Thursday, May 31, 2007

Poetry: Eating the Young

Oh to be that crystalline assemblage,
Unique in design, so intricately symmetrical,
Free falling from winter sky,
Sailing on chill winds.
Oh to be one in the flurry of my brothers,
Soaring down to mother earth
Before cruel heat dissolves us.

Oh to be that flake of snow
Before the inevitable melting.

Oh to be that apex racing 'cross the sea,
Free between two worlds;
Of life-bearing ocean and life sustaining air.
Oh to be that crest, surfing the fold,
Where rushing water meets salty breeze,
Before immovable rock lays me low.

Oh to be that wave
Before the cruel shore breaks me.

Oh to stand tall in the forest,
Limbs upturned to cherished sun,
Feet planted steadfast; stronger than stone.
Oh to be that regal structure,
Branches aflow with the juices of life
Before steel teeth sever my arteries.

Oh to be that tall tree
Before the logger strikes me dead.

Oh to be that summit commanding the horizon,
Keeper of rare snow,
Rising to imperial height.
Oh to be that pinnacle;
Object of man's most daring endeavor,
Before steam and lava flow, scorching to death my domain.

Oh to be that mountain
Before the malevolent eruption.

Oh to be that maelstrom of fire,
Womb of birth to all around me,
Bestowing rays of sustenance
Upon trillions of seekers.
Oh to be that star, centre of creation
Before my fuel is depleted
And I consume my own children.

Oh to be that sun
Before its certain red doom.

Oh to be that tiny one,
Helpless to exist but for the truest love evoked.
Drawing wonderment from onlookers.
Oh to be that beacon of purest light;
That miracle of shining truth,
Before that blackest of days when poison omnipotent
Crushes in an instant all hope of freedom.

Oh to be that child
Before her first word is spoken.

Thursday, May 24, 2007

Bad FWG's brush with the law

I went to dinner with a hoard of co-workers – associates from across the country, most of whom I know only through phone and email but rarely see in person.

The venue: Lone Star Bar & Grill or something of that nature. Lone Star Texas Steakhouse perhaps. Or Lone Star Corral and Beefery. Or maybe it was Texas Lone Star Cow Tippery and Twinkle of Solitude. Okay, that’s highly unlikely and I’m really just padding my word-count at this point. I’ll spare you further speculation and get on to the meat of the story:

The employer picked up the tab and not having enjoyed a particularly good meal out in some time, I didn’t hesitate to indulge. I began by loudly ordering a diet Coke and then, having established a soberish reputation, I quietly purveyed a pair of ‘Texas-sized’ margueritas (doubles) and then a half litre of wine (presumably Michigan-sized?) to go with the 18oz Texas T-bone.

One observant co-worker gauged my intake to equal roughly six and a half drinks and expressed concern over my ability to safely drive home.

Now – I very much adore these good responsible people who so caringly monitor my behavior. They’re just so sweet when they do this that I just want to squeeze their cute little cheeks. You know - until blood pours out their eyes.

That I’m centred out and made to awkwardly discuss the physiology around fat people and excess blood and alcohol dilution etcetera is really no bother at all. I don’t mind a bit.

Upon leaving the Texas Long John Bull Horn and Briefery I happened immediately upon a RIDE program installation – a police spot-check that is (Reduce Impaired Driving Everywhere). I confessed my imbibage accurately (Hmm. Spellchecker poo-poos imbibage. Oh well. It was a good try. I’m leaving it) and was asked to provide my drivers license and a breath sample.

I nervously rifled through my wallet, spilling cash and receipts onto my lap. Not that I was nervous that I might be over the limit. Not for a second. I was nervous because my vehicle ownership document was missing and driving without it carries a fine of $150 or so.

I told the policewoman that I’d be happy to provide a sample but that I was not drunk, had not broken the law and was not inclined to willingly be imprisoned in the back of her cruiser.

Besides the public humiliation aspect, there’s approximately three inches of legroom in the backseat of the average police cruiser. The discomfort is significant. I’ve been there many times – and never blown over the limit, mind you.

I braced myself for conflict. I expected her to say that I must cooperate or else be arrested for failure to do so. Instead she requested that I sit on the back seat of the patrol car but with the door open and I could leave my legs outside the car. I had to confess that seemed reasonable and went along.

The terms were a tad misleading though. With the officer in the front seat and her door closed, we were forced to conduct business and conversation through the small portal in the centre of the front seat/back seat barrier. Thus I had to move well into the vehicle anyway.

She handed me my own special plastic mouthpiece, individually wrapped. I popped it open like a bag of chips and the device flew to the floor. I had to then climb out of the car in order to reach down and retrieve it. I’m sure the officer at this point had no doubt I was drunk.

We performed the test. I blew good and hard until she told me to stop. The limit is .08

“Point zero two nine,” she said, and showed me the display. “You’re free to go.” She gave back the license. Thank goodness she’d never asked for my ownership.

“Thank you,” I said. I held up the plastic mouthpiece. “May I keep this for a souvenir?”

“Yes, you may.”

“Okay. Thank you for all your hard work.” Now – these were somewhat awkwardly constructed words of praise which she did not reply to. It was supposed to sound sincere but I think she mistook it for sarcasm. Oh well. I should have just said, ‘Have a good evening officer.’

Or perhaps I should have said, ‘Have a guh vevening occifer!’ and then belched loudly. Perhaps we’d have shared a good laugh at that.


Me and my souvenir

(Editor's note: The above post is not intended to in any way endorse drunk driving or direspectfullness towards police officers or of Texas style restaurants.)

Saturday, May 19, 2007

Mid-day in the Garden of Dogs and Cats

Woke up in the ex-darling's bed this morning with two kittens romping beside me - oh - and no ex. Yikes. Don't misconstrue. The ex is on vacation along with parents and twin sibling and the ilicit sweetheart and I are members of the committee to babysit the pets and plantlife of the three vacant households.

The kitties are Kody and Kayla (oh how I yawn at such dreary pet names; I assure my next pet shall have no less than eight words to its name, each of no less than six syllables!) They're sisters of a litter and joined at the hip (figuratively) - forever playing, fighting, cuddling or grooming each other. They have separate snooze-baskets but you'll only ever find them mashed into one, wrapped up in a fuzzy bundle and looking for all the world like a wildly deformed two-headed cat.

I'm now in the back yard of the parents' place and feeling happy and peaceful. The weather is heavenly as is the afterglow from a delicious evening with the sweetheart.

With me is Buddy, the noble companion of the ex's twin. He's a wise old Lab of regal - though a bit tippy - stature.

Also here is Sasha, the outrageously rotund beagle; eater of McDonalds packaging. There's a McDonalds restaurant right next door. With that and the wind and the perpetual ignorance of their clientelle Sasha's work is never done. Though spelled S-a-s-h-a, her name is almost exclusively pronounced 'SashaSashaSashaSashaSasha!' and strictly in falsetto voice. I can't seem to bring myself to participate in this.

She's just launched into a frail barking at the sight of the empty driveway.

"Chill, beagle," I say, "There's no one there."

There's something different about beagles generally. I've heard many call beagles stupid. A very unfair pronouncement, I say. People, almost without exception, measure a dog's intelligence by their willingness to cooperate. A flawed way of thinking. The dog who obeys no rules and gets what she wants has achieved more freedom and success than the obedient slipper-fetcher. Which is really the more intelligent? This particular beagle has perhaps achieved too much success. She's become a belly-dragger with four nubbins for legs. She moves about like some kind of Isle-of-Moreau-ish penguin/centipede cross. Imagine that if you can.

So get a load of these shenanigans. The parents believe themselves to be vacationing only with the twin. The ex has departed covertly. They're planning the classic twin-switcheroo gag but on their own elderly parents, and on another continent to boot.

"Everyone's telling me not to do this," said the ex. "They say my mom will have a heart attack."

"I don't think your mom will have a heart attack," said I.

"Me niether."

"I think she'll have a mild shock in which she despairs the apparent loss of her sanity and then she'll recover and beat you half to death with the nearest stick."


Praises to the Whipper Snipper

Vrimm vrimm vrimmm! We trim, we trim!
Whippery snippery zippery zimm!
Grass blades torn and broken away,
We edge the turf to a perfect array.
Hydro or gas, we fuel the machine
That buzz-carves our yard border clean.

Guests arrive to our pristine lawn.
Cold drinks flowing; the barbeque's on.
We lounge in our chairs agog at the scenery
Born of the Snipper and nature's greenery.
All is beautiful! All is serene!
As we scream to be heard 'bove the neighbor's machine.

Friday, May 18, 2007

FWG's nugget o' wisdom #80

Concerning lingering leftovers in the fridge:

A meal consisting of three-day-old pork chops and 4-day-old iced coffee is a sure-fire formula for an evening spent too often in the bathroom where idle observation can lead to reckless comparisons involving substances in soap dispensers and other such meanderings perhaps deemed good blogging material at the time but which is actually nothing more than embarrassing.

Fresh food, people. You can’t go wrong with fresh food.

This has been an original nugget o' wisdom from the brain of Fantasy Writer Guy. Do not use nuggets o' wisdom if you are pregnant or may be pregnant. Do not take orally. Do not take within 60 minutes prior to swimming in deep water. Do not take them within 72 hours of going out with a gun to shoot random people. FWG doesn't want to take any heat for that kind of shit. There's nothing subliminal here. KILL KILL KILL KILL KILL...

Thursday, May 17, 2007

FWG's nugget o' wisdom #79

Upon the emptying of a jug of white hand soap and the breaching of a new bottle of clear hand soap, one should not mix the two together in a hand soap dispenser of transparent structure, for the resulting cloudy, milky mixture, resembling precisely that dread substance having legitimate business only in acts concerning procreation, will lead your houseguests into believing you an outrageous pervert and leaving your bathroom with unwashed hands.

And thus we understand the words of the great poets who say:

‘Combineth not the soaps of different ilk lest ye destroyeth thy good name’
- ancient anonymous philosopher

[Editor’s note: That last bit was a load of malarkey.]

This has been an original nugget o' wisdom from the brain of Fantasy Writer Guy. Do not use nuggets o' wisdom if you are pregnant or may be pregnant. Do not take orally. Do not take them with a spoon. Do not take them on the moon. Do not take them on a boat. Do not take them with a goat.

Tuesday, May 15, 2007

Just when I thought it was safe to go back in the mailbox

Oh, how upsetting.

And here I was gearing up to announce an end to the hostilities.

The evil Reliance people dropped their mailing frequency to once per month and then it had been so long I thought it was all over. Thought they'd surrendered. Alas, not so. But while they're down and barely kicking I shall deliever this blow. I pray this will mark the end of the struggle.

Not at this address! Resident has shrunken to one millionth her former size. Now living on a fibre of Dick Beddoes hat at the Hockey Hall of Fame along with seven dust mites named Spiggles, Xorb, Loof-loof, Dusty, Sneebleshnorpenl%%r, Grumpy and Doc. This letter is too big to be received there. Get your Shit together people! It's too big! Write a smaller letter!

Sunday, May 13, 2007

FWG's nugget o' wisdom #51

Someone really should invent a new kind of soft drink that's yellow and tastes like cough medicine and give it a messed up name like Blue Moose or Red Bull or something.

If that wouldn't wig people out enough to wake them up, nothing will.

Saturday, May 12, 2007

Why buy the product when you can buy the promise?

A hypothetical question:

Imagine, if you will, that you’re a man needing a new dress shirt. You go to the mens clothing store and rifle through the packaged shirts – each folded in the standard way and pinned to the standard cardboard and wrapped in the standard clear packaging. You find one that’s labeled your size and you love the colour and style. So you buy it, take it home and unwrap it – and you find that it’s not actually a shirt after all. It’s just coloured paper folded to look like a shirt and on this extravagant pin-striped piece of paper is an elaborate advertisement promising that such a shirt is coming soon – to a menswear store near you. You realize you’ve just purchased nothing more than an advertisement for the very product you thought you had just bought.

What do you do at that point? Is that the point where you finally come to terms with the complete and utter retardation of society? Is that the point where you sell everything you own and buy a king-size suicidal ball of crack or – better yet - a nice thousand-year cryogenic vacation package?

While browsing through used books yesterday I took a gander at some previously-enjoyed movies on DVD. One elaborately packaged title was The Animatrix and promised nine mind-bending short films from the creators of The Matrix. This intrigued me greatly as the movie The Matrix holds a very dear place in my heart being the one and only film to ever approximate my own living experience; my own relationship to humanity.

Imagine how impressed I was after popping in the DVD, watching a sixty-second advertisement for itself, struggling to figure out what was wrong with my DVD player that the menu revealed nothing but dead blackness, then realizing finally that all I had purchased – at standard price – was an advertisement for the product I’d just paid for. Imagine how joyful I was at this.

So – my questions are:

1. Who wants to buy my truck or my jewelry?

And 2. Do you have any message you want me to give to your great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great great grandchildren?

‘Cause I’ve pretty much had it with this place. I’m ready for the rabbit hole.

Monday, May 07, 2007

Short fiction: The Re-Match

Okay, we've established that poetry time is not the cat's meow here in FWG-land. Let's toss some prose up and see if it flies, shall we? Here's a little vignette I spat up spur-o-the-moment yesterday evening - just to explore an idea that was on my mind. It's rough draft. I'm posting it here because it will likely never find life anywhere else - being too vague about a subject too rare for there to exist any mainstream appeal. Also - my short fiction is almost universally abandoned after the first draft. The working title shall be:

The Re-Match

The chamber was round as was the table that stood in the centre of it. Square in shape were each of the twelve windows spaced evenly throughout the single encompassing wall and square was the board that lay on the table. The board was further divided into sixty-four smaller squares each identical in size but alternating in appearance. Every other cell was carved of white marble, the remainder, black.

Small simple figures carved of the same two materials, eight of each, faced one another across four vacant rows of the playing field, each shoulder to shoulder with the others of their breed. Behind the whites, stood a row of slightly taller white figures, formed in the shape of regal or clerical persons, of horses and of castle towers.

Well behind they, in a great chair, sat a figure dressed in a suit of white silk. Opposite him, behind the array identical but black, sat another who might have been the brother of the first, so similar was his face, creased with age below waves of grey - nearly white - hair. Each wore shiny shoes on their feet and shiny gem-encrusted rings on their fingers which, for their appearance might have been crafted by the same fine jeweler that forged the ornate fruit-filled bowl flanking the game board to one side or the two jeweled goblets that together with a crystal carafe flanked on the other.

Gold clinked dully against gold as fingers found the stems of the goblets and rich wine was brought to each man's lips. The movement of the gems on fingers and vessels brought a subtle but swift shifting of coloured light rays refracted and scattered throughout the room and into the conical ceiling as a dusk-bound sun pierced the room through four of the windows, lighting the gemstones and the men's faces and some of the more easterly of the twelve tapestries that hung between every window threading together scenes of battle both gory and of glory; each a fray of man, beast and blood.

In the beams of sunlight dense seas of dust particles flowed through the air in united rhythm like the stars of galaxies. The men withdrew the golden cups from their lips and returned them to the table; the motion bringing harsh disturbance to the floating galaxies of dust, stirring unfathomable havoc; sweeping small worlds away on their whim.

"Bishop to king's bishop five," said he who sat behind the dark ranks. He crossed his legs, clad in black trousers, knee over knee, in the manner women tend to do with ease while many men can not. Pinched between weathered thumb and weathered forefinger, he tugged at the cuff of his red silk jacket, first with one hand upon one sleeve then the other hand upon the other sleeve. He rested his hands then, palms down, the first upon the higher knee and the second upon the first. His limbs all carefully stacked, he dropped his goatee-covered chin, lowering the stern gaze he cast at his clean-shaven opponent.

The man in white sat squarely, forearms capping the arms of his chair. "King to king's knight," he said. Between them the game board and the four ranks of pieces remained untouched and in symmetry.

"Bishop to king six," said the man in red. "Check."

The man in white smiled briefly. "And so begins the inevitable conclusion."

The man in red did not return the smile. "You'll lose the plateau, you know. And soon."

"I know that, Lorcan."

"And there'll be no mercy for your men. They'll be eradicated."

"I realize."

"And the entire hinterlands are doomed to follow. You realize that too."

"So it would seem."

"And there'll be no mercy, Dugan. Not even for the women or children."

"King to king's rook." Said Dugan, looking down at the motionless chessboard.

Lorcan reached down and lifted a blood-red apple from the fruit bowl. He held it by the stem between finger and thumb and twirled it slowly back and forth, setting the apple gently spinning. He held it before his eyes. The reflection of a sun-filled window remained fixed in position as the apple's slick surface moved back and forth. A tiny shadow intruded upon the reflection. Lorcan turned his head toward the window where a dark starling had just alit on the sill. It stared back at him.

"One of yours?" asked Lorcan.


"Nor mine. Bishop to king's bishop five." Lorcan offered a deliberate laugh. "What would your servants say, I wonder, should one walk in here now, and see us together?"

"Not a likely scenario. As you've no doubt observed, there's no door to this room. King to king's knight."

"They'd fall dead from the shock, I expect."

Dugan slipped a hand beneath the breast of his white jacket and pulled out a dagger. He held it out, over the chessboard, gripped at the very base of the blade, spinning it forward, proffering the handle. "And what would your people think, knowing we were here together?"

Lorcan reached out and gently took the long knife's handle into his grip. "Bishop to king six. They’d not be surprised at my presence here. Of course they’d never understand why I don't kill you." He held the blade to the apple and pierced the skin. "Check," he said. He began to peel the skin from the apple in a single narrow strip.

"King to king's rook. Tell me, is there much profit in the annihilating of a civilization?"

"None," said Lorcan. "The order won't come from me." He finished baring the apple. A long single coil of skin dropped through the air and just prior to hitting the floor, it vanished. He began carving off pieces of fruit and delivering them to his mouth on the point of the knife where he removed the morsels using his teeth. "Bishop to king's bishop five," he said between bites.

"King to king's knight."

Lorcan finished with the apple. "Delicious," he said. He dropped the core and it too dissolved into the air. He placed the dagger down on the table. "Bishop to king six." He issued a long sigh. "Check."

"King to king's rook," said Dugan.

"And thus we weave yet another stalemate. How dreary." Lorcan rose from the chair. The bird on the sill fluttered instantly away. The man strode to a standing coat tree and removed the long black cloak that hung from it. With a great sweeping gesture he pulled on the garment.

"One day I'll defeat you, Dugan."

"Of course you won't. Why claim such a thing?"

"I will and you know it. Why deny it?"

Dugan frowned. "Are you speaking of chess or the war?"

"Both are trivial. I speak of neither."

"Oh," said Dugan softly, rising from the chair. He moved toward the other man. "So you speak finally of that which we've never dared discuss. That contest which you won already long ago. Though perhaps you never realized it."

"You mock me."

"I don't. My people are wholly defeated in that arena."

"If that were true, I would recognize the despair in their thoughts."

"No, Lorcan. You won't. I told you. They are defeated in that arena. They no longer recognize themselves. They're wholly defeated and wholly deceived. What more do you want?"

Now Lorcan frowned and deeply so. He moved to a window and stared unblinking into the brilliant sun. "Of course. I see now. You speak the truth. Such a strange victory. I never sensed it. But what happens next?"

"It's already begun," said Dugan. "We fight for escape."

"I had no idea." Lorcan shook his head back and forth, beginning to smile.

"And yet you prevail while you sleep, so steep is your advantage. But still, one day we shall win."

Lorcan's smile faded. "So you shall, clearly. But temporarily. And that time is so very far from now. Much sooner I shall see you in my study for a re-match."

"Of course."

"Until then." Lorcan walked forward, vanishing into the wall.

"So very far indeed," said Dugan aloud. "So very far."

copyright © 2007 Fantasy Writer Guy

Saturday, May 05, 2007

The Magical Steve-o Mystery Tour

As always - spoken words are in regular text, his songs are in italics.

Look at me in this picture. Do I need a tan or what? I look like Whitie McWhitenheimer.

Individually wrapped bacon is good for your heart. Individually wrapped bacon won't make you fart. 'Cause it's not beans! It's not beans. Individually wrapped bacon is not beans!

Will make you teeth turn green.
It tastes like Listerine.

Two peanuts were walking down Queen Street and one was a-salted. Ba-Zing!

Chicken thighs
I want chicken thighs
Much to my surprise

Ham-bone's connected to the
Wiener bone. wiener bone's connected to the

I went to the Slippery Factory once. But I don't like to talk about that.

I'm eating your...

You know what I think? I think your dish washing skills have gone down the drain! That's right. Ever since you got that new job at the Factory of Nuclear Science and Revolutionary Technologies. That's right. I said it! We're going where no man has gone before. To the land of making-shit-up.

It's dryer in here than a nun's vagina.

RIGHT: Grosby Slippery Factory, Beaconsfield, Victoria, Australia. Original owner Mrs. Fanny Ann Gower (1880-1925). Presumably they manufacture slippers.

The preceding concepts are inappropriate for all ages.

Friday, May 04, 2007

The origin of all things

This is just a little quote that I fell in love with and had to share because I find the concept simply enchanting. It's not a quote exactly. It's a new definition for the word hydrogen. The source is surely some cosmologist from twenty or thirty years ago. Alas, I'm unable to offer attribution to the specific scientist. Here it is:

hy·dro·gen [hy-druh-juh n] –noun. a colorless, odorless gas that given enough time, becomes people.

That's all. Sorry if I got you all worked up for nothing!