26.11.09
22.11.09
Sheryl
Early morning. Clouds crash, rolling like waves, and spread out across the sky. The sun eats through and lights up the wet grass.
I’m kneeling in the garden picking vegetables and fruits for breakfast. At least until next year, everything will be dried or frozen, stored away for winter, but for what will be eaten in the weeks to come. Though the weather would be mild, I would miss the days spent outdoors tending to my garden, the colors of the dirt and compost, the smells and sounds nature; the walks in the evenings, through the woods.
Carla was next door, smiling. Her hair hangs just below her shoulders, and a few strands fall across her face. The sunset, shining through blackened strands, illuminates brown. Quietly singing to herself, she props her basket full of fruits against her hip, raises her right hand, smiles and waves. She turns away and continues her work.
I found myself lost in watching, lost in thought.
* * *
Everyone worked together. Everyone built; everyone cooked; and everyone cleaned. The groups moved like music to a metronome, keeping in time and staying together. Everything was organized and planned.
Sure, people argued. People disagreed. But no one fought anymore, not since everything had changed.
* * *
“Thankful for the relocation, huh kid?” - I spun around, startled. It had been a statement, not a question. Otis had caught me staring.
Since the relocation, the only competition in the world came from within. Education, career, housing; all of the things you accomplished, in any facet of life, had become completely dependent upon your potential at being an effective and empathetic human being. Intelligence testing had become the auto-pilot that would steer your course in life. All of the big decisions, swept away.
The first string of testing was done near the end of middle school. Those whose IQ’s fell below 120 would only be attending two more years of school at which time they would take part in an intensive career orientation program.
Knowledge was to be kept confidential within each echelon of intelligence. Productivity and compliance would be taught, as well as policies regarding information-exchange beyond ranking. No decisions of great merit were to be made by the working class; though, their input was routinely sought.
Everything was carefully determined. And, with the legal system torn apart and society running on understood mores, on reason rather than bureaucracy, there was no chance of frivolous lawsuits. People were provided for, and crime wasn’t really an issue anymore, anyways. Besides, money no longer existed.
* * *
The Hunger Solution.
Poverty. Distribution of goods. Overcrowding. Crime. All problems which had been taken care of with the institution of the Hunger Solution.
Murders were rare. Rapes never happened. People hardly ever stole.
The Hunger Solution was a multi-governmental initiative that began in an effort to solve the economic drain that the prison system, as it had grown uncontrollably, placed upon the population.
First it was the death row inmates, packaged and shipped to members of the farming community as a relief effort to assist their struggling industry. Feed for cattle. Fertilizer for crops.
The possibilities for the Hunger solution grew.
Soon, soup kitchens, once struggling to handle the masses of unemployed, no longer had shortages of food. Within a year, the success of the program took hold, and it grew internationally. It had all but completely wiped out world hunger.
Crime rates went down.
* * *
“You still with me kiddo?”
Otis was in his late sixties; an architect. He worked on the design and development of the self sustaining homes which everyone has been in the process of relocating into. Each design that Otis finished met the specific needs of the family that was to move into it.
Between the solar, wind, water and residual microwave energy storage units, each home was equipped to operate completely independently of any other structure. And, besides being functional, all homes were required to provide a pleasing aesthetic within the geography of where they were to be located.
Otis had a complex job; his IQ, 167. Otis was a Buddhist.
“Everything has been so much better since the transition, Odie. Life just seems like it’s slowed down so much. You actually have time to appreciate what you work for. People smile again.”
“Seems like things really have made a turnaround.” - The corners of Otis’ mouth gently turned up. Folds of skin gathered near the corners of his eyes.
“I’m so thankful, Odie. No more sitting in traffic during the morning commute; ten minute bike ride to work and back. No more answering to unqualified bosses that oversaw you in work that they don’t even understand. No more inane small talk with moronic people. No more listening to neighbors providing unprovoked opinion, midway through arguing against her own reasoning, and then sputtering off into a diatribe about their idle existence.”
No more slack-jawed bobble heads.
All of your neighbors were those with similar intellects and levels of empathy. People genuinely cared about one another’s interests. Life had changed so much. Life was better.
Divergence from the ascribed worth of goods and services, dictated by a corrupt capitalist system, had caused quite the ruckus in the business world. Having to grapple with the intrinsic values of goods wasn’t something that the newer generation would have to have to have any experience with. Everyone was provided for.
Throughout the transition, shock had initially unsettled people. The Hunger solution hadn’t seemed reasonable. People couldn’t see how it was in our best interest. After all, we were going against generations and generations of tradition.
Eventually the public saw the rationale. Life became more comfortable, so people stopped asking so many questions.
Otis suddenly seemed distant. His gaze turned down, lost in his massive hands. Tensing then loosening his grip, his hands shuffled something back and forth.
“You okay, Odie? What’s that?” – I asked. He pulled his fingers in tightly.
Otis raised head and stared into my eyes. He seemed suddenly removed, rigid.
My stare held his as I noticed a glint of light. His hand swung up and I heard the air break. A loud popping, and I fell to the ground.
I felt a pain above my right eye, felt the sting, felt the heat run across my face. Another pop and I watched the world turn grey as Otis’ body dropped to the ground in front of mine, blood spilling from the hole beneath his chin.
Carla screamed.
* * *
Otis had married when he was nineteen years old. He married before everything had changed. He married the woman he loved.
Sheryl had moved in across the street from Otis, during the summer, just before fifth grade. Soon they became friends, and quickly they fell in love. They became inseparable.
When the government began testing, and Sheryl tested at 117, Otis lost his wife.
I’m kneeling in the garden picking vegetables and fruits for breakfast. At least until next year, everything will be dried or frozen, stored away for winter, but for what will be eaten in the weeks to come. Though the weather would be mild, I would miss the days spent outdoors tending to my garden, the colors of the dirt and compost, the smells and sounds nature; the walks in the evenings, through the woods.
Carla was next door, smiling. Her hair hangs just below her shoulders, and a few strands fall across her face. The sunset, shining through blackened strands, illuminates brown. Quietly singing to herself, she props her basket full of fruits against her hip, raises her right hand, smiles and waves. She turns away and continues her work.
I found myself lost in watching, lost in thought.
* * *
Everyone worked together. Everyone built; everyone cooked; and everyone cleaned. The groups moved like music to a metronome, keeping in time and staying together. Everything was organized and planned.
Sure, people argued. People disagreed. But no one fought anymore, not since everything had changed.
* * *
“Thankful for the relocation, huh kid?” - I spun around, startled. It had been a statement, not a question. Otis had caught me staring.
Since the relocation, the only competition in the world came from within. Education, career, housing; all of the things you accomplished, in any facet of life, had become completely dependent upon your potential at being an effective and empathetic human being. Intelligence testing had become the auto-pilot that would steer your course in life. All of the big decisions, swept away.
The first string of testing was done near the end of middle school. Those whose IQ’s fell below 120 would only be attending two more years of school at which time they would take part in an intensive career orientation program.
Knowledge was to be kept confidential within each echelon of intelligence. Productivity and compliance would be taught, as well as policies regarding information-exchange beyond ranking. No decisions of great merit were to be made by the working class; though, their input was routinely sought.
Everything was carefully determined. And, with the legal system torn apart and society running on understood mores, on reason rather than bureaucracy, there was no chance of frivolous lawsuits. People were provided for, and crime wasn’t really an issue anymore, anyways. Besides, money no longer existed.
* * *
The Hunger Solution.
Poverty. Distribution of goods. Overcrowding. Crime. All problems which had been taken care of with the institution of the Hunger Solution.
Murders were rare. Rapes never happened. People hardly ever stole.
The Hunger Solution was a multi-governmental initiative that began in an effort to solve the economic drain that the prison system, as it had grown uncontrollably, placed upon the population.
First it was the death row inmates, packaged and shipped to members of the farming community as a relief effort to assist their struggling industry. Feed for cattle. Fertilizer for crops.
The possibilities for the Hunger solution grew.
Soon, soup kitchens, once struggling to handle the masses of unemployed, no longer had shortages of food. Within a year, the success of the program took hold, and it grew internationally. It had all but completely wiped out world hunger.
Crime rates went down.
* * *
“You still with me kiddo?”
Otis was in his late sixties; an architect. He worked on the design and development of the self sustaining homes which everyone has been in the process of relocating into. Each design that Otis finished met the specific needs of the family that was to move into it.
Between the solar, wind, water and residual microwave energy storage units, each home was equipped to operate completely independently of any other structure. And, besides being functional, all homes were required to provide a pleasing aesthetic within the geography of where they were to be located.
Otis had a complex job; his IQ, 167. Otis was a Buddhist.
“Everything has been so much better since the transition, Odie. Life just seems like it’s slowed down so much. You actually have time to appreciate what you work for. People smile again.”
“Seems like things really have made a turnaround.” - The corners of Otis’ mouth gently turned up. Folds of skin gathered near the corners of his eyes.
“I’m so thankful, Odie. No more sitting in traffic during the morning commute; ten minute bike ride to work and back. No more answering to unqualified bosses that oversaw you in work that they don’t even understand. No more inane small talk with moronic people. No more listening to neighbors providing unprovoked opinion, midway through arguing against her own reasoning, and then sputtering off into a diatribe about their idle existence.”
No more slack-jawed bobble heads.
All of your neighbors were those with similar intellects and levels of empathy. People genuinely cared about one another’s interests. Life had changed so much. Life was better.
Divergence from the ascribed worth of goods and services, dictated by a corrupt capitalist system, had caused quite the ruckus in the business world. Having to grapple with the intrinsic values of goods wasn’t something that the newer generation would have to have to have any experience with. Everyone was provided for.
Throughout the transition, shock had initially unsettled people. The Hunger solution hadn’t seemed reasonable. People couldn’t see how it was in our best interest. After all, we were going against generations and generations of tradition.
Eventually the public saw the rationale. Life became more comfortable, so people stopped asking so many questions.
Otis suddenly seemed distant. His gaze turned down, lost in his massive hands. Tensing then loosening his grip, his hands shuffled something back and forth.
“You okay, Odie? What’s that?” – I asked. He pulled his fingers in tightly.
Otis raised head and stared into my eyes. He seemed suddenly removed, rigid.
My stare held his as I noticed a glint of light. His hand swung up and I heard the air break. A loud popping, and I fell to the ground.
I felt a pain above my right eye, felt the sting, felt the heat run across my face. Another pop and I watched the world turn grey as Otis’ body dropped to the ground in front of mine, blood spilling from the hole beneath his chin.
Carla screamed.
* * *
Otis had married when he was nineteen years old. He married before everything had changed. He married the woman he loved.
Sheryl had moved in across the street from Otis, during the summer, just before fifth grade. Soon they became friends, and quickly they fell in love. They became inseparable.
When the government began testing, and Sheryl tested at 117, Otis lost his wife.
11.11.09
Breakfast of Champions
Here's a small sampling of some the most delicious food you'll ever have the pleasure of digesting:
Hitchhiker's Delight
The Hitchhiker's Delight consists of a pancake, an egg, and a slice of toast. What makes this so great? The fact that the pancake is wrapped burrito-style around a banana and homemade yoghurt, and then topped off with strawberry preserves, making it more than enough for one person.
4.11.09
Grease Trap Penance
As I turn the corner into the first stall, a shit polka-dotted toilet bowl greets me; its insides creeping to its outs. I lift the seat with my foot to discover what is most definitely a long lost work from none other than Jackson Pollock himself.
The muscles in my throat contract. I manage to successfully fight off their attempt to strong-arm the contents of my stomach from my body. I try not to think about what’s stashed in those menacing brushed-steel boxes perching on the walls in each stall.
Pink for the toilets and the counters, blue for the mirrors. Thank god he spent half an hour explaining that to me. The complexity of the job might have overwhelmed me and who knows what kind of violent mental breakdown I might have unleashed upon this bastion of perfection, proficiency and solitude. Fucking cleaning bathrooms! Not that hard.
I finish cleaning both bathrooms in about ten minutes. Now, I have to go find that putz that I saw checking himself out in the reflection on the side of the shake machine and fixing his hair. Pudgy bastard – looks like what would happen if that Dutch kid from the paint cans and Big Boy had a child; and wore glasses; and became a metro-sexual. This, apparently, is who is going to be my brilliant leader for the duration of my indenture.
I find him and he wastes fifteen more minutes of my time explaining to me how to pick up the trash that litters the parking lot and pull weeds. Just in case I had been thinking that I might be required to cut down some bushes, or maybe uproot a light post with my bare hands, he clears everything up.
I fake attentiveness, nodding occasionally, as I watch the morning traffic flying past on the highway. I’m standing there and I begin to drift off and start trying to imagine how I could get this vacuous prick to stop giving me the play-by-play on putting things into a bag and somehow get him to skip, vacantly, into oncoming traffic. No dice.
Got all that?”
Shut, the fuck, UP!
Umm, yeah.”
“Alright. I’ll come out and get you when it’s time for your break.”
Right.
He goes back inside and I spend the first half of the day gardening; in a parking lot; in khaki pants, black dress shoes and a used uniform, which is at least a size too large, and stained with grease.
Yup, these is yard workin’ clothes.
After a few hours (once I’m fairly certain that they’ve forgotten about me) one of their merry workers comes mindlessly traipsing out into the thousand degree parking lot and mightily proclaims: “Man it’s hot. I’ve been looking for you for like the last fifteen minutes; we need you to plunge a toilet.”
What!? So, not only had they forgotten about me but they finally are offering me respite from this goddamn heat… to plunge a fucking toilet!? How does this place function? Thirty people inside and not one capable of unclogging a toilet. They had to send someone looking for me for fifteen minutes, instead of just having them do it?
“Okay?”
“Oh, and then you can go on your break I think.”
Hoo-ahh!
Everything gets straightened out and I rest. I stare down at my clothes, covered in sweat, dirt and… What’s this? A piece of gum has joined that plastic doo-dad on the end of my shoelace to the cuff of my pants.
Wonderful.
The muscles in my throat contract. I manage to successfully fight off their attempt to strong-arm the contents of my stomach from my body. I try not to think about what’s stashed in those menacing brushed-steel boxes perching on the walls in each stall.
Pink for the toilets and the counters, blue for the mirrors. Thank god he spent half an hour explaining that to me. The complexity of the job might have overwhelmed me and who knows what kind of violent mental breakdown I might have unleashed upon this bastion of perfection, proficiency and solitude. Fucking cleaning bathrooms! Not that hard.
I finish cleaning both bathrooms in about ten minutes. Now, I have to go find that putz that I saw checking himself out in the reflection on the side of the shake machine and fixing his hair. Pudgy bastard – looks like what would happen if that Dutch kid from the paint cans and Big Boy had a child; and wore glasses; and became a metro-sexual. This, apparently, is who is going to be my brilliant leader for the duration of my indenture.
I find him and he wastes fifteen more minutes of my time explaining to me how to pick up the trash that litters the parking lot and pull weeds. Just in case I had been thinking that I might be required to cut down some bushes, or maybe uproot a light post with my bare hands, he clears everything up.
I fake attentiveness, nodding occasionally, as I watch the morning traffic flying past on the highway. I’m standing there and I begin to drift off and start trying to imagine how I could get this vacuous prick to stop giving me the play-by-play on putting things into a bag and somehow get him to skip, vacantly, into oncoming traffic. No dice.
Got all that?”
Shut, the fuck, UP!
Umm, yeah.”
“Alright. I’ll come out and get you when it’s time for your break.”
Right.
He goes back inside and I spend the first half of the day gardening; in a parking lot; in khaki pants, black dress shoes and a used uniform, which is at least a size too large, and stained with grease.
Yup, these is yard workin’ clothes.
After a few hours (once I’m fairly certain that they’ve forgotten about me) one of their merry workers comes mindlessly traipsing out into the thousand degree parking lot and mightily proclaims: “Man it’s hot. I’ve been looking for you for like the last fifteen minutes; we need you to plunge a toilet.”
What!? So, not only had they forgotten about me but they finally are offering me respite from this goddamn heat… to plunge a fucking toilet!? How does this place function? Thirty people inside and not one capable of unclogging a toilet. They had to send someone looking for me for fifteen minutes, instead of just having them do it?
“Okay?”
“Oh, and then you can go on your break I think.”
Hoo-ahh!
Everything gets straightened out and I rest. I stare down at my clothes, covered in sweat, dirt and… What’s this? A piece of gum has joined that plastic doo-dad on the end of my shoelace to the cuff of my pants.
Wonderful.
1.11.09
Andrew Sneller.
To set up for this double peg stall, Andrew jumped from the top of the 7 foot mini to the wedge below.
28.10.09
A few new pics that are defenitely not gay, and one that is.
Not a bad way to spend the last few nice days of the year...
Pedro, taking a trip down memory lane.
Justin Boerman, heating things up.
Zach Grant, bunnyhop into the baseball field at Window.
Pedro, toboggan off of this light pole set up at Window.
Pedro, taking a trip down memory lane.
Justin Boerman, heating things up.
Zach Grant, bunnyhop into the baseball field at Window.
Pedro, toboggan off of this light pole set up at Window.
19.10.09
A couple from earlier tonight
Zach Grant, ice pick (he also luc-e grinded it twice).
Pat Ellis, bunnyhop barspin.
Pat Ellis, bunnyhop barspin.
13.10.09
A Minor Collection of Mishaps
Andrew McDonald
Pat Ellis
Justin Cooper
I fall more often, and more awkwardly, than all three of them combined.
-RV
Pat Ellis
Justin Cooper
I fall more often, and more awkwardly, than all three of them combined.
-RV
3.10.09
Little Terry
Little Terry.
Little Terry with the white polo shirt tucked into blue dress pants. Little Terry all dressed up in his uniform, ready for another day at school. Little Terry, ten years old and full of fear for the world.
Everyone at school knew Terry. Terry the quiet boy. Terry the loner, always playing by himself. Terry, the ghost, haunting the halls after school until his parents finally come to pick him up.
Sometimes Terry would sit on the playground for hours, waiting.
“Whatcha gonna do, spaz?”
“You gonna run home to mommy and daddy, freak,” the kids taunted, circling around Terry.
The playground ran along the side of the school. In the mornings, the three-story brick building kept the swing sets, the monkey bars and slides cool in the shade. After school, the shadows swung out and covered the teacher’s parking lot.
Out on the playground, no teachers watched the children after the school day was over.
“Why aren’tchew like the rest of us? Huh,” a little girl asks.
“Heso weird,” a chubby little boy says.
The schoolyard dialect is painful to Terry’s ears. Their speech is more painful than their harsh criticism.
Terry grips the handle in his pocket. Two smooth brass rivets along aged wood.
* * *
Terry’s fingertips drag across the pale green faces of the metal lockers. Smooth, three cracks, then smooth again, over and over. Repetition.
Pattern comforted Terry. It was something constant in life.
Terry walked quietly through the hallways, watching the tile floor pass beneath him. Pink, brown and beige splotches flying past. He listened to his footsteps echo through the empty halls.
The solitude felt safe to Terry, but he knew his mother would be at the school soon to pick him up.
* * *
Each of her legs bigger than him, the weight of her body was crushing on his tiny frame. With her sitting on his chest, Terry struggled for breath.
“I don’t understand why you’re such a bad boy,” she says. “Why can’t you just behave? Wait ‘til your father gets home and I tell him how you were acting.”
Terry had taken too long to take his medicine.
In order to swallow that red liquid down, he had to talk himself into it, psych himself up. The taste, bitter and harsh to his palette.
* * *
“Why are you crying,” his father yells, hitting Terry in the face. “Are you a girl?”
“No,” Terry manages between sobs. His father grabs him by the arm as he tries to run past and get away.
“You’re crying, so you must be a girl.”
Tears are pouring down Terry’s cheeks, his eyes puffy. Snot and tears hang from the tip of his nose.
“No,” Terry wails, “I’m not a girl.”
“If you’re not girl, you must be a faggot! Stop crying!”
And his father beats and beats him. The father beats this little boy, this scared little boy. This ten year old Terry, face red and soaked with tears.
Terry, trying to suppress his crying, manages nothing more than a whisper saying, “Please, please stop…”
* * *
Terry hides in his closet and buries his face in blankets. He surrounds himself with stuffed animals. He hides in his closet and cries, quietly. Eventually he cries himself to sleep.
Then he dreams...
Little Terry stands in a pet shop.
Droves of fish pace behind walls of glass. The grainy smell of pet food. Gerbils are burrowed in chips of cedar. Frogs cling to aquarium prisons. Rabbits sit motionless in piles of shit. Cats cry out.
Terry heads toward the door. Opening it, he stands in the entryway. The sidewalk in front of him is moving along like a conveyor belt.
A little girl approaches and the sidewalk comes to a stop. The little girl has blonde hair. She wears a blue jumper covered in white polka-dots.
The little girl reaches out toward Terry. She has a white flower in her hand.
“You should come with me,” she says.
Terry carefully takes the flower from her hand.
The sidewalk begins to accelerate and the girl quickly disappears from Terry’s view. The doorway lurches and Terry is thrown onto the speeding sidewalk. He’s lost control of his limbs and fails to stand. He’s trapped as the sidewalk flies through the town.
Terry travels past churches and restaurants. He travels past clothing stores and gas stations. And, suddenly, the sidewalk stops.
Terry is alone near a vacant lot. He’s afraid and still has no control over his body as he steps off of the sidewalk and out into the lot.
The lot stinks of trash. Rotten vegetables. Stale coffee and stagnant water. Old shoes.
Terry, looking around, realizes that he is far from the city. No congested streets. No background city noise. He realizes that he doesn’t know where he is.
The ground swells. Mounds of peoples’ discarded items rise up from the earth.
Fast-food wrappers. Broken lamps. Threadbare blankets. Old shoes.
The piles of garbage swallow Terry up. As they bury him, he struggles for breath.
Terry wakes and is covered in sweat. The blankets and stuffed animals have been thrown from on top of him while he slept. He feels helpless.
He feels alone.
* * *
A rock, the size of a golf ball, flies through the air. Thrown by the most popular of the children there, the ring-leader, the rock hits just above Terry’s left eye. His eyebrow is split in two and blood runs down to his eye before continuing down his cheek.
Terry’s body shakes with rage. His grip tightens on the handle in his pocket.
Terry pulls a knife from his pocket. The children circled around him freeze as recognition hits.
A girl shrieks.
The boy who threw the rock turns and runs. Two other children follow, but the rest are still frozen in place. They stand, gawking, frozen to the ground on this sunny summer afternoon.
Terry holds the blade up, points it out at the other children. The chubby little boy, still standing with the rest of the children, begins to step back.
Tears begin falling from Terry’s eyes and the chubby boy stops in his tracks.
Terry wipes the salty bloody tears from his eyes.
Little Terry, crying. Little Terry, ten years old. Full of love but with no one to share it with or to return it.
He pulls the blade hard against his neck.
The rest of the children run. As they make the corner of the building, a little girl looks back.
Terry’s body drops to the ground. Blades of soft grass tickle his cheek. He feels happy. Blood and dirt cake to Terry’s shirt. He feels safe.
No one can hurt him anymore. No one can neglect him. Terry no longer needs anyone’s love…
The school and the playground are silent. Traffic is busy in the distance.
Terry’s fragile little body slowly cools in the summer sun.
Little Terry with the white polo shirt tucked into blue dress pants. Little Terry all dressed up in his uniform, ready for another day at school. Little Terry, ten years old and full of fear for the world.
Everyone at school knew Terry. Terry the quiet boy. Terry the loner, always playing by himself. Terry, the ghost, haunting the halls after school until his parents finally come to pick him up.
Sometimes Terry would sit on the playground for hours, waiting.
“Whatcha gonna do, spaz?”
“You gonna run home to mommy and daddy, freak,” the kids taunted, circling around Terry.
The playground ran along the side of the school. In the mornings, the three-story brick building kept the swing sets, the monkey bars and slides cool in the shade. After school, the shadows swung out and covered the teacher’s parking lot.
Out on the playground, no teachers watched the children after the school day was over.
“Why aren’tchew like the rest of us? Huh,” a little girl asks.
“Heso weird,” a chubby little boy says.
The schoolyard dialect is painful to Terry’s ears. Their speech is more painful than their harsh criticism.
Terry grips the handle in his pocket. Two smooth brass rivets along aged wood.
* * *
Terry’s fingertips drag across the pale green faces of the metal lockers. Smooth, three cracks, then smooth again, over and over. Repetition.
Pattern comforted Terry. It was something constant in life.
Terry walked quietly through the hallways, watching the tile floor pass beneath him. Pink, brown and beige splotches flying past. He listened to his footsteps echo through the empty halls.
The solitude felt safe to Terry, but he knew his mother would be at the school soon to pick him up.
* * *
Each of her legs bigger than him, the weight of her body was crushing on his tiny frame. With her sitting on his chest, Terry struggled for breath.
“I don’t understand why you’re such a bad boy,” she says. “Why can’t you just behave? Wait ‘til your father gets home and I tell him how you were acting.”
Terry had taken too long to take his medicine.
In order to swallow that red liquid down, he had to talk himself into it, psych himself up. The taste, bitter and harsh to his palette.
* * *
“Why are you crying,” his father yells, hitting Terry in the face. “Are you a girl?”
“No,” Terry manages between sobs. His father grabs him by the arm as he tries to run past and get away.
“You’re crying, so you must be a girl.”
Tears are pouring down Terry’s cheeks, his eyes puffy. Snot and tears hang from the tip of his nose.
“No,” Terry wails, “I’m not a girl.”
“If you’re not girl, you must be a faggot! Stop crying!”
And his father beats and beats him. The father beats this little boy, this scared little boy. This ten year old Terry, face red and soaked with tears.
Terry, trying to suppress his crying, manages nothing more than a whisper saying, “Please, please stop…”
* * *
Terry hides in his closet and buries his face in blankets. He surrounds himself with stuffed animals. He hides in his closet and cries, quietly. Eventually he cries himself to sleep.
Then he dreams...
Little Terry stands in a pet shop.
Droves of fish pace behind walls of glass. The grainy smell of pet food. Gerbils are burrowed in chips of cedar. Frogs cling to aquarium prisons. Rabbits sit motionless in piles of shit. Cats cry out.
Terry heads toward the door. Opening it, he stands in the entryway. The sidewalk in front of him is moving along like a conveyor belt.
A little girl approaches and the sidewalk comes to a stop. The little girl has blonde hair. She wears a blue jumper covered in white polka-dots.
The little girl reaches out toward Terry. She has a white flower in her hand.
“You should come with me,” she says.
Terry carefully takes the flower from her hand.
The sidewalk begins to accelerate and the girl quickly disappears from Terry’s view. The doorway lurches and Terry is thrown onto the speeding sidewalk. He’s lost control of his limbs and fails to stand. He’s trapped as the sidewalk flies through the town.
Terry travels past churches and restaurants. He travels past clothing stores and gas stations. And, suddenly, the sidewalk stops.
Terry is alone near a vacant lot. He’s afraid and still has no control over his body as he steps off of the sidewalk and out into the lot.
The lot stinks of trash. Rotten vegetables. Stale coffee and stagnant water. Old shoes.
Terry, looking around, realizes that he is far from the city. No congested streets. No background city noise. He realizes that he doesn’t know where he is.
The ground swells. Mounds of peoples’ discarded items rise up from the earth.
Fast-food wrappers. Broken lamps. Threadbare blankets. Old shoes.
The piles of garbage swallow Terry up. As they bury him, he struggles for breath.
Terry wakes and is covered in sweat. The blankets and stuffed animals have been thrown from on top of him while he slept. He feels helpless.
He feels alone.
* * *
A rock, the size of a golf ball, flies through the air. Thrown by the most popular of the children there, the ring-leader, the rock hits just above Terry’s left eye. His eyebrow is split in two and blood runs down to his eye before continuing down his cheek.
Terry’s body shakes with rage. His grip tightens on the handle in his pocket.
Terry pulls a knife from his pocket. The children circled around him freeze as recognition hits.
A girl shrieks.
The boy who threw the rock turns and runs. Two other children follow, but the rest are still frozen in place. They stand, gawking, frozen to the ground on this sunny summer afternoon.
Terry holds the blade up, points it out at the other children. The chubby little boy, still standing with the rest of the children, begins to step back.
Tears begin falling from Terry’s eyes and the chubby boy stops in his tracks.
Terry wipes the salty bloody tears from his eyes.
Little Terry, crying. Little Terry, ten years old. Full of love but with no one to share it with or to return it.
He pulls the blade hard against his neck.
The rest of the children run. As they make the corner of the building, a little girl looks back.
Terry’s body drops to the ground. Blades of soft grass tickle his cheek. He feels happy. Blood and dirt cake to Terry’s shirt. He feels safe.
No one can hurt him anymore. No one can neglect him. Terry no longer needs anyone’s love…
The school and the playground are silent. Traffic is busy in the distance.
Terry’s fragile little body slowly cools in the summer sun.
2.10.09
1.10.09
28.9.09
A Couple Of Recent Pictures
Here's a few pictures taken at a few random spots around Holland over the last couple days. I figure that this is as good a way as any to get my posts started. I will do my best to keep adding to the site regularly. Enjoy!
Pat Ellis, full pipe carve in Holland, MI.
Pat Ellis, full pipe carve in Holland, MI.
27.9.09
Spinning Waffles
Until I stop being so lazy, and finally put together a little edit (which may take a long fucking time, because I can be pretty fucking lazy), I'm just going to upload little snippets of what we do. And, by "we," I mean other people, because I'm typically holding the camera... and I suck.
*In the clip: Mr. Cooper
This is it; this is the start. Of what? I'm not quite sure... yet.
I have the feeling that, as of now, this whole thing is going to be kind of a blur of concepts, in terms of content. Mostly about bmx, the photos and friendship involved, I can definitely say that there will also be stories about anything and everything in between (factual, fictual, or otherwise... whatever that means).
Well, we'll see how it goes, I guess.
*In the pic: Andy Mac
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