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.