to work with Bebaw and drove through downtown Bessemer. When he stopped at a red light he heard something land in the back of the truck and looked back and saw Moss laying in the bed of his truck wearing the black and white jumpsuit and shackles, waving at him to go on. Dad brought Moss to the job site and Bebaw gave him a hacksaw and told him to go out away from where they were and remove the shackles on his legs. Moss worked all day in his black and white striped prison outfit mixing mud and toting bricks. From then own when he drove down the middle of Bessemer Super Highway going 15 Miles per Hour a police car just followed him home and he was never put in jail again.

Paiku

Arghhhh
The rum be good
The booty, even better.

Bittersweet Beignets

I sat staring out of the window at our hotel room in the French Market Inn, on Decatur Street in New Orleans. My feet were resting against the window sill and I laxly held onto the tall marroon curtains and people watched as they walked by on the sidewalk below. In the distance the mighty Mississippi flowed towards the gulf pulling along huge tankers like they were toys in a draining bathtub. The sounds of street bands, peddling their wares a few blocks down, drifted past the glass my forehead was pressed against. Dad kept walking by down below and would occasionally glance up and grab my attention as he had the past few nights since we first got into town.

We didn't actually get into New Orleans until around 11:00 p.m Friday night. I was tired because I had worked all day long and we were short staffed, like most Fridays. Apparently a lot of people get sick on Fridays, but I shouldn't complain I have been "sick" before too. We quickly unpacked and decided we would walk up and down Bourbon Street so I could experience it for the first time. As we walked past of the many bars I looked up at the people in the balcony and saw Dad among them. He tried to get me to show him my man boobs for beads, he thought it was hilarious. I didn't sleep well when we finally did get in that morning.

When I did wake up my mouth tasted like I had been sucking the sheets all night and my eyes looked like hell from where my contacts had been in longer than usual. I turned on the little coffee pot in the hotel room and took a shower while it brewed. When I stepped out of the shower the smell of coffee permeated the air and I already started feeling refreshed. I laid down in the bed and looked out the window while I sipped as much coffee as I spilled on the floor. Everyone else around me started waking up and we decided to all go to Cafe Du monde for beignets and some better coffee.

We stood in line for a while and finally decided to sit down at a table and relax our feet for a bit. I nearly choked to death on the first beignet and quickly learned it was better not to breathe while in close proximity to powdered sugar. Dad was serving a young asaian couple about 6 tables over and he looked over at me and smiled. I just shook my head and buried my face back into my coffee cup. It happened like that quite frequently throughout the whole trip. I would see him around all the things that reminded me of him. I saw him outside the restraunt window blowing on a trumpet in a street band while I ate oysters on the halfshell. I almost tripped over him as he looked like a homeless man laying outside Margaritaville.

I had hoped to escape the specter of my recently deceased father in a place that was unfamiliar to me, but severing the memories of my father is like trying to cutoff my own arm with the heel of my foot. Now I take joy in the subtle glances I see of my father as I sit in my hotel room and look out the window. Soon I will be going back home to the living representation of him in the grandson he never met.

The Clock King

For eighty-six long years the old man had fought the war against the Clock King. His arthritic hands, poor vision, and balding head were his scars from the many battles. For a time it seemed he had found a way to momentarily escape the evil king's domain, but the Clock King always collects his dues. The old man settled down on the lightly padded wooden bench and tested the pedals of the steel guitar with his feet and lightly plucked the strings with his fingers. This man was determined to fight to his last breath.

I stood silently at the fireplace in the old man's basement ignoring the searing heat at the back of my legs. My full attention was on the warrior. He leaned over and spit dark fluid in a rusted coffee can and wiped the left over dribble with the sleeve of his flannel shirt. Then he reached behind him and flicked a switch on the wall. With a snap hiss an electric guitar amp announced it's awakening, the hand spun pickups crackled and popped, and the air seemed to leave the room. The ritual was almost complete. The warrior's battered fingers lightly danced across the metal strings of the guitar while the long metal bar shaped the sound to his choosing. The weapon was tuned, his courage was stoked, and the warrior's heart was hardened for the battle.

I felt myself slip to the edge of the King's domain. His guards were there to try and stop me. Responsibility tried to pull me back, there were things to do and it was urgent they were completed, but I resisted. Perception tried to convice me that what I was experiencing was not real, that the Clock King would collect his dues, but I continued listening. Maturity explained that daydreaming was for children and I was not a child any longer, with adulthood comes wisdom, but I craved to be a child again. The warrior and I broke through the barrier and we became lost in a world of our own making.

The music lifted us on waves of brilliant color in an emerald and crimson sea, with each note plucked a star burst into life in the evening sky, and a lavender sun was in a perpetual state of sunrise. For what seemed like days we enjoyed each other's company. Stories were told, tears were shed, and not a word was spoken. Suddenly the world started to vibrate and pulse. The stars fell from the sky, the sun descended past the horizon line, and darkness enveloped the world as my cell phone vibrated in the pocket of my jeans.

Unfortunately perception was correct and reality came crashing back as the warrior collapsed ontop of the guitar and the music ended. I ignored my phone, and rushed over from the fire place to feel the old man's pulse. It was weak and fluttery. I picked him up in my arms and carried him upstairs to his bedroom. As I laid him on the bed his eyes slightly opened and he motioned for me to lean down where he could whisper to me.

"My time is up... so much I wanted to show you and so little time. Remember me."

The old man passed away as I sat at his bedside. It was months before I returned to the basement of the warrior's house. Dust had settled on the amplifier and the bulb had blown in the ceiling light. A beam of sunlight shined in through a small window and illuminated the steel guitar in the surrounding darkness. I sat down on the small wooden bench and picked up the heavy steel slide and the finger picks. I pulled my fingers across the strings and found myself amazed that they were still in tune. The memory in my fingers took me to the first song the warrior taught me. The tune of "Amazing Grace" softly carried me to the timeless world of my imagination. I found my grandfather waiting for me.

Those Who Stand

She's been deceiving you Larry and now she must face the consequences.

Larry snarled and pressed down harder on the gas as he raced toward his home. He had hired a private investigator on a whim, who in turn provided him with the pictures spread out over the bench seat of his truck. Every penny he had spent had been worth it to him. He desperately loved Evelyn with all his heart, had loved her ever since tenth grade in high school. Regardless, the pictures said she had not returned the favor and his heart was torn to shreds.

"Under the seat Larry," what seemed to be his conscience whispered.

Listening to the subtle messages in his head and disregarding all reason he pulled out his service pistol. He checked the chamber and laid it across the dash of his 1970 Ford pickup truck like it was a snake in his hands.

Its what she deserves, she broke your heart. Now you blow hers out; I bet he's still there.

Larry whipped into the trailer park, his tail end knocking over trash cans. He continued spraying gravel everywhere, all the way back to his home. Larry slammed the front of his truck into the unfamiliar car in his driveway, and time suddenly stopped, except for Larry's unknown passenger.

"Crap I am not believing this," a slim man with a gnarled smirk on his face said from the passenger side of the truck. He looked over at Larry, whose face was already on its way to planting itself into his steering wheel. Someone had taken an interest in what was going on here and had paused the happenings of the real world. The skeletal yellow skinned man stepped out of the truck and slammed the door. The impact of the door shattered the side view mirror, but even as the glass tinkled onto the ground the mirror seemed to shimmer and revert back to the way it was. The skinny man tugged at the front of his black suit and spit on the ground trying to decide what to do. He reached over to the inside of his pocket and took out two bone white dice with red pips and tossed them on the ground. "Snake eyes...well time to go!"

He didn't even have enough time to look up as his body slammed into the side of the trailer and slid to the ground with a sickly thud. While coughing up yellow spittle he reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a box of cigarettes. He slowly hit the box on his palm and snatched one out with his teeth. Then he snapped his fingers in front of the cigarette and it blazed to life as he slowly took a draw."You got here quicker than I thought you would." he murmured past cinched lips.

"The need was great enough to snatch me away from what I was already doing," said a voice from behind Larry's truck. The skinny man grunted as he pushed his weight up off the ground and brushed his backside off. Looking over his shoulder he saw the trailer shimmer and revert back to normal."Well we might as well get this over with, banish me back to Hell and you get started on repairing what I've done so far," he grinned as he bent over to pick up his dice and put them back in his pocket.

"Not gonna be so simple today Lucky, I've got a few questions that need answering," said a tall, dark haired, pale skinned man who stepped around from the back of the truck. He wore a long brown coat over an open button white shirt neatly tucked into black pants held on by a silver buckled belt with the word Omdim on it surrounded by gilded feathers. He pulled his coat behind him and held it back with his hands on his hips and all Lucky could do was stare at him wide eyed and open mouthed. His cigarette winked out on the ground from where it had fallen out of his mouth. "I didn't do anything serious enough to warrant you coming here Mikey," Lucky stammered. "Well, Larry here would probably disagree if he knew what his conscience had really been saying," Mikey said then lowered his chin to his chest and closed his eyes looking to be in deep thought. He quickly looked back up when he felt a sudden weight at his hip. He reached down and slowly drew out a long shining sword from the sheath at his hip.

Larry threw his hands up, but before he could protest he was pinned to the aluminum siding of the trailer with the sword in his torso, plunged pommel deep. The smell and sound of sizzling demon flesh wafted up to Lucky's own nose causing him to wretch. His bony hands wrapped around the pommel on the sword and tried to no avail to remove it."You know I can't betray my master, or I will be held in Hell forever,"Lucky sputtered.

"Lucky I already have a pretty good idea of who your master is," Mikey said reaching into Lucky's suit pocket and pulling out the dice he had picked up earlier. Mikey held them in front of Lucky's face and squeezed his hand, crushing the dice into a fine white power that he blew into Lucky's face. "I just want some confirmation."

"Well you can take your questions and shove them up your feathery whit-"

"Now Now now lets not be rude," Mikey said as he smiled and put his hand on the sword hilt and slowly twisted it. The sounds of crunching bone echoed through the still trailer park as the sword twisted the demon's insides and the wall of the trailer. Lucky's mouth opened in a soundless scream and his hands flailed at the sword, desperately attempting to remove it. Lucky's eyes began to roll back to the top of his head and his lips began to barely mouth an incantation. "Stop that!," Mikey said as he grabbed Lucky's head and slammed it against the wall behind it.

"Okay, okay I'll tell you who I am working for. He's just letting me do a few jobs before he really accepts me in anyways. All I know is his name, not what he is really after." Lucky snarled. He also decided to stop kicking his legs since it didn't make the sizzling pain lessen any. "The only name I was given was Jack, and he laughed and said he hadn't been called that in a long time when he told me. Then he told me to setup Larry here on, pardon the pun, a highway to hell." Lucky coughed up yellow gunk that ran down his chin and onto his white shirt as he finished.

"Well that's all for now, if I need anything else I guess I will ask this Jack when I find him," Mikey said as he slowly pulled the sword out, dropping Lucky to his knees gasping for air. Then he lifted the sword behind his back and slashed the blade through Lucky's neck, and turned him to a small pile of ash that blew away with a whisper of a breeze."Pity it won't last," Mikey said as he shoved the sword in his scabbard. He surveyed the mess Lucky had caused and grimaced. He knew he had come to late, Lucky had set to many actions in motion and there was not enough time to change the flows of events about to take place. His head lowered and his shoulders visibly slumped as he walked a few steps and vanished.

Without warning time went back into motion and Larry's truck slammed into the unfamiliar car in his driveway crumpling it and his truck against the trailer that now rocked on its cement blocks. the engine instantly died on Larry's truck and the only sound was a scream from inside the trailer and Larry's muffled groans.The door of the trailer flew open with a petite blond haired woman running down the makeshift stairs in nothing but red heels and a robe she hurriedly tried to pull on. Right behind her a shirtless man groaned at the site of his car smashed against the trailer. Moments later shots rang out in the Alabama night.