Jasmine: only a little poison

I walked in happy, satisfied, at ease with the world. Immediately Meghan was suspicious.

"Why are you so happy?"

"Can't a girl just be happy?" I could feel the smile start to fall away but then it got right back up again, the day was too amazing.

"You're too happy, it's not natural." Her eyes narrowed searching my face for answers.

"It's perfectly natural." I said still smiling from ear to ear.

"If you smile to wide your face will get stuck that way," she taunted.

I grinned wider, harder, more brilliantly.

"Please tell me you just got back from Dougs. That you've just finished some delicous meal and that is why you look crazed."

"heh....heh...hehehehehehe"

"Jasmine you didn't" She scolded me, but there was the tiniest hint of a smile as she thought of them suffering. I knew she'd like it too.

"That's illegal" she was right.

"Only partially."

"What's partially illegal about poisoning someone."

"Firstly it's only a little bit of poison, basically enough to cause horrible diarhea and vomitting. Secondly, the part where I took out their cable. Trashing illegal cable isnt a crime, it's a service to... the company."

"A little poison is still illegal."

"I know, yet somehow it all seems worth it."









I wish I could have had this conversation for real

Merry Christmas!

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

-The Fear Five

Meghan: Minnesota

I'm lying curled under quilts, reading, when I happen to glance at the ceiling and see a little black dot. Make that two little black dots. Before I can go back to clicking through my Kindle one of the dots starts to wiggle and make its twisty way along the ceiling. Mildly alarmed I set my Kindle down on my chest and stare intently at the dots. Dot one bumps gently into dot two before continuing on its merry way. Then dot two begins to wiggle along as well. Slowly, as if dreading what they will find, my eyes drag their way along the white ceiling to discover more and more of the little dots. They’re everywhere! Last night I slept under a field of wiggling dots that could have fallen on me or swarmed me in the night; crawled in my mouth and nose and other unpleasant places. Terrified, and holding my kindle above my head for protection, I slowly stand up on the bed to look more closely at the dots and determine exactly what they are. Seeing the black and red patterning I am at first confused, then cheep with joy; they’re ladybugs. I drop my Kindle shield onto the bed and flick a few of the insects from the bed into my hand to coo over them. Two fly away angrily but one crawls over my fingers fascinated. For the next hour I run around the room finding ladybugs on the mirror, in the corners, everywhere. I am mildly afraid of going to sleep tonight, but at least they’re not cockroaches.



-M

Doug: Sitting at a Table

A man sits alone at the kitchen table in his house. Heavy piano floats out of the computer in front of him; that and the scratch of pen on paper are the only sounds in the room. He is bent over a sheet of paper, scratching out ideas and outlines, occasionally muttering something to himself, lining some words out and highlighting others. A book sits above his left hand, opened to the end of a chapter: “Supreme Emergency”. To the right of his furiously writing hand is a stack of papers, “House of Lords Debate on Bombing Policy”. North of these papers a Kettle and tonic on the rocks melts its way slowly to oblivion. The pen, (always pen, for with pens you mean what you say) stops sporadically, as he looks up to check a sentence or two.

He despises this assignment. He knows the answer the teacher wants, but on his own moral grounds cannot bring himself to write the platitudes and soothing words that slip like honey out of the mouth of those not strong enough to recognize that despite all the theories man produces there is only one reality. Bad men exist. They are held at bay by men that are sometimes just as bad, but whose redeeming quality is that they are willing to die so that others may live. The protectors do not question what is right and wrong, because they know. They also know that sometimes reality demands that they do something horrible so that those they protect may live without knowing fear, hate, slavery, death. As long as the monsters hold back the other monsters, the best of man might have some hope of preserving themselves. Of rising above the black night of that threatens to consume all, and bursting into a world of light and glory.

The man knows this and holds it in his heart. It is the flame that keeps him from dropping into shadow. And now he must convince others that his is the lantern that lights the way. It is a worthy task, though a trying one.

As he scratches and studies and scratches some more he finds himself aware of a presence, or rather a lack of one. He knows who it is he pines for. He is content in this moment; his hands and mind at work. But he can’t help knowing that if she sat across from him, listening, arguing, showing him his flaws and strengthening his words that he would be so much more than content.

He would be happy.

But he knows that this is not so. He is a student of necessity and his loneliness is necessary. In the same principles he uses to light the way for others he finds the logic behind his solitude. It is the way of his people, to bring light to the darkness away from those he loves. He knows this and accepts this.

The pen continues to scratch. The notes continue to play. The ice melts its way out of this world. The man sits alone at the table.

-Doug

"These, then are the limits of the realm of necessity. Utilitarian calculation can force us to violate the rules of war only when we are face-to-face not merely with defeat but with a defeat likely to bring disaster to a political community. But these calculations have no similar effects when what is at stake is only the speed or the scope of victory."

-Michael Walzer "Just and Unjust Wars"

Meghan: evil finals

I do not actually have time to write this because I have a lab final in three hours which I should be studying for, but I haven't written in a while so I figure I should. My birthday was yesterday; and since turning 21 I haven't had a single sip of alcohol. I am upset. Jasmine and I went out for cake and it was wonderful but the waitresses were probably confused when I began salivating and gnawing on the beverage section of the menu. I'm sure they would have understood if I had informed them of my condition of forced sobriety, given that I had to drive my girlfriend home. I could have gotten deliciously drunk and had her drive but I was afraid. And now there are all of these finals and tests and final papers. Stupid school. When my lab partners arrive I find myself overwhelmed with the urge to drain their blood into some a pan and try to chemically extract alcohol from it. One of them likes beer, I'm sure she would have some sort of blood alcohol level. Or I could water down the pure ethanol that they keep under the chemical hood. Or I could just wait until thursday afternoon when I'm free from tests until next week, so I can be drunk all weekend long. It's not that I even have a tendency towards being drunk, I dislike the idea of drinking often, but when I find myself kept from my newly given freedoms I boil with rage. Hopefully I can direct that rage at chemistry for the next few hours.
Hopefully...


-Meghan

Jasmine: My Toe

not sure if this is relevent. pretty sure it's not interesting to anyone but me. but I was bored at work and I don't really do short stories very well.

So a little over a month ago I either broke or sprained the little toe on my left foot. Yes my little toe. I was on the way to the hot tub in the dark and there was some uneven sidewalk that I managed not to see despite it being painted a bright yellow. So, I screwed up my toe and the doctor told me that it could be either broken or sprained and that the only way to tell was to get an x-ray which they couldn't do there, however the treatment and healing time was the same for both so I chose to not know what happened.

Since my "accident" I only recently started climbing again on a regular basis and it has sucked. Or I have. Meghan gets mad at me for saying how much I sucked, but I felt self concious, I was almost to the V4 level before and after I was barely climbing v2s. Anyways yesterday was the first day I felt like I didn't truly suck. I spent the first half hour falling off of the same damn climb that Eli bastard that he is showed me. It's a climb made for tall people on one part and short people on the other part. I can do it, not that I've finished it yet, but I'm physically capable of doing it. I didn't use to feel that way. After not finishing that climb though I went on to finish two other climbs that had been giving me trouble, one of them a V3 was easy peasy.

I go climbing again tomorrow. My toe still hurts because it keeps getting stepped on and I keep forgetting to ice it, but it's functional and I will climb on it. a lot.

not sure if this is relevent. pretty sure it's not interesting to anyone but me. but I was bored at work and I don't really do short stories very well.

Doug: Please

Please.

Please God let everyone I know live through this night. I've done everything I can on this end. I need you to take care of the rest. I'm asking you to take care of the rest.

Not tonight. Not today. Please see those I know and even those I don't though the Valley. I can't do this without you.

Please.

-Doug

Meghan: He just wants to be understood

In Which: Dr. Frankenstein’s Monster Tries to Make Peace with his Creator


WARNING
The Jerry Springer Show may contain adult themes or strong language. Parents are cautioned that this program may not be suitable for children.

A joyful crowd can be heard clapping and chanting, “JERRY! JERRY! JERRY! JERRY!” A smiling Jerry Springer is walking among them, shaking hands here and there. Eventually the people calm and sit in their seats.
Jerry smiles into the camera, “Welcome to the show. My guests are here today to fix a long lost relationship.”
The screen pans to a horrifying man-shaped beast who dwarfs the plush chair that he sits on. The daemon waves shyly to the crowd and a few women faint.
Jerry continues nonchalantly, “This is Dr. Frankenstein’s Monster; please tell us why you’re here today sir?”
The daemon clears his throat and begins his story in a cultured voice, “I have come here seeking the man who would call himself my father. He has abandoned me.”
The crowd answers this statement with heartfelt ‘boos’.
“Do you know why your father abandoned you in this way?” Jerry asks as he cocks a concerned brow.
The monster chuckles dryly and gestures towards himself, “As you can see, I am no pleasure to look at, but even so I feel that the one who made me has a responsibility to live with what he has made.”
Jerry nods, eyes narrowed as if deep in thought, “Well we have Dr. Frankenstein backstage now.”
The monster perks up in his chair, “You do?”
“Yes,” Jerry continues, “He doesn’t know that he’s come to meet you specifically, he has been called here to meet a ‘long lost friend.’”
The monster throws an anticipatory glance at the curtain that hid the backstage.
Jerry gestures towards the cameras, “Well I guess it’s time to bring out Dr. Frankenstein to meet his son.”
A skinny man in a grungy lab coat stumbles out of the curtains to the jeers of the crowd. He looks around wildly and when his gaze lands on the monster he seems to shrivel into himself. His eyes bulge and his hands creep along the walls behind him like he’s looking for an escape. The taunting of the crowd dies off in puzzlement at the extremeness of his horror in seeing his creation.
Dr. Frankenstein stretches out a white shaky finger towards his monster, “Murderer!” He whispers hoarsely.
“What do you mean by this accusation?” Jerry asks in a puzzled voice.
The doctor pinwheels his arms wildly, “Go! You’re all in danger! This monster is a murderer! Run for your lives!”
The audience cheers happily at this exciting turn of events.
The monster smoothes his jacket agitatedly, “Father please, last time was a terrible mistake-“
“A mistake?!” Dr. Frankenstein roars, “You killed-you killed…” He breaks down into sobs.
Jerry roams the audience, and stops by a man with a raised hand. He holds his microphone by the man’s mouth for his question,
“Yeah I was just wonderin’” The man drawls around his gum, “Why your daddy should take you back when you’re so ugly?”
One of the monster’s eyes twitches.
Jerry moves on to another audience member, they continue the abuse: “Do you have some sort of Daddy complex or something? Who cares? Move on!”
“Jerry! Jerry! Jerry! Jerry! Jerry!” The audience begins chanting again.
The monster’s eye twitches again and he slowly rises to his feet, staring menacingly at the audience. Though the bouncers for the show are only as tall as his chin, they attempt to form a loose barrier between him and the audience.
But when the crowd started chanting, “Ugly! Ugly! Ugly!” The floodgates break.
“I knew coming on this show was a bad idea.” The monster sys in a thoughtful tone before he launches himself over the bouncers and into the crowd.
“Tune in next week for Confessions of an Angry Porn Star,” Jerry says frantically into a camera as screams can be heard in the background, “This has been the Jerry Springer Show.”


-M

Dear Sarah

You have once again deleted your post. stop doing that.

Other four people of The Fearsome Fivesome

Meghan: Dreaming in many colors

It was a lazy summer afternoon in the afterlife when Joseph stepped into Mr. Freud’s Psychotherapeutic office. Sunbeams drifted in through the many windows and manic depressives rocked in the corners but Joseph didn’t see any of it; he was intent on the appointment that he had had to make months in advance. Dr. Freud was very popular and even Joseph of the many colored coat had had to scrounge to see him. Joseph had barely settled into a chair in the waiting room when the beady-eyed receptionist called him to the back rooms. Nervously, he reclined onto a comfortable couch and waited for the doctor to arrive.
When Dr. Freud entered the room Joseph sprang up to greet him.
“Doctor, it’s so good of you to see me!”
“Please lay back on the couch.” The doctor said, waving a hand holding a sheaf of notes, “Tell me what’s on your mind.”
“Well, it’s my dreams,” Joseph said nervously, lying back on the couch, “I’m worried I’ve lost my connection with God.”
Dr. Freud scribbled furiously on the papers he held, “God, you say?”
Joseph sighed, “Yes, normally he’s so straightforward and tells me what to do but I haven’t heard his voice in a while.”
Dr. Freud’s pen halted on the paper, “You hear his voice?” he asked in an interested tone.
“Yes.”
“I see.” More sounds of writing were heard, “Do you hear it in your dreams, or when you’re awake?”
“Both.”
“And what sorts of things does he tell you?”
“Well one time I dreamed that the sun, moon, and eleven stars were bowing down to me; which I think meant that God wanted my brothers to bow down to me.”
Dr. Freud cleared his throat, “Do you often think that others should bow down to you?”
Joseph furrowed his brow, “No, I don’t think that others should bow down to me, but if that’s what God wants, then…”
Dr. Freud sighed, “If we are to make progress delving into the depths of your psyche you must be honest with me Joseph.”
“I am being honest with you!” Joseph protested
“All right.” Dr. Freud soothed. He rang his receptionist to bring a soothing cup of tea for his patient before asking Joseph to continue describing what God had asked him to do.
“Well...” Joseph said as he sipped unsteadily at his tea, “One time he told me that a man I was imprisoned with was going to die while another one was going to live.”
“I see.”
“And he helped me to correctly interpret the pharaoh’s dream so I could become the pharaoh’s advisor.”
“Interesting.”
“But now his voice has abandoned me.” Joseph wailed, covering his face with his hands, “All I hear are the people around me and all I dream about are things like talking birds and purple ham. What is wrong with me?” He looked imploringly at Dr. Freud, who set down his pen and looked over his notes.
“I believe you have made a terrible mistake in taking what was meant to be symbolic seriously; that is, your dreams. It seems you have no filter for differentiating the fantastic unreal creations of your mind from reality. Your dreams as they are now, with no higher being communicating to you through them, that is how they should be interpreted. Mr. Joseph, I am not a member of the clergy and I can’t tell you that the voice in your head is the voice of God. To me, the voice in your head means that you are very sick.”
“What can I do about it?” Joseph asked sadly.
“I can give you some medicine so the voices don’t come back, or you can go to the church down the street.”
Joseph stood up and looked pensively down at Dr. Freud, “Thank you for your help, but I think I will go to the church. I think I am meant to be a holy man with a vision rather than a raving lunatic with a disease.”


-M

Meghan: La hospital

Mi corazón late sólo para ti,
pero tu corazón no puede latir más para el mío
la esposa pequeña, la esposa pequeña,
¿a dónde vas sin mí?
eres como una mariposa moribunda
en estos fríos meses de invierno
si pudiera poner el sol en el cielo
¿me esperarías?

Sé,
que volarás sin mí
pero, sé,
que me esperarás,
mi esposa pequeña,
mi mariposa pequeña.





-M

Jasmine: Nanowrimo

Every November there is a competition. A wild, crazy, haphazard event with no tangible prize, no blue ribbon, nothing but a stack of pages that you yourself have made, but might not have otherwise made had it not been for the competitive air of this particular month. November is not only a month where many people refuse to shave their bodies it is national novel writing month! Starting November 1st we few who choose to do this have exactly 30 days to write fifty thousand words. a small novel or the beginning to a large one.

truthfully I meant to post this before November got here and get you all to write with me, but I forgot about the whole project until November 4th.

I started doing this four years ago and that first year was really my best year. every year since life has managed to screw me over. stupid life. but this year i try again. I'm not doing so well. i have probably about eight thousand words maybe ten, it's mostly in writing form and not automatic wordcount form. but there's thirteen days left on the clock and i have to write about three thousand words a day in order to make my count. It might happen. I've had days where i wrote six thousand words in a single sitting. but those days are past.

I was going to write more about my style of writing and the critiques on it that Meghan has recently given me, but I think I'll go write my story instead. bye.

Doug: Warmth

It’s cold in the house. Our windows are single pane, and some of them don’t close all the way. Our heater works, but my room is a weird addition, clearly not part of the original house plans, and none of the vents lead into it. But even with the heater the cold seeps in, it’s fingers finding their way between your toes, wrapping their way around your shoulders, and finding its way into the deepest marrow of your bones.

Some rooms are warmer than others. Oddly enough the basement is usually the warmest. Eric’s room takes the cake though, with an Xbox and computer running pretty much constantly, and a vent, he’s got it made. The living areas are okay. Though late at night when the heater shuts off the cold begins to find its way through the cracks.

Against this dark night is the fireplace. During the day it sits, empty, dark, with the dead bones of the last inferno scattered about. These bones, and the pile of stacked cordwood next to the fireplace, make coy promises of future comfort.

During the night it blazes. Light, heat, glory, all these radiate from the hearth. I see four pairs of feet worm themselves closer… closer, like Icarus they reach for the light. The light that spreads out like spilled honey encompasses the room, illuminating faces, smiles. A flash of light as a few loose rays are reflected off a pair of glasses. A hand searches and finds another, fingers lock in a loose, familiar fashion. Later there is marshmallows, chocolate, delicious sugary goodness. Sparks fly up as another log is thrown on; a sacrifice for the hungry god that protects us from the darkness.

The twined hands walk upstairs. They’re going to keep themselves warm.

The glasses and I stare at the fire for a long time. We speak in low tones. Not for fear of waking anyone up, but simply because it seems appropriate. Words flow out like water from a lazy creek. No rush, no hurry, nothing serious or complicated.

Observations, friendly jokes, stories of days gone by; the hours pass until the light and heat burns down. Eventually a comfortable silence falls, filled only by the snapping of the coals as they burn their way to oblivion.

Outside lies the cold dark night. Here in the warm center of my universe, all is well.

-Doug

"Dude. It's a tricorder."
-Marty Brantner, on the GE Healthcare Vscan

Meghan: sleepwalking

She ground the heels of her hands into her eyes to try to clear her vision. It seemed like the memories were gathering there like cobwebs, clotting in her temples and snagging on her eyelashes whenever she closed her eyes. It didn't help that the park that spread out before her was full of a thick fog. When here hands failed to clear her vision she tried aimlessly to push at the haze, as if it would somehow take form under her fingers and she could mold it aside like snow. Pulling her robe closer against the chill she continued to walk barefoot along the grass. Scraps of it stuck to her feet, she could hear sprinklers spraying water somewhere a ways off. When she came to the playground she wondered vaguely why no one was playing on the equipment. It looked tired and old, but still workable. Some of the swings swayed gently in the mist, as if children had just stepped off of them and hid in the surrounding trees at her approach. She sat in one of the seats, grimacing at the rusty squeal it gave at her weight. She dug her bare heels into the damp sand at her feet and laid her head against one of the swing's chains. As she drifted off to sleep again she thought she could see the shadows of children creeping back to play.



-M

Jasmine: Patterns

Most peoples lives are centered around a schedule. Students especially fall into this category because every day you have class at specific times which are the same every week for a semester. But everyone follows schedules. Even people who don't have jobs with regular hours find ways to structure their lives around some kind of a schedule. They buy groceries the same time and place every week, or work out the same time and place, meet their friends for a meal. Humans crave this kind of "normalcy?"

It's interesting to me that we need this structure. That when your particular pattern is disrupted for some reason until it equalizes again you are in a state of upheaval. I noticed it mostly in myself getting used to working a night shift and sleeping during the day, finding a new time to do everything. It was exhausting. But now that it's equalized it's much less exhausting, I don't have to plan day to day what's going to happen because I know that this is when I'm going to sleep and do homework and go to class.

On vacations you take a break from your schedule and it isn't exhausting it's rejuvenating. Possibly because we know that our structured lives will be there when we return?

It's kind of a depressing thought that humans are so predictable, that spontanaity is against our true natures. I would suggest that we all try doing things differently for a week but our lives would disolve. We need to go to class at that specific time, or work. If we don't do our homework when we have planned there won't be any other time for us to work on it. If we don't buy the groceries what will we eat. Our scheduling is boring, but it's also the easiest route to get what we want out of life. When we change it we make it harder on us... also on assassins. So unless there's a hit out on your life yay patterns?

Doug: Major Z's Letter

Gents, Ladies. This is a letter that Marine Major Doug Zimbiec, a La Cueva grad, wrote to the children of a fallen Marine friend of his. It's sad, but worth a read. These are the kind of men that are Marines. Both the subject of the letter, and the letter writer. I can only hope to live up to the example they both have set.

Dear Kiana and Alek,

Ray and I had a conversation late May in 2004 while we were deployed to Iraq. He spoke of why he fought. He fought to give the people of Iraq a chance. He fought to crush those who would terrorize and enslave others. He fought to protect his fellow Marines.

The last thing he told me that day was, "I don't want any of these people (terrorists) telling my kids how to act, or how to dress. I don't want to worry about the safety of my children." Kiana and Alek, your father fought for many things, but always remember, he fought for you.

As you fight this battle we call life, you will find your challenges greater, your adversity larger, your enemies more numerous. The beautiful thing is, you will grow stronger, smarter, faster, and you will overcome the obstacles in your way.

No one could've better prepared you than your father. In the month and a half your family stayed with me in Laguna Niguel, Calif., while waiting for base housing to open up, I saw how, with the help of your incredible mother, he instilled in you the essentials to life:

Live with integrity, for without integrity we deceive ourselves, we live in a house of cards.

Fight for what you believe, for without valor, we lose our freedom.

Be willing to sacrifice, for anything worthy in life requires sacrifice.

Be disciplined, for it is discipline that builds the foundation of your success.

You will encounter misguided people in your life who may question America's attempt to help the people of Iraq and the Middle East. These pathetic windbags, who have nothing so sacred in their lives that they would be willing to fight for it, will argue and debate endlessly on what we should've done.

While they criticize, they forget the truth, or conveniently overlook the fact that it takes men and women of action, willing to make a sacrifice, to free the enslaved, to advance the cause of freedom.

Our great nation was built on the shoulders of men like your father. While the nay-sayers and cowards hid in the shadows sniveling that nothing was worth dying for, men like your dad carved our liberty away from the English, freed the slaves and kept the Union together, saved Europe from the Germans twice; rescued the Pacific away from the Japanese, defeated communism, and right now, fight terrorism and plant the seeds of democracy in the Middle East.

Your father was a warrior, but being a warrior is not always about fighting. He was patient with those he led, and he understood people make mistakes. He cared about the men he led as if they were his own family. To him, they were. His work ethic was tremendous. But he made time for his family, to enjoy life. He was balanced, at equilibrium. He was an inspiration. He was my friend.

In your future, when you are pushed against a wall, in a tight spot, outnumbered and seemingly overwhelmed, it may be tempting to give up, or even use the absence of your father as a crutch, as an excuse for failure.

Don't. Your father's passing, while tragic, serves as an endless source of your empowerment. Your father would not want you to wallow in self-pity. I know you will honor him by living your life in the positive example he set. Respect and remember him. Drive on with your lives. Serve something greater than yourself. Enjoy all the good things that life has to offer. That is what he would want.

Kiana! I have never met a more capable young lady in my life. You are the most well-read, articulate, disciplined young person I know. Often I tell people of the arm-bar you demonstrated on me in your parents' garage. When you become a worldwide Judo champion, I will say with great pride, "that woman nearly torqued my shoulder out when she was 11 years old!"
If my daughter grows up with a quarter of the strength of your principles, determination and intelligence, she will be an incredible human being. Like your mother, you are a beautiful woman, a fact of which you should be proud.

Alek! You are blessed with your father's strength of character and his unbreakable will and his broad shoulders. Your mother gave you her determination and unwavering mental toughness.
Your mother told me the story of you hanging up the sign, "Be a leader, not a follower." My eyes well up every time that I think of you doing that. My eyes fill not with tears of sadness, but of pride, to know you grasped the mindset your father passed on to you. This mindset will allow you to be a leader and protector like your father, and one day, to raise an upright, solid-as-a-rock family of your own.

When I look in your eyes, I see your father. Courageous, determined and resolute, your father embodied all that is virtuous in a warrior. Even now, you strive to embody his same character. Remember, there will never be any pressure for you to be exactly like your father. Be your own man, but build your character in his image.

Many people may be concerned about your future because of the early passing of your father. I don't worry at all. Your dad gave you all you ever need to become a great woman and a great man. I know your father would have told you to be your own hero/heroine. Don't wait for someone to rise up and lead you to victory, to your goals. If you do, you might wait for a very long time.

Ray died as a warrior, sword in hand, in service of his country, his comrades and you, his loved ones. His spirit and example give us all hope, reaffirms our faith. Your father reminds us there are men willing to fight for people that they don't even know so that all may live in peace.

I joined the Corps to serve beside men like your father. There is no other Marine I'd rather have protecting my flank in combat than your dad. Even now, as I write this letter in Iraq, I will honor him on the field of battle by slaying as many of our enemies as possible, and fight until our mission is accomplished.

You will always be in our lives. Please stay in touch. We will always be in your corner for assistance, advice or just conversation. Pam and I plan to retire in Idaho and would love for you to visit us so we can take you white-water rafting and mountain climbing.

Very Respectfully,
Doug

Major Doug Zimbiec was killed in in May 11, 2007, in Baghdad.

"Never forget those that were killed. And never let rest those who killed them."
-Major Zimbiec.

Sarah: This is Interesting

Go watch the movie "What's your Raashee?" It's Bollywood, over three hours long, and will have you googling astrological signs all day long.

~Sarah


http://zodiac-traits.com/taurus-man-sagittarius-woman.html

Progression of Relationship: There will be little logic to the progression of the relationship. Neither sign is inclined to follow rules. They will quickly sense that about one another and work out a shared agenda for getting together. Sagittarius moves a lot faster than Taurus, but she will keep busy in other ways until he catches up with her. Both signs have a marvelous sense of humor. Tauruses are among the funniest people alive and Sagittarius' other epithet is "the Clown." Humor is a rare quality that they share.

How to Attract a Sagittarius Woman as a Taurus Man: Well, um, try not to fawn over her too much. Chances are she's busy, has lots of friends and activities, and likes to be independent. You'll have to convince her that you don't want to put a fence around her -- even though that's exactly what you want to do.A Taurus man can be very possessive. You may honestly think you have a right to own her, and there isn't a Sag gal in the universe that won't jump that fence and run free. But let her do it -- she'll come back. Not to worry. Try to take her somewhere fun, even if it means getting off the couch for a night -- and try not to be cheap about it either.

http://www.ask-oracle.com/sign-compatibility/taurus-man-sagittarius-woman/

These two sincerely focus on and enjoy the purely physical side of sex, but beyond that have quite a different approach to it. Taurus views sex as a way for him to connect with his lover on a deeper level and deepen their emotional connection. Sagittarius, on the other hand, looks at sex as something that is genuinely fun. She’s passionate and genuinely enthusiastic, but does not get bogged down with being overly sentimental. While he’s attempting to gaze deeply into her eyes, she will be distracted with nibbling at his ear. She is more likely to view sex as something casual that does not have to go along with a relationship, while he is less likely than other men to pursue meaningless sex. The mixed signals going on in the bedroom may further complicate and confuse what is going on outside of it.

Doug: Exhaustion

Exhaustion licks at the corners of my eyelids, but a sense of... not success but satisfaction fills me. Not only did I get my entire 8 page Amphibious Warfare paper done, in one night I might add, I also built an entire presentation on the battle for Tarawa from the ground up and presented it this morning. Both operations were a complete success. This does not thrill me. Victory is something I've always expected of myself.

But I am pleased.

The fact that I was up until 0130 last night and I ran six miles this morning is but icing on the cake. I deserve this. I deserve to go home and sleep. But there's one thing I'm going to do first.

Eat myself a goddamn American hamburger. In a German bar. And it's not even a burger, it's a bratwurst. But I'm in America. And I've been looking forward to it all week. So go eat some glass if you're a hater.

It's the freakin weekend baby. Christ, is this skippy mindset what Jasmine feels all the time? That's piles of suck. Oh well. One more week. Then Birthday ball. Fuckin' Rah.

-Doug

"How sweet it is to be loved by you."
-James Taylor

Meghan: Word Soup

I have half an hour until chemistry in which I don’t want to study, but I doubt I can write something meaningful in so short a period. Does every post have to be a meaningful revelation? Why yes it does, otherwise who would read it? I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t even write it. And the words are here, aren’t they? So it must be meaningful. Mahahaha I trapped you with logic, now you have to read it. Except for those of you who will now pull away and not read it because of your inner need to be illogical, your drive to swim against the tide. Those of you I can’t trap with my intoxicating words I will now suck through the computer screen into the black hole of my domain. Here I come. Wait for it.
...
...
...
Ah, tasty brains.



-M

Sarah: A Moment in Time

Its quiet. The calm humm of the refrigerator behind me and fan under my computer remind me that sounds exist. The loudest sound in the room is the typing of my fingers. This is a typical night once I've completed my chores, made my phone calls, gone to the store, and come home from school. Soon I will study.

I haven't posted in awhile. There hasn't been much to say. Same reason Abe hasn't posted, based on our conversation at Meghan's. There is no news. What are we supposed to say? The relationships in my life have ups and downs. They come and go, like seasonal rains germinating new growth. School is chaotic. Everything in school changes - due dates, test dates, the material, classes, teachers, grades, scores, times - but it all evens out into an equilibrium. Usually.

But, how I do miss passion! I used to find it in so many things as a child. I had so much curiosity and fire for life. Now, I feel like an eternal teenager. I find something and my love of it burns so quickly. Can anyone relate?

Sincerely,
Sarah

Doug: Quiet Optimism

I recline in front of Denny hall watching the leaves fall. Today is Thursday. Thursday is my holy day of rest. I have skipped War and Society in order to be properly prepared for Hebrew, and I find myself with fifteen spare minutes before that class. Hebrew is my hardest class. It's an entirely different language with entirely different everything. No vowels, kind of, two completely different scripts, and a completely screwed up way of pronouncing everything. EVERYTHING.

Still, my prof makes it entertaining. She's a loudmouthed Israeli who doesn't seem to believe in personal space or volume control. Best part is she's also a law student. I cannot imagine dad ever going to school with anyone like this, but then again, Tucker Max got a law degree, so I guess anything can happen. Her name is Hadar (pronounced Haddoh)and she's pretty awesome.

But none of that is on my mind right now. Right now I'm relaxing on the steps of Denny hall, watching the leaves fall and thinking about how beautiful fall is. The rain of dying leaves is just so pretty that it's hard to remember that winter is coming, though the temperature outside makes that fact pretty obvious. I am struck with a fragment of inspiration for my Bigstory and I file it in the back of my head where I've been keeping all my fragments. It'll come together, not now because i'm busy, but it will. I've got faith.

I've got a lot of faith recently. Not the 'Jesus loves me' type faith, because I don't get that. But the 'This is life, and no matter how dark it gets it'll be okay." kind of faith. I'm good with that. Quiet optimism. These leaves and the squirrels raiding the trees for food and the people walking by to and from class give me a quiet optimism. I guess that's the word for it.

There's a lot going on in and around me. But right now, right here, I've got a quiet moment all to myself. Sometimes that's all you can ask for.

-Doug

"Westward from the Davis straight t'is there t'was said to lie,
The sea route to the orient for which so many died,
Seeking gold and glory, leaving weathered, broken bones,
And a long forgotten lonely cairn of stones."
Stan Rodgers "Northwest Passage"

Jasmine: Mindlessly Tired

I spend many of my days in a world that's just a little bit fuzzy around the edges. no i'm not doing drugs. most of you know my stance on drugs. I'm also not doing sleep. This isn't a choice I would normally make. In fact when I have the choice I fall immediately asleep for however long I am able. It's a choice I am forced to make because I want to be what it is that I want to be.

I recently started a job at a nursing home. An assisted living home actually, I think there is some distinction between the two but i'm not entirely certain what it is. Part of my reason for this job is that Kaufman's drastically cut down my hours to the point where I couldnt live off my wages. The other part is I want to get into medical school and need patient care experience.

I applied for the job a few weeks ago and that night I was working. They had an opening, actually a lot of openings for the graveyard shift. I was uneasy at first at the thought of working graveyard, afterall when would I sleep? I know better now, I simply dont sleep. But no other shift would work for me anyways stupid school. So I go to school and to work and a few nights a week along with a few hours in a random afternoon I get sleep.

I miss it. Sleep. I'm struggling to stay awake right now as I write this, but I have a test I need to leave for in 15 minutes so no sleep, not till after the test, then I have some sweet black nothing coming to me.

Meghan: Fall Break

“Are you sure?” I asked Jasmine for what had to be the hundredth time.
“I have no idea.” She answered again, peering at the house where we were to stay the night, “You’re the one who got the directions.”
It was fall break and Jasmine and I had decided to go camping. Unfortunately the lovely camping site we had chosen was booked through the break so we had had to deviate to something different. I had suggested a nudist retreat. More specifically, a nudist bed and breakfast that we had researched during the summer and had never gone to. So we called and they had an opening. But the calling process left me filled with suspicion. The bed and breakfast didn’t really have a website, only a phone number and email with which to reach the hostess. The hostess then gave me directions to her remote hotel which we drove to the next day. So here we had arrived, deeply concerned that the whole thing was just a website designed to lure naked helpless victims into some psychopath’s clutches. The bed and breakfast itself is quite near to Doug’s house and looks just like every other house there. This made me even more worried that there were people laughing in the bushes with cameras.
“Are you sure?”
“Let’s just go check.” Jasmine slid from the car to go ring the doorbell. I slowly walked behind her, scanning the area for any potential murderer or hoax. Unfortunately there was no one there. The hostess called me and said she was running a bit late so we went for coffee, then came back and made our suspicious approach once more. This time we were greeted at the door by a stout, cheerful, and completely naked woman. Trying to remain calm I pulled my little suitcase in and looked around at the cute house. It did look like a bed and breakfast, with the table set and an aqua blue pool glimmering in the backyard. We introduced ourselves and I tried to tell her early in the conversation that I had never done this before so she would understand the look in my eyes as a new nudist and not the serial killer gleam. She showed us the bathroom and our room, then we stripped down to towels while I fugitively glanced at the door every few seconds, worried that the hostess was going to pop up in the doorway and see me.
We went out to the pool and the hostess told us her life story about how she had turned to the ways of nudism. What is interesting about nudism is that it’s almost shameful to have any type of sexual contact when people are nude and in public. Even kissing is frowned upon as flagrant, probably because it is so much easier to take things further faster when there are no clothes whatsoever. So larger people, like the hostess feel more comfortable because others don’t evaluate their bodies when they’re naked. After talking we got to swim and hot tub which was lots of fun. Then there was amazing, amazing dinner, for which we had to put on constrictive clothing and go out. Jasmine kept tugging at her clothes, I was concerned that she had gotten too used to the nudist life and was going to rip them off and run free.
That afternoon we played card games by the side of the pool (actually I’m not sure if we played cards before or after we left for dinner) then we swam again at night. The sky and stars were beautiful, and I was no longer afraid of nudists. Later that night we played dominoes with the hostess before going to sleep. When we woke up there were eggs and French toast.
It was fun, I loved it and can’t help but wonder what would life be like if everywhere were this way.



-M

Doug: I want.

I sit here and listen as brantner plays evanesance off heather’s IPod. I can hear the words, and I know the song well. Emotional, beautiful, soul rending. Maybe not soul rending, but a good song none the less. We’ve been drinking since ten, it’s now two oh eight. I’ve done nothing but bitch about how bitter I am about the Adrienne situation all night. Still, we played darts. We ate a good dinner at sSulzy’s. we watched the huskies get their shit wrecked by ASU. This is my life. Tomorrow I’m going to go out and try and find a car. I will survive this. I swear I will. I won’t let this break me, because I’m better than that. I don’t know why I feel this way. I wasn’t in love with this girl. Not for a second. Maybe it’s because I valued her on the same level as Marty, or Abe. A friendship so powerful it could accomplish anything. I trusted her, and because I trusted her my violation of her trust is so devastating. I don’t want to be this guy. Wasting my life thinking of a girl. But here I am, typing away at this stupid blog I wont even post. I’ve got to solve this or it’s going to kill me. One way or another, this has got to end soon. I’m not sure I can handle the things eating away at my brain. There’s monsters up there, and every single one of them is my own creation.

I built this armor, and this reputation. Yet, as I discover everything about the consequences of what I’ve created, the less and less inclined I am to value it. I certainly never want to be the scared kid with no experience. But there’s not much to be said for the experienced bitter guy either. I feel. I feel? What is this, some kind of sick pity party? I need to get over myself and clear my head. Get in the game. Well. At least get over the things I’ve done. But it’s true. As Admiral Adama says, “Sooner or later, you can’t hide from the things you’ve done.” Man was he right. That was another thing we were supposed to do. Watch Battlestar all the way through. Guess that’s never going to happen. Now Marty’s punching the air and I’m kind of freaked out. But I’m drunk enough not to worry. In fact. I’m drunk enough not to worry about most things. I mean, clearly everything will be okay, because that’s how it’s been before. Every time I do something serious, God, fate, or whoever gives me a good ending. It’s like… I dunno, being able to have infinite do overs. Probably there’s a justification for my behavior there, but really, what if I don’t get to do this one over? What if I don’t get a second chance? I almost can’t wrap my brain around the consequences of that one. What if my actions have permanently damaged something? Will I grow up and face it? Or will I just brush it off and go on playing god with people’s emotions?

I know what Adrienne would say. We used to play games. Who could be the most horrible. We used to think we were so superior, emotionless, uncomplicated people that were better than the rest of the peons around us. But she didn’t know. I knew, but I didn’t care. Because, while I love who I love, I feel like I’m not bound by the same sense of morality. She’d have two responses. One is the robot. “Of course you should be evil, armored, invincible. You’re an evil mindless robot.” But there would be that other answer too. The one she would give in all seriousness. “Get your shit together Wood. I used to think you were better than this, until you proved me wrong.”

I know who I should believe. I know who I should listen to. Even drunk Doug Wood knows that. But I did spend all this time investing in the dark side. It seems a shame to waste all that emotional adjustment. But the fact remains. I know what’s right and what’s wrong. Doesn’t mean I’ll follow it all the time. Just means I know.

I’m not perfect. But god damn it. I want my friend back.

-Doug

Doug: Surrender

A girl stands alone in the center of a warehouse like room, illuminated by a pillar of bright sunlight. The edges of the room sit in deep shadow, the contrast between the two making the darkness impenetrable to her eyes. But she does not need to see to know that monsters lurk in the shadows.

Breathing deep, she raised her face to the sunlight, trying to somehow absorb its protective power. The warmth seemed to wash over and through her, passing but never remaining. After a minute she sighed and brought her face back down. “Of course that only works in the books.” A soft, almost resigned smile comes to her face. “I don’t suppose you’re one of those vampires that have a thing for pretty human girls that are the antithesis of everything you are?”

A dark chuckle emitted from the darkness directly in front of her.

The girl’s smile changed from resigned to slightly hopeful. “A sense of humor! That’s a good sign.”

“There’s nothing good about me, little one.” The voice was now behind her, and she twisted to look; eyes narrowed to penetrate the darkness.

“I’m sure that’s not true…” her voice wavered a little bit. He had put the fear back into her. She tried to move her arms across her chest in a defensive position, but the clanking of the shackles around her wrists reminded her that there was no defense possible. Swallowing hard, she forced her arms to stay straight at her sides, though she could not keep her hands from shaking ever so slightly.

Silence answered her. The pillar of sunlight had shifted slightly; it was no longer straight down upon her, but canted ever so slightly as the world turned. As its path continued, the light would slowly leave her body, from bare feet to the rich brown locks on her head. She would be unable to see her fate until the last second. It was both a torture and a mercy.

“Why wear that?” The monster at the edges of her vision asked, menace and irony in his voice.

She was confused for a second and then realized that the vampire was commenting on her dress. It was red little number with black lace that accentuated the plunging neckline and bare arms. The corset was ripped a little bit from where she had resisted her captors.

“I think they thought you would like it.” The girl examined it for the first time.
“This is just ridiculous.”

“Agreed. Snake owners do not dress the mice they feed to the pythons.” The voice got darker somehow, and the girl thought she could detect a hint of anger.

“You object to the entrée?” Her hand shot up to her mouth, unable to believe she’d just antagonized the vampire.

“I object to being FED.” The last word made the hairs on the back of her neck crawl. “I do not object to eating. In fact, the meal looks quite delicious.”

Despite the fear and sickening sensation that she was about to die the girl was oddly flattered. “Oh.” She looked down at her bare feet, realizing with a little start that the sun had already moved enough that they were in shadow. “Oh shit.”

“Time’s running out.” The dark chuckle again.

At that the dam broke. “Ohshitohshitohshit.” She scrambled, stepping back against her chains, attempting to get all of herself back into the sunlight. But it was too late, no matter how she move a part of her stayed in shadow.

“Stop that.” A low growl, the voice carrying over her, “It won’t help you.” There wasn’t regret in the voice, but there was softness. The monster knew how this ended; with blood and fear and death. The brown haired, dark eyed beauty could expect nothing less than death, but she through the tears and the terror that it wouldn’t be so bad.

After a few more minutes of crying, she managed to pull herself together enough to ask the most pressing thing on her mind: “Will it hurt?” She knew it was trivial, the monster couldn’t care less if it hurt her. Once it’s fangs were inside all reasonable thought would flee, and she would soon be just an empty piece of meat.

The voice did not answer for a long time. It was all the answer she needed. The sunlight continued to flee, stopping now at the girl’s knees. Her calves and feet were in darkness, yet still she lived. She held onto this fact, clutching at it like a lifeboat. Maybe he wouldn’t kill her. Maybe…

“It can hurt.” The voice finally said. “It can also be like floating off into a dream. It depends on the control involved.” There was hunger in that voice. “It depends on how long it’s been since the last one.”

The girl didn’t want to know how long it had been since the last one, but the monster answered her unspoken question. “A long time.”

“This day just gets better and better.” The sarcasm was back, clearly a coping mechanism. “I’m really glad that I’m not wearing shoes.” The girl examined her toes, squinting to see past the bright sunlight to the darkness that had now reached her midsection. “Something about shoes… so restrictive.” She squinted into the darkness, searching. “Would it kill you to share a few not dark words with the meal?”

Silence greeted her.

“Fantastic.” She wanted to sit down, but if she did she would be fully in the dark. Not that he couldn’t take her already, but the sun was like a token, albeit a fast disappearing one.

Time passed. The sunlight was almost gone, only her head was bathed in light now.

“I don’t want to die.” She whispered, more to herself. The vampire had not answered her repeated calls for talk. She had wanted to believe, initially, that she could talk herself out of this. But she knew now. “Why do I have to die?”

“Everything dies.” The voice finally appeared again, behind her. Closer. so close she was sure she could reach out and touch the owner, though she could not see. So quietly she wasn’t sure if she actually heard it: “I’ll be gentle.”

Her breath was shakey, a little ragged. She knew in that instant that she was really, for real, going to die. A steel grew inside of her, taking the fear and clamping it in restraints. If this was really going to happen then she wasn’t going to go piddling herself like a scared puppy. Se straightened up and said, “Give me until the sun is gone.”

“As you wish.” The monster didn’t say anything else, but she sensed it near her, waiting for the light to die.

She relished the warmth of the final rays of the sun, closed her eyes and felt it move over her skin. Every nerve ending was on fire with sensation, knowing it was the last time. Finally, the sun moved, and her whole body was in darkness.

“You are brave. There is something to be said about dying with honor.” The voice was tight, as though it was working hard to get the words out and remain in control. She didn’t answer it, merely raised a hand and lifted her hair back and away from her neck, tilting it for the appropriate angle.

She took a final, deep breath, relishing even the air now, and surrendered to the darkness…

-Doug

Meghan: Write

My pencil lead snapped as I pressed it against the page. Again I clicked out the lead and pressed the point to the paper, waiting for inspiration to strike. A cool breeze riffled through my hair, practically shuffling through the ideas in my brain for me, but none were willing to flow out onto the paper. I had come to this place for a very specific reason. My goal was a difficult one to achieve, but achieve it I would with the aid of my sunny surroundings.
I tapped my pencil against my mouth and stared around me for something interesting. A cheerful spring gurgled near my toes and some bright fish frolicked in its waters. My eye twitched, but I smoothed the muscle down with a free hand. I would achieve my goal, I would. My knee bounced against the soft green grass and I fought to still it. As a lamb skipped past me over the water I just couldn’t take it anymore.
“ENOUGH!!” I screamed at the bright blue sky, “I JUST CAN’T DO IT!!”
But the weather remained glad and warm against my skin, unwilling to bend against my temper.
“Didn’t you hear me!?” I shouted louder. But the cheerful surroundings seemed to want me to admit defeat.
I sighed and bowed my head, “I just can’t write a happy story.”
Iron chains curled up from beneath the grass and wrapped around my legs and arms. They forced me into a contemplative position, with my head bent over my pencil and paper. It seemed that I would have to write this happy scene whether I wanted to or not. Perhaps this was how delightful children’s novels were written, with the author fettered to such objects of bright inspiration as I was? How else could they keep their thoughts fastened on such happy things?
With what seemed like a herculean effort I raised my pencil to paper and began to write. I didn’t lack inspiration now. But what flowed from my pen weren’t sunshine and daisies, but goblins and horrors. The meadows around me shrieked in agony as they melted into shadowy stones and crabbed plants. The chains crawled on my skin greedily, changing into wings, claws, horns; whatever my mind landed on. I walked up the hills to where a castle was now jutting out. This is where I preferred to be.




-M

Doug: Liar

When I die no one will be sad.

This isn't because I had friends and family. I'm sure I will. No. This is because when I die, everyone will know what I am.

I'll leave a letter, or a will, or some kind of message, that tells them all what I've done to them. Who I've lied to. Who I've lied about. The people I've done things to. The people I've hurt without having the common decency to tell.

This won't make up for the lies, the pain, the liberties I've taken with people's feelings, knowingly or not. No. The truth rarely feels good, no matter what bullshit all those teachers tried to teach us in school. The truth is really painful, and shitty, and cruel.

But it's the fucking truth. And by all Gods light and dark, it's the right thing to do.

I haven't done a lot of right things. Ever. I've lied. Cheated. Stolen. But more than that I've hurt people, really hurt them. And the worst part is some of them don't even know it. I've kept the hurt from them, and will, because I'm a coward, and even though they'll hurt more when they do find out, I'll stick with these lies because that's who I am.

A monster that looks like a man.

In my dream, when I die no one cares, because in my dream I never existed, so I couldn't hurt anyone.

And yes. I lied to you. You just don't know it yet.

-Doug

Meghan: Tests

I just couldn’t take it anymore.
You understand.
The fourth failed test of the semester was stuffed in my backpack hidden in the dark recesses of my closet. I had tried so hard, I really had, but I just couldn’t seem to get the grades I wanted.
Eyes blurring and hands shaky with a mixture of fear and relief I popped the top off of the first bottle of pills I grabbed from the bathroom cabinet. I had barely poured it down my throat when I was reaching for another. And another, and another. A little scrap of paper fluttered down from where it had been wedged behind one of them and floated to the counter. It caught my eye as I paused, chest heaving to lean against the counter. It read:

Meghan,
I know your chemistry exam was today so I replaced all of the meds in the house with sugar pills.
-love Jasmine

My right eye started twitching as I finished reading the note. Or perhaps it was the massive intake of sugar that was now soaking into my system. I wondered vaguely where she had gotten so many sugar pills as I voyaged out of the bathroom in a continued search. As I thought, she had removed my stores of nooses, bludgeoning objects, and sharp things. I don’t know how I had missed the lack of…everything, in my original journey through the apartment. She had also neatly padded the walls in case I thought of throwing myself against them. But no matter, I would just leave my safe and newly cushioned apartment. With a determined look on my brow I set off, the sky growing darker and growling ominously.

Perfect.
I stood on the bridge that went over the Rio Grande, wind whipping my hair and lightning crackling above me. As high places go, there aren’t a lot in New Mexico, and high bridges; forget it. So I would settle for this. Tears streamed down my face as I spread my arms wide, the white virginal sacrificial gown I was wearing flapped in the wind.
“Get down from there.”
I almost fell from my perch on the rail in surprise. Waving my arms for balance I turned to see Jasmine standing behind me, wrapped in coats and holding an umbrella.
“No.” I said, turning once more to the swirling water, “I failed my test again.”
“By failed you mean…?”
“I’M NOT TELLING YOU!!!” I snapped, closing my eyes, “It’s too awful.”
“Well, if you change your mind…” She paused dramatically and I heard her shifting things around, “I brought coffee.”
I peeked at her in the corner of my eye and she was indeed sipping from a steaming Starbucks cup as she held another out to me. The umbrella was wedged in the crook of her elbow. My body started turning involuntarily and I shivered in my thin white dress.
“Coffee?”
“Raspberry.” She waved it back and forth and I slid off the rail. Then we sat down on it together and had coffee.




-M

Doug: Nightlights in Florence

The night had started out abysmally. Our attempt to find the fish resteraunt, repudidly an extremly good place, failed utterly. Itallian streets are poorly numbered, and designations do not make sense even when you could find a reference point.

We stumbled around for another half hour. Hunger gnawed at our nerves; already frayed from too many museums in one day and too many hours on our feet. Finally a concensus was reached on a small courtyard Ristorante, as our host country calls them. There we hit our first break.

Delcious food was followed by excellent conversation. One of the things I like about Italy is that when you step into a eatery of any kind, the table you sit down at is yours for the evening, not until you finish eating, but the whole evening, as long as you want to stay. It's glorious, and very conducive to copious amounts of verbage.

A short walk (our wanderings had somehow led us closer to our place of residence than the original objective) leaves my brother and I alone outside our rented apartment. Our parents, retiring early, left us with the keys and instructions to be extremely quiet upon our return. Accepting the challenge, we turned to the Piazza behind us and made our brave way into the night.

Some mild discussion led us aimlessly to another corner of the Piazza where a street musician was holding an impromptou concert. The tunes of David Bowie, Simon and Garfunkel, and Cat Stevens filled the air. I found myself filled with the kind of happiness that only contentment can provide, and my brother and I passed an hour listening to Ken Mercer (find him on facebook. DOOOO IT).

We listened and talked. I watched the people around us. A small crowd of about two hundred had gathered amidst the statues (this particular portion of the piazza held many marble statues of greek gods and friezes from greek myth) to listen. I felt a community of strangers grow in the music, many hands, many races, many places. All one for a few hours beneath the lights of the Piazza and amid the sounds of music.

I love this city, Florence. Its the city I've connected to the most in Italy, with its shops and statues and museums and art galleries. I'll be back here some day, with someone I love, because I so desprately want to share this place, these people, these feelings.

-Doug

"Feel free to sing the chourus to this song."
-Ken Mercer, Florence. September 14, 2010.

Jasmine: C.N.A.

CNA1(dejected sounding): Who are we kidding!

CNA2(confused): What are you talking about? Was that a question?

CNA1: No, it was an exclamation!

CNA2: It was phrased like a question, but the telltale lilt was missing...

CNA1: I know that, it was an exclamation!

CNA2: Stop that!

CNA1(lip quivering): But...

CNA2: I mean it

CNA1: Okay

CNA2: So what did you mean by your exclamation

CNA1: Why the hell are we taking Quantitative Analysis, Physical Chemistry, and Organic Chemistry?

CNA2: At least it wasn't an exclamation

CNA1: No, it's just depressing

CNA2: Maybe we're insane?

CNA1: I'll let you know after this first test

CNA2: There's a test?

CNA1: Three of them

CNA2: Crap

CNA1: Maybe we should start a support group

CNA2: Or a study group

CNA1: Same thing

CNA2: Chemistry Nerd's Anonymous?

CNA1: Dead Nerd's Anonymous...

CNA2: Sound's Exclamatory

CNA1: I feel dead

Sarah: Could Be the Best Thing I've Written

I'm getting my own place for the school year. \m/(O.O)\m/

Jasmine: Today As I Watched

Today as I watched, a round yellow tennis ball sitting on the floor filled with life, and quite suddenly it jumped up from the ground, it bounced there for a while gaining altitude, and when it was high enough someone walked over and snatched it from the air.

Today as I watched, a charred piece of scrap light on fire, and as the fire spread across the blackened carbon new paper blossomed, first fragile and yellow and finally gleaming white poured from the flame, and once the white was disgorged the flamed moved on creating more new and finally returning home to it’s match.

Today as I watched, a man was chewing on something. He was thinking very hard about it. He was chewing and chewing and from his mouth he pulled a tan triangle roughly the size of the last bone in my thumb. However he didn’t appear done, he was still wildly chewing showing signs of excitement and pleasure at his task. He spit out another tan piece and another until there was a tan tube the length of my hand filled with a lighter color almost white. I expected him to stop here, instead, moving much faster he drew from his mouth a thin layer of white and yellow speckled with brown and red coming down to a triangular point. He smiled satisfied in his creation of a slice of pizza.

Meghan: Doctors

“You have to let me work.” I argued quietly with Jasmine as we scrubbed our already raw skin cleaner.
“If the mother dies they’ll all die.” She replied shortly.
“That doesn’t mean—“ I growled under my breath as she backed into the operating room.

“I can’t control this bleed!” Jasmine’s breathing was ragged after six hours of surgery, “You’ll have to do a cesarean.”
“Fine.” I said, sliding a scalpel over the mother’s shaved abdomen. An intern held open the skin as I dipped a finger inside to guide out the last kitten. I rushed it to an oxygen chamber and left Jasmine to try to save the mother. Oxygen gas blew by the kitten’s pitiful blue snout and I pushed gently on its frail chest in the motions of CPR but nothing helped. Meanwhile Jasmine screamed for a defibrillator and the body of the Queen jolted with electricity.

Jasmine’s Aunt waited in the aptly named waiting room, head in her hands. She had rushed her cat in to the hospital at the first pangs of labor, but she worried that even that had been too late. It was the cat’s second birth of the season, and thus more dangerous. Dr. Jasmine strode to Aunt Gloria to tell her the news. Her doctor’s coat billowed behind her and her long blonde hair fluttered in the breeze that seemed to perforate the hospital. She knelt next to Aunt Gloria and looked up at her, tears of sympathy glistening in her eyes.
“One of the kittens had a rare birth defect found only in one in ten thousand births.” She gathered Aunt Gloria’s hands in hers, “Can I preserve the body in one of my specimen jars?”
Dr. Meghan stomped up behind Dr. Jasmine and knocked her unconscious with a patient chart.
“So sorry about that. We try to keep her out of patient contact. So many lawsuits…”
Aunt Gloria blinked, “What? Was she telling the truth?”
Dr. Meghan sighed, “Yes, but the mother and the other three kittens survived.”
Aunt Gloria sobbed into her hands as Dr. Meghan led her into the Baby room where the mother cat was tiredly curled around her kittens.



-M

Doug: Ronin

Piano. It seems like a lot of significant times in my life are heavy on the piano. It is an instrument that is hard to mistake, the sound is unlike any other. It rolls over you, the music seems inevitable, like a tidal wave. Catches you up and spits you out on the other shore, exhausted, satisfied, empty/full at the same time.

There’s something simmering inside of me. Anger I can’t get seem to get out. I wonder if it comes from the contempt or genuine offensives. I feel old, bitter, angry. So full of this rage that I can’t seem to let go.

How can I be so lonely when I’m among so many friends?

Every instinct in me says ‘Go. Get away from this. It’s long past time for you to be different.’ I’ve never run from a fight in my life, but I fear staying so much. But to leave, without any kind of resolution…

I wish I was a less honest man. Then I would have better explanations. Reasons. Instead… instead I should tell the truth.

Hate fills me up again. Disgust. Rage. I wish it would show itself on my skin so people would see who I am. This curse needs to be seen, revealed. Then maybe I’ll be free of it.

Right. Like you’ll ever be free of this wanderlust. Like you’ll ever stop resenting anything tying you to one place. Like you’ll ever treat anyplace as home anymore. Like you have a home. Home is where the heart is.

What heart?

-Doug
I just want to be okay, be okay, be okay today” Ingrid Michaelson “Be okay”

Meghan: What?

I took one look at the inspirational posters and bright camp uniforms and ran the opposite direction.
Unfortunately I was immediately caught by the cheery counselors that guarded the perimeter.
“You’re going to have a good time!” they said happily as they dragged me back to the milling pod of trapped college students.
“We have to get out of here” I whispered as I was deposited back among the herd. My friends nodded unanimously.
“NO TALKING!” a loud voice boomed over our heads.
We looked for the source, perhaps there was some authority figure we could kill to escape this disaster.
“PAY NO ATTENTION TO THE MAN BEHIND THE CURTAIN!!” The voice continued, “YOU ARE HERE ON LOAN FROM YOUR COLLEGES TO HAVE FUN. AND FUN YOU WILL HAVE. NOW GO TO YOUR CABINS.”

I looked up from a map of the camp grounds at the pounding on our cabin door. Jasmine and Sarah waved at me to see who it was so I creaked it open. Nailed to it was a cloth bag dripping with what looked suspiciously like blood. I yanked it from the door and brought it inside. We gathered on one of the extra beds and I poured the bag’s contents out. It had three tiny dolls and many scraps of paper. I spun one of the bloody dolls on my palm, confused. It was a tiny figurine of the Disney princess Cinderella. Jasmine picked up a little princess Jasmine doll by her head and groaned. Sarah poked the Sleeping Beauty doll that remained then picked up a laminated card that had fallen from the bag. She read:
“Welcome campers! It’s your first day, so we thought we’d have a little scavenger hunt! Each of you has been assigned a figure and a puzzle. Unscramble the puzzle before everyone else and win a prize, lose the contest and there will be dire consequences. Have fun!”
I rolled my eyes, “Psychos.”
We started separating the words that came with the dolls into puzzles. Jasmine ended up with what looked like a kidnappers note in cut out newspaper letters. Sarah had well scripted directions, but mine was missing. I looked everywhere and finally found one sticky, blood stained word under the bed.
“Plant.”
“What?” Jasmine asked as she loaded shells into a rocket launcher.
“It just says plant. What does that mean?”
“No idea.” She clicked the last one in place, “See you later.”
“But—“ but she was gone.
I turned to Sarah, “Try a garden or something?” she suggested with a sad smile.
“Thanks.” I said as I left, wondering why she looked so sad.

After asking directions from many a counselor, I made my way to the camp director’s forbidden garden. The plastic happiness in their eyes seemed to wilt around the edges when they spoke of it, the last one I talked to practically begged me not to go. But with a stupid hint like ‘plant’ what else was I supposed to do? As the foliage grew denser and looked more gardeny, I dropped to an army crawl along the loamy earth. When I had crawled for what seemed like miles I reached a peak and looked over the hill down on a cabin surrounded by a small garden. The camp director plodded slowly down the rows of his garden, wearing old grimy clothes and a sun hat. He paid particular care to a row of new shoots close to the cabin. As he made his rotation around the house I sprinted down the hill as quietly as I could and pulled at one of the shoots. Up popped the strangest looking vegetable I’ve ever seen. Its head was bulbous and striped, tiny squinty eyes glared up at me in the sunlight, and its little limbs wiggled. I just stared at it, gaping. It stared right back for a second before its mouth cracked open. I knew either a bite or a scream was coming and I wrapped my arms around the thing’s head to keep it quiet. I heard the director coming and ran into the nearby forest. When I was clear I let the radish beast go, sitting cross-legged and watching it attempt to walk around me. It was very top-heavy and kept falling over, which was adorable, but I didn’t know what to do with it. Pretty soon it started chewing on my jeans and looking at me with pleading eyes; it was hungry. I popped it in the front of my jacket and went in search of radish food. After I had been walking for a while I came upon a lavender bush and the thing started squealing. I broke off some of the flowers and fed them to my radish baby. It squeed joyfully and started glowing. I frowned down at it in confusion, then fear as it started growing. And growing, and growing, and growing… It burst from my sweater in an explosion of fabric then stood before me as a full grown uber-radish. Its full throated roar shook the leaves of the jungle that surrounded us and I clapped my hands to my ears. Somewhere far away a camp director realized that one of his plants was missing. The uber-radish lowered its head and I climbed aboard, clinging to the leaves that topped its tuberous form.
“FOR PONY!!” I cried. And we rode off into the sunset to free my brethren from the tyranny of camp.













“So that’s it.” I concluded as I settled back further into the psychiatrist’s couch, “What does it mean?”
I looked over at her chair to find it empty.
“Mrs. Stevenson?”
“I’m over here dear,” she said as she held up a syringe to the light and flicked it with a fingernail to get the air bubbles to rise.
“Ah… What are you doing?”
I quickly sat up as she squirted a threatening stream of liquid from the syringe
“It’s a new medication I’d like to prescribe you, I think it would help.”
“With my dreams?”
She smiled at me, “With everything.”
Shit, I knew that smile. I stood up quickly and practically fell over the back of the couch in my hurry to put something between us.
“No, really, it’s okay, I don’t need any meds.”
Her heels clicked ominously on the tile, “I’m a doctor, and I think you do.”
She rounded the couch and I sprinted around the other side, slipping a little on the floor to slam into the door. I scrambled at the handle as she stalked toward me and was relieved to feel it give under my fingers.
I stumbled into the hall screaming, “Mango, mango, MANGO!!!”
I looked down the empty hall in horror, where were…?
I heard a nasty thwacking sound behind me and turned to find Doug standing over a fallen Mrs.Stevenson, holding a baseball bat. Jasmine knelt down to check her pulse.
“No go?” Doug asked me sympathetically. I shook my head, breathing hard from the adrenaline.
“Can we please change the stupid safe word?”
“No.” Jasmine said, “It entertains me.”
I groaned, “Now what?”
Doug consulted a notebook covered with scribbles, “There’s a neurologist in Thailand who’s supposed to be…medically flexible?”
“To Thailand?”
“Thailand!”



-M

Jasmine: I'm not sick

“I’m not sick!” I protested trying unsuccessfully to hold back a hacking cough. That had just started today. Before it was just a runny nose that no allergy medication could touch.

“Yes you are. Did you make a doctor’s appointment?” Doug was steering me towards something that looked suspiciously like my bed. When did we leave Starbucks?

“Doctor’s appointment!” I sputtered wiping a trail of mucus on the back of my hand, “but it’s only a cold a doctor couldn’t do anything for that. Virus. Wait it out.” I was lying in bed. At least the lost time was getting shorter.

“Not for that, for your asthma.”

“I don’t have asthma.” I narrowed my eyes at him from flat on my back. Unfortunately this led to my eyes closing.

“Right, I’ll let a doctor decide.”

“mrrrr” My eyes wouldn’t open, there was something I needed to resist wasn’t there?

“Go to sleep”

“mrrrr”

“Goodnight Jasmine.”

“Goodnight”




"Living is a sickness to which sleep provides relief every sixteen hours. It's a palliative. The remedy is death."
Nicolas de Chamfort

Read and Consider

This is the monthly newsletter from my favorite tea store. Please consider helping keep it alive.

Thanks,
Sarah
________________________________________________________

New Mexico Tea Company has been open four years this November. Every summer is a challenge for a tea store in the desert, but this summer the economy and hot weather have finally caught up with us. As many of you have experienced, we are out of stock on half of our teas and products; there is simply no money to reorder more. This is a dangerous position to be in for a retail store. As we have less to sell, our revenue goes down, leaving less money to buy new things, which in turn results in even fewer sales. We need to break the cycle.

Background:

Normally we are able to save during the winter months (our busiest season) so that we have funds to carry us through the summer. However this past year we were operating the Tea Bar at a loss, and therefore now find ourselves up against a wall. Our day-to-day revenue is enough to pay all the bills, but not enough to order more tea. We are about to run out of tea, and if this happens the store will close. We need $5,000 to pay off our vendors and order more tea.

Whatever happens I will run the Tea Store until PNM turns off the electricity and the landlords kick us out for non-payment. But I hope that it does not come to that. I have conceived of a plan to get us through the next two months (our slowest time), and I need your help.

The Plan:

I believe in the power of micro-lending. I talked about it in a previous newsletter and encouraged everyone to use a site called Kiva to lend money to small businesses in third world countries. Now I am asking you to micro-lend money to New Mexico Tea Company. For the next week we are selling gift-cards that can be redeemed starting in December. If you buy a $50 gift card, it will be worth $55. A $100 gift card will be worth $115. We are using PayPal so that if we do not get enough investment to stay open this summer, we can issue a full refund to you. Once purchased I will e-mail you the gift certificate to print out.

I also want to give some of our customers the opportunity to lend a larger amount of money as a pure cash investment. You can lend $500 or $1000 for a 10% return paid back in six payments from December to May. Again, if we don't make it through the summer, then you would get a refund for the full amount of the loan.

Finally, we are starting an exclusive Tea Club. It will cost $10 per month to be a member. Membership entitles you to receive two ounces of a special tea we do not sell in the store every month. You will also have access to our VIP room upstairs (starting in August) which will be stocked with our most interesting teas and tea gadgets. Membership will allow you to make yourself a cup of tea and use our Wi-fi, chat with other tea drinkers, or read a book in the serene comfort of the tea store.

Conclusion:

Last month I was able to go to China because 16 people bought our China Tea Package before I left. Without their kind investment I would not have been able to make the trip. We are now in a real pickle; however, I will be able to keep supplying the best tea to Albuquerque with the help of similar investments. I am hoping you have enough faith in me and the store to invest your money with us.

Thank you,
David Edwards
President - NM Tea Co. Inc.
Office: 505-962-2137 Cell: 505-730-6501

1131 Mountain Rd. NW STE 2
Albuquerque, NM 87102

Doug: The Fight

“Let’s go.”

I’d be willing to bet anything he’s not expecting the straight punch to the face that snaps his head back like a whip. Two years ago he would have broken my wrist before I could get five inches from his nose. Now blood erupts forth like a fountain, splattering all over the mat.

I’m on him in a flash, knowing that the second he recovers and realizes he’s fighting for his life will be the second my fate will be sealed. Punch after punch rails down on his head and face. I feel a knucklebone crack but keep up my blows.

He reels. Hands come up and bat weakly at my arms. A vicious kick to his gut reminds him to cover his solar plexus. I cannot believe this is happening. This man used to be a god. He could fight like no other. I once watched him take down six armed assailants with just his hands. Now I, the untrained pup, beat him like a child.

He collapses to the ground. Rage fills me. “GET UP! WEAKLING! I COULDN’T HAVE LAID A HAND ON YOU A FEW YEARS AGO!” I want to punch him again and again until my knuckles show bone.

Blood and spit cover his face, making a mask of red. I can see the shame burning behind his eyes. He knows. Knows that he’s been beaten by someone weaker than him.

Bitter, disgusted, I drop my hands from their defensive guard. “You’ve forgotten who you are; shamed yourself. And me.” I can’t even look at him anymore.

That’s why the leg sweep surprised me. In a flash I’m on my back and he is pummeling me. I can see the feral glint in his eye, the killer instinct that has returned in his moment of shame. I fight back, but he’s running on something base now, an energy that I’ve never been able to harness, my blows are unfelt.

I have no chance. In minutes I am beaten to a bloody pulp. Two black eyes, I’m sure a few of my ribs are cracked, and my nose is pouring blood like a faucet. I struggle to stand, and stare blearily at the hand that is proffered, not realizing what it is for a full second. “Good fight.” He mumbles from between cut and swollen lips.

“You fucking kicked my ass.” I mutter. We’re leaning against each other for support, staggering towards the crowd that has gathered to watch our bloody mat room spectacle. Some blonde bimbo with a fake tan asks why we were fighting.

The man at my side laughs, I can feel it hurt him. “I forgot who I was for a little while. My brother had to remind me.”

I grin and that hurts too, but it feels right, and that’s all that matters.

-Doug

"There are many here among us that feel that life is but a joke."
Bob Dylan "All Along the Watchtower"

Sarah: Question

Readers, whom I often offend with what seems to be closed mindedness, you get to decide - should I revamp the site to look more like a modern blog? And if so, should I keep using the infamous lake photo from where the five of us used to camp?

I would love to hear your ideas. Thanks!

~Sarah, the html and blogger-site manager for the Fear Five

Meghan and Jasmine: Spy Fetus

The computer is hot against my thighs. They do that. Computers that is. They get hot and stick to things especially when I don’t put on pants.

There’s a cat perched on my shoulder. Not sure how he fits anymore but somehow he manages.

Meghan is lying on her back next to me no longer drugged out of her mind but I plan on redrugging her before sleep and tomorrow and forever.

I’m hungry. It seems like all I do is sleep and eat and rage against the world for being stuck in this apartment for going on three days. I’m amazed Jasmine hasn’t knocked me unconscious and locked me in the closet or something. Hopefully by consuming everything in the fridge I will gain miraculous healing powers and be fixed in a day or so. Or I’ll just run out of food and be unable to get more.

She won’t let me drive. No one trusts me behind a wheel. It’s irritating because I think I would make a good driver, and it’s practical because Meghan hopping into the grocery store like a deranged rabbit would cause parking lot accidents.

Loki is still on my shoulder. I don’t understand. He does this, he buries his head into my hair and breaths deep of the drug that is me. I’m like catnip or something. It works on people sometimes too but tends to be more awkward when strangers attach to me like leeches.

I have been instilled with great confusing feelings towards babies. All of the pregnant people on television seem to be losing their fetus’ when they sneeze, whereas the young teenagers who don’t want babies are the most likely to produce perfectly healthy children. So I have decided to make a baby then freeze it in time until I choose to raise it. This is the only solution. Okay, I’m kidding, calm down, but wouldn’t it be easier if there was just a general pool of babies? If when you were ready for a child you could just have one without the health issues or the endless red tape that goes with adoption? It seems overly complex.

When she first typed the paragraph above it read “loosing” instead of “losing” babies. I’m now imagining fetus’ forming out of snot balls like those little grow sponge dinosaurs. Just add water. You sneeze, a mini fetus appears in the Kleenex or hand and grows into a fully formed baby, then you send it off into the world, “loose” it on the world. Fetus attack! Guard Fetus’! Spy Fetus! The next Disney movie!

Meghan is going to paint now so I think this blog might be over.

Yes it is. Painting!

Meghan: Stir crazy

My eyes flicked open to see Jasmine’s face inches from mine. Her hand curled a blanket under her chin and her eyelashes brushed her cheeks in sleep. Slowly and painfully I slid down the length of the bed to roll onto the floor, trying to keep the cast on my foot from smacking into something and waking her up. I used a dresser to pull myself up so I was standing on my one good foot, then hopped awkwardly into the closet and pulled on a shirt and shorts. When I was clothed I peeked out to find her still sleeping.

Success.

I dropped to the floor and army-crawled across the scratchy carpet into the next room. A small black kitten leaped on my back and I batted him away gently as I reached for my keys. The click of unlocking the door seemed deafeningly loud. I held my breath as I opened the door, listening for sounds of Jasmine waking up in the apartment. When all was silent I breathed in the sweet, sweet air of the outdoors and pulled myself to my feet with the doorframe, preparing to hop out. A low growling noise made me turn. Jasmine stood at the entrance to the bedroom, holding the black kitten that had probably gone and woke her up when I refused to play with him. I glared at the traitorous kitten then made a leap for the exit, hoping that her lack of clothes might keep her in the house. But I should have known better. With a thump that knocked my breath out she crashed into my fleeing back, face planting me into the grass. Post-surgery as I was I couldn’t put up much of a fight, but I wiggled my arms and remaining leg in protest as she straddled my back and looped a rope around my struggling limbs. With a strength that someone her size shouldn’t have, she yanked me to my feet.

“Hop.” She said grimly.

“Jasmine I—“

“HOP!”

“I JUST WANTED A LATTE!!! I’VE BEEN IN THE HOUSE FOR DAYS, I’M SO FREAKING BORED!!!!” My shouts lost most of their threat as my tiny, mostly naked girlfriend continued to corral me back to the house.

“Do you want to have more surgery?” She asked icily, “If you re-break something, next time you’ll be handcuffed to the bed.”

I turned to growl at her again but noticed we were gathering an audience. Small Hispanic children in swimsuits stared at us with huge eyes and a small group of college boys were taking long pulls from their cigarettes while they watched the show. My face flushed and I hopped inside the apartment quickly. Jasmine turned to wave before pulling the door closed, collapsing with laughter against the wall. I fell onto my back, looking like a stunted water beetle with my broken foot suspended in the air.

“What if they complain to management?” I moaned

“They’ve seen us do worse.” Jasmine giggled.

I sighed, she was probably right.

“Anyway,” she stretched her arms above her head, “I want more sleep.” Her hands paused at the knots in my bindings, “Are you going to behave?”

I gave her my most innocent face, “Of course.”

She sighed and released my ropes, indicating that I should hop ahead of her back to bed. I lay back on the bed, exhausted from the small outing but still plotting another on. Jasmine laced her fingers through mine and I turned to her, smiling. But the smile turned to a grimace as I heard the click of a lock and found myself handcuffed to a lamp. I expressed my displeasure with a muffled scream.

“Goodnight.” Jasmine said, kissing me lightly before curling up once more with her blanket. I curled up around her back, happiness battling with stir-craziness.

“Heal faster, stupid foot.” I whispered.

-M