Searching for a subject to write about after a long hiatus is causing me to dig into the seldom visited, dusty areas of my imagination in hopes that I come across something of worth that I can put into words and share. I rummage about in that proverbial closet in the back of my mind, pulling out various boxes full of idea fragments, unused story lines, half-hearted inspirations, and unfinished efforts looking for something that will suit my particular needs, but to no avail. I get on my hands and knees, crawl under the clothes hanging on the rack (memories of Halloween and play acting) pulling out things that go way back to my early years as a writer, noting the contents and reminiscing about my life back then and how it has changed. Isn’t it interesting how we can rummage through the scraps of our lives, seeing long forgotten letters, old photos and general memorabilia and find ourselves caught up in the memories that they bring to the surface? The process of searching slows and alters as new old items are discovered, giving intentions a broader scope of direction, for the task is made more pleasant in the wealth of emotion and images these extraneous derivatives provoke. I crawl deeper into the back of this treasure closet and, in pulling out a box labeled “Grade School Writing Assignments” which is up against the back wall, I notice that there is something actually on the wall. I can’t quite make it out in the dim so I reach into my pocket, pull out a flashlight, flick it on and shine the beam on the shadowy lines. Goodness! There seems to be a small panel or door of sorts, with a simple latch holding it shut. Hmmm... quite interesting. I wonder where it leads. Well, I put thought to action, twist the latch around, grasp the handle that is next to it and tug. Nothing. I raise my eyebrows in surprise, grab the handle with a bit more tenacity and give a strong jerk. It budges and scrapes out a little, so I continue this until, with more scraping and some stirring up of dust, the panel comes out of the wall showing a dark space behind it. I scootch the covering off to the side and shine the flash inside this mysterious opening. There seems to be some kind of cavern or natural formation here, I see some rocks, some plant life and a variety of odd formations and shapes.
I am intrigued by this unexpected development, as well as somewhat trepidatious as to what might lie within this unexplored region. However, this just might be the thing I have been looking for, so I get prone, leaning on my elbows, and wriggle forward through the small opening, trying not to... “Ouch!” as my efforts cause my back to scrape against the top edge, just like I didn’t want to. Typical. My legs clear the wall and I swing them around so I can carefully sit and survey my surroundings. I shine the light out, up and side to side, seeing a strange and eerie cavern, full of color, forms and shadows. Gnarly, rainbow stalactite and stalagmite columns are interspersed with shelves, cabinets, aisles, walls and doors. I scoot forward a bit more and stand up between twin pillars of cavern substance that hourglass from floor to ceiling like a vast entryway, shine the light on first one, then the other, seeing that they look like some kind of rock, but when I reach out and touch one with my free hand it has an elastic resiliency similar to dense foam rubber. I shine the light up to where these pillars extend to the ceiling and cannot quite make out just where the ceiling actually starts. I can discern smaller stalactite type objects, as well what appears to be hanging ribbons, some kind of superstructure and, here and there, things that, for the life of me, look like balloons. I bring the beam down to the ground and play it across the space in front of me, seeing the there is a rudimentary path leading deeper into the dark. The path diverges in a couple places and the offshoots lead up to the doors set in the walls, which I had seen in my first look into this cavern. I suddenly see motion out of the corner of my eye and swing the light around in time to view what appears to be a running rabbit holding a large pocketwatch, but it zips around a corner and is gone. Curiouser and curiouser.
I quickly shake my head to clear my thoughts, and as I do, there is a sudden glow that emanates from the path at my feet, showing me this odd place in a slightly better light than the flashlight can give me. I turn it off and put it back in my pocket, then look around. The glowing path doesn’t give me much light above my head, so I can’t see the ceiling area, which seemed to be about twenty feet above my head, but I can easily see the walls that enclose this path as it dims and wanders on into the distance. The colors, form and substance of the walls seems to vary with no noticeable patterns or purpose, and all seem subdued in this new, apparently natural light, not as garish as the flashlight had made them out to be. I am drawn along the path without realizing it, reaching out to touch the smooth swirling stripes of browns and grays that ripple and curl across the nearer wall until it widens out of reach. I step to the first, short branching of the path, leading to a door that is set into the right side wall and is covered with symbols and signs that are all quite strange, yet somehow familiar as well. I take the few steps up to it, marvel at the ornate stone carvings surrounding the shiny ebony surface of the door, run my fingers across the silver inlays set against the shiny black, feel tingling every time my fingertips brushed over the glowing patterns. I reach down and try the heavy handle, but it does not move and the door does not budge. I give a half-hearted shrug, turn and step back to the path, its glow still radiating into the further distance.
Led on by a sense of wonderment, I continue along the path several more steps and glance about at the strange and interesting rock (at least it seems to be rock) formations along the slowly expanding sides of this cavernous environment. I give a distracted scrutiny to a particularly ornate stalagmite on my right, thinking that is looks quite similar to an ice cream cone of several flavors all piled one on top of another. My main focus, however, as I look to my left, is on the next branching of the path and the next door, which is quite different than the first. I step off the main trail, along the few yards to this door, and take a closer look. It is a much more plain construction, in fact it is rather innocuous and boring looking. Enclosed in a simple frame on the top and two sides the door has no features except for the dull metal knob. Both frame and door are painted a medium gray, which matches some of the less garishly colored rocks along the wall in which the door is set. I test the handle and am surprised to find that it turns. I pull and nothing happens. This gives me a momentary pause, but then I push and the door swings easily inward. I step forward and look beyond the now open door to see the path continues on through the opening into a dimly lit area that looks quite similar to the one I am in. In fact, upon looking closer into the somewhat dim place within the door, which is lit only by the ubiquitously glowing path, it appears to be exactly the same as the strange land in which I am exploring. The path from the door leads to a slightly broader trail that continues both left and right into darkness, while across the way, a few feet on the other side of this main path, there is a stalagmite ice cream cone exactly like the one behind me. I turn around and verify that this is indeed the case, for the large treat shaped rock is across the path right behind me. I do a few back and forth double takes, but these only serve to verify the mirror image appearance. I look back into the door and to the right I can just make out that there is a divergence to the path just where the walkway to the ornate door would be on my side. This further strangeness intrigues me to the point that I wonder what I would find if I entered through this door and wandered around in it. But, I haven’t explored the side I am on very far either. I’m at somewhat of a loss as to which way to go, but I shrug and...
To be continued...
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Citizen
Here is a short story I wrote as a submission to a surreal on-line short story site. They didn’t want it so I am posting it here. Something different. No tongue-in-cheek humor this time, but rather a poignant view of a man and his quiet life. Give me a comment!
Citizen
He walked slowly down the endless street, his hand clutched tight on the curved snakehead of stiff cane that bit into his hand with every step, fangs flashing like the screaming lights of the faceless police whose car had pulsed authoritatively by moments ago. The old man ignored the biting as best he could, knowing that the suffered venom would ease the greater wound gashed into his leg a lifetime ago that was still shooting bullets of wartime memory into his every step. He had been quite young and idealistically envisioned, the day it had happened, ready to set forth upon the morrow to a first battle and glory in the name of the King, smiting enemies and cursing their blasphemous philosophies. He was standing near a street, full of energy and righteousness, when an importantly chauffeured vehicle carrying an Officer of Consequence to a social luncheon, sped around the corner and angrily kicked him into the edge of a nearby brick wall, which in turn savagely lashed out at his leg, breaking the bone and opening a wide gash with its masonaried claws. He lay there on his back, looking up in surprised pain as people scurried over to give conflicting advice, seeing the unblinking, deep eye-blue sky staring down at his shock whitened face while his blood cried out in deep, patriotic red. He had subsequently been situated in a nearby healer’s institution, the back and forth business of succor and death moving all around him with occasional attentive blessings from Angelic Beings who nursed him away from the Dark Gates of Oblivion and otherwise left him on his own. A full frontal charge from a Ranking Officer was held in ceremonial dignity and pomp, with a stiff, “Tough luck, kid,” offered as gruff obligatory fulfillment of responsibility, followed by a quick retreat. It was never made clear if this Officer was the same whose vehicle had taken such a spontaneous dislike to the man, or if it was a randomly performed mission, met and checked off a list of many such actions, by whoever had had such duty at that time.
He was sent home, discharged with a ‘Job Well Done’ citation and a token monthly stipend, then otherwise forgotten by his country. He convalesced and lived with his mother in the house where he had been raised, in a neighborhood just outside the moving streets and towering aisles of The City. His father had died years ago in an industrial accident at the factory where he worked, sacrificed to the Gods of Progress on the Altar of Efficiency, revered as an Example of Safety Reform Implementation by his co-workers and enshrined as a bland statistic in a corporate filing cabinet. A representative of The Company had come by the house soon after the accident, said that her husband had been a good worker and had not complained, proffered deep and sincerely memorized scripted sympathies, handed her an envelope with some money in it collected by his co-workers and left. Since then she had reverted to Nature to support her small needs by growing flowers in the back yard and selling them to nearby restaurants and stores.
The man stayed with his mother, offered sacrifice of his time and labors to the same local factory to which his father had been obligated, and had given his life. Although his wounded leg would occasionally cry out for mercy and distract him he was able to fulfill his Duties as Citizen and was thus ignored by the Powers that Be. He took care of his mother when she became too old and frail to sell her flowers, giving the Authorities no reason to take notice, and after she died he lived alone in the house. He worked at the factory for many more years until, as the times changed and the needs of society focused on new diversions, the factory closed and he was let go. His leg had begun to complain to him more often and so he wasn’t terribly disappointed. He had saved a little money and he still received his monthly stipend from the government, and so, since his needs were few, he was able to keep the house and continue with his life.
Over time, the neighborhood had gradually changed and evolved as The City had grown, spreading like a concrete, steel and glass garden without a conscientious gardener to guide, cultivate or weed, until the towering, lifeless plants and shrubs of urbania engulfed his neighborhood with progress and development. Most of the other houses in the area, yielding to the needs of the moment, were torn down and replaced by high rise buildings, shops and parking lots. The scenes of the comfortably familiar city became less comforting and less familiar as he grew older, became more and more a place of confusion, motion and noise that scared and intimidated the man. The people he once knew passed on and disappeared, and the people that now surrounded him, that flowed and passed by him like water around a protruding rock in a cold stream, were ever changing yet always the same, strangers who would look at him with suspicion or contempt if they noticed him at all.
And now, decades later, he was an old man walking down the endless street that stretched from the past into the future, coming home to the house which was momentarily held in the stasis between stability and progress, familiarity and change, where he had a last bastion against the encroachment of civilization’s impetus. He had been to the park a few blocks away where his parents had taken him as a small child to run and play in the wide open-spaced sunshine. The park was now trimmed, folded and tucked neatly into a small triangle between busy streets and haughty buildings, but the afternoon sunshine still found its way to gaze upon the small patch of grass, trees and lone bench where the man would sit, soaking in the bright, comforting warmth. And when the sun would all too quickly move on to its business further west, the man slowly, painfully walked back home, hobbling slow and steady, with his stiffened serpent in his hand, biting and gnawing yet giving support against his shrieking leg. He paid little heed to the city around him, the children who made fun of him, the prostitute who laughed at him, the others who, for their own reasons, ignored him in reflected self-absorption. Night was coming and they all would be lost to inconsequential significance in the encompassing darkness.
The man came to his house, walked up the front steps, fished in his pocket for his key, fumbled a moment with the lock, turned the handle, opened, stepped inside and closed the door behind.
The door looked out at the endless street, snarled once and was quiet.
Citizen
He walked slowly down the endless street, his hand clutched tight on the curved snakehead of stiff cane that bit into his hand with every step, fangs flashing like the screaming lights of the faceless police whose car had pulsed authoritatively by moments ago. The old man ignored the biting as best he could, knowing that the suffered venom would ease the greater wound gashed into his leg a lifetime ago that was still shooting bullets of wartime memory into his every step. He had been quite young and idealistically envisioned, the day it had happened, ready to set forth upon the morrow to a first battle and glory in the name of the King, smiting enemies and cursing their blasphemous philosophies. He was standing near a street, full of energy and righteousness, when an importantly chauffeured vehicle carrying an Officer of Consequence to a social luncheon, sped around the corner and angrily kicked him into the edge of a nearby brick wall, which in turn savagely lashed out at his leg, breaking the bone and opening a wide gash with its masonaried claws. He lay there on his back, looking up in surprised pain as people scurried over to give conflicting advice, seeing the unblinking, deep eye-blue sky staring down at his shock whitened face while his blood cried out in deep, patriotic red. He had subsequently been situated in a nearby healer’s institution, the back and forth business of succor and death moving all around him with occasional attentive blessings from Angelic Beings who nursed him away from the Dark Gates of Oblivion and otherwise left him on his own. A full frontal charge from a Ranking Officer was held in ceremonial dignity and pomp, with a stiff, “Tough luck, kid,” offered as gruff obligatory fulfillment of responsibility, followed by a quick retreat. It was never made clear if this Officer was the same whose vehicle had taken such a spontaneous dislike to the man, or if it was a randomly performed mission, met and checked off a list of many such actions, by whoever had had such duty at that time.
He was sent home, discharged with a ‘Job Well Done’ citation and a token monthly stipend, then otherwise forgotten by his country. He convalesced and lived with his mother in the house where he had been raised, in a neighborhood just outside the moving streets and towering aisles of The City. His father had died years ago in an industrial accident at the factory where he worked, sacrificed to the Gods of Progress on the Altar of Efficiency, revered as an Example of Safety Reform Implementation by his co-workers and enshrined as a bland statistic in a corporate filing cabinet. A representative of The Company had come by the house soon after the accident, said that her husband had been a good worker and had not complained, proffered deep and sincerely memorized scripted sympathies, handed her an envelope with some money in it collected by his co-workers and left. Since then she had reverted to Nature to support her small needs by growing flowers in the back yard and selling them to nearby restaurants and stores.
The man stayed with his mother, offered sacrifice of his time and labors to the same local factory to which his father had been obligated, and had given his life. Although his wounded leg would occasionally cry out for mercy and distract him he was able to fulfill his Duties as Citizen and was thus ignored by the Powers that Be. He took care of his mother when she became too old and frail to sell her flowers, giving the Authorities no reason to take notice, and after she died he lived alone in the house. He worked at the factory for many more years until, as the times changed and the needs of society focused on new diversions, the factory closed and he was let go. His leg had begun to complain to him more often and so he wasn’t terribly disappointed. He had saved a little money and he still received his monthly stipend from the government, and so, since his needs were few, he was able to keep the house and continue with his life.
Over time, the neighborhood had gradually changed and evolved as The City had grown, spreading like a concrete, steel and glass garden without a conscientious gardener to guide, cultivate or weed, until the towering, lifeless plants and shrubs of urbania engulfed his neighborhood with progress and development. Most of the other houses in the area, yielding to the needs of the moment, were torn down and replaced by high rise buildings, shops and parking lots. The scenes of the comfortably familiar city became less comforting and less familiar as he grew older, became more and more a place of confusion, motion and noise that scared and intimidated the man. The people he once knew passed on and disappeared, and the people that now surrounded him, that flowed and passed by him like water around a protruding rock in a cold stream, were ever changing yet always the same, strangers who would look at him with suspicion or contempt if they noticed him at all.
And now, decades later, he was an old man walking down the endless street that stretched from the past into the future, coming home to the house which was momentarily held in the stasis between stability and progress, familiarity and change, where he had a last bastion against the encroachment of civilization’s impetus. He had been to the park a few blocks away where his parents had taken him as a small child to run and play in the wide open-spaced sunshine. The park was now trimmed, folded and tucked neatly into a small triangle between busy streets and haughty buildings, but the afternoon sunshine still found its way to gaze upon the small patch of grass, trees and lone bench where the man would sit, soaking in the bright, comforting warmth. And when the sun would all too quickly move on to its business further west, the man slowly, painfully walked back home, hobbling slow and steady, with his stiffened serpent in his hand, biting and gnawing yet giving support against his shrieking leg. He paid little heed to the city around him, the children who made fun of him, the prostitute who laughed at him, the others who, for their own reasons, ignored him in reflected self-absorption. Night was coming and they all would be lost to inconsequential significance in the encompassing darkness.
The man came to his house, walked up the front steps, fished in his pocket for his key, fumbled a moment with the lock, turned the handle, opened, stepped inside and closed the door behind.
The door looked out at the endless street, snarled once and was quiet.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Oh, yeah, I'm back for a quick note
A quick note only 2 weeks later: I'm busy... I'll be back (working on the website... check it out ( www.inspirationscrossing.com ) I send out a great big apology to my thousands of avid readers...
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Off for nine days...
Greetings of the moment and farewell for nine days: I'm off to Minneapolis, Minnesota to play in the US Open National Championship Volleyball Tournament. I will play in two separate divisions, four days each, and so will not be back at my keyboard until all that is over. Check back in a week and a half!
Smiles to you and ...
Smiles to you and ...
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
A Descriptive Sentence from Long Ago
A wide, wildly dashing torrent of far reaching, malleable golden surface that dipswirls laughingly around the motionless rocks and trees, random splash flashing in eddied twists, spraying from bright reaching light in swiftly arching stretches to the bent dark shadows of sudden bowed valleys, in the amber thick slow motion of visual awareness as I look out over the continually swaying wheatfield tresses caught in the crisscross brushing play of the warm summer wind.
Written By Michael Steven Platt 11-16-75, edited and posted 5-19-09
Written By Michael Steven Platt 11-16-75, edited and posted 5-19-09
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Withering Flats, Episode Two, part 6, conclusion
(Episode 2, Part 6, conclusion)
Greetings and welcome to the conclusion to Episode 2 of Withering Flats! We left Nick standing dejected at the door after the trick-or-treaters laughed as they thought his prideful declaration of villainy was all part of a Halloween act. Poor Janee has been wrapped in copper wire for quite some time (especially since I have not met a timely production schedule) and is patiently sleeping while waiting for Nick’s return. Let’s not keep her waiting any longer and we present the exciting conclusion to our tale...
“Ha ha, thanks Mister!” and they turned and went on their way, as Nick lowered his arm and looked rather deflated.
“Kids nowadays,” he lamented, “No respect...” and he closed the door.
Then, seeing Janee still trussed and asleep, he shook himself, growled, cocked his head at the sound, growled again, and then smiled his old evil smile once more. He waved the plunger at her and said, “Now it’s show time for you, my sweet!” He put the plunger back between his legs, pulled the goggles out of his pocket and pulled them on so that the elastic back was against the back of the helmet, took the gloves out from under his arm, pulled them on, grabbed the plunger from between his legs and strode over to where his helpless victim stood propped against the wall.
Janee’s rhythmic snoring had caught the interest of a fly that was now buzzing in and out of her mouth with the vibrating tides of her breath, but otherwise showed no awareness of what was transpiring around her. Nick knelt at Janee’s feet, picked up the two ends of wire and...
Ding-dong...
“What?!” Nick Cried.
Ding-dong...
“I don’t believe it!” Nick denied.
Ding-dong...
“I don’t care!” Nick belied, and he stuck the wires into the socket, causing Janee to jerk and clamp her mouth shut with a “WHOOP!” just at an influx of breath (much to the consternation of the fly), then he got up, picked up the plunger and stormed over to the door.
He flung the door open to see a person standing there who was dressed in a blue and green striped jacket with matching trousers, a yellow shirt with purple polka-dotted red tie, a pair of red, white and blue gym shoes, a straw hat sporting a plastic daisy from its band, and who held a large bunch of oily looking tulips in one hand and a box of candy in the other. Nick stuck the plunger under his arm, glove handedly fished in his coat pocket, pulled out the box of foil packets, stuck the whole box down into the flowers, grabbed the plunger again, waved it threateningly and said, in goggle-eyed frustration, “Trick or Treat yourself!” then slammed the door.
The door re-opened immediately, Nick reached out, grabbed the box of candy, said, “My treat this time!” and, as sparks flashed behind him, re-slammed the door.
The door again opened, this time with smoke accompanying Nick, as he said to the person, “And that’s the silliest costume I’ve ever seen!” and slammed the door once more.
The door opened still yet again and, as smoke billowed out, sparks shot from behind him and a sizzling sound grew louder, Nick added, “And my costume is not a costume at all, it’s my working wardrobe because I’m a scientist and I’m getting mad! So don’t bother me, we’re busy!” and with that he finally slammed the door for the last time, leaving Clem Clump standing there in great confusion in his Sunday best suit, wondering if perhaps Janee is busy for the evening and can’t go with him for a walk in the moonlight to watch the fireflies at the city dump.
Well, that’s (fianlly!) the end of Episode Two of Withering Flats. Will Janee survive Nick’s shocking intentions? Will Nick get the deed signed over? Will Janee agree to marry Nick? Will Clem find someone to go watch fireflies with? Will the Trick-or-Treaters find a good use for the foil packets? Will the toilet plunger become the new weapon of choice for magicians? Tune in again next time to see if these questions are answered! So for more action, suspense and romance be sure to return for Episode Three of Withering Flats!
Written by Michael Steven Platt 5-17-09
Greetings and welcome to the conclusion to Episode 2 of Withering Flats! We left Nick standing dejected at the door after the trick-or-treaters laughed as they thought his prideful declaration of villainy was all part of a Halloween act. Poor Janee has been wrapped in copper wire for quite some time (especially since I have not met a timely production schedule) and is patiently sleeping while waiting for Nick’s return. Let’s not keep her waiting any longer and we present the exciting conclusion to our tale...
“Ha ha, thanks Mister!” and they turned and went on their way, as Nick lowered his arm and looked rather deflated.
“Kids nowadays,” he lamented, “No respect...” and he closed the door.
Then, seeing Janee still trussed and asleep, he shook himself, growled, cocked his head at the sound, growled again, and then smiled his old evil smile once more. He waved the plunger at her and said, “Now it’s show time for you, my sweet!” He put the plunger back between his legs, pulled the goggles out of his pocket and pulled them on so that the elastic back was against the back of the helmet, took the gloves out from under his arm, pulled them on, grabbed the plunger from between his legs and strode over to where his helpless victim stood propped against the wall.
Janee’s rhythmic snoring had caught the interest of a fly that was now buzzing in and out of her mouth with the vibrating tides of her breath, but otherwise showed no awareness of what was transpiring around her. Nick knelt at Janee’s feet, picked up the two ends of wire and...
Ding-dong...
“What?!” Nick Cried.
Ding-dong...
“I don’t believe it!” Nick denied.
Ding-dong...
“I don’t care!” Nick belied, and he stuck the wires into the socket, causing Janee to jerk and clamp her mouth shut with a “WHOOP!” just at an influx of breath (much to the consternation of the fly), then he got up, picked up the plunger and stormed over to the door.
He flung the door open to see a person standing there who was dressed in a blue and green striped jacket with matching trousers, a yellow shirt with purple polka-dotted red tie, a pair of red, white and blue gym shoes, a straw hat sporting a plastic daisy from its band, and who held a large bunch of oily looking tulips in one hand and a box of candy in the other. Nick stuck the plunger under his arm, glove handedly fished in his coat pocket, pulled out the box of foil packets, stuck the whole box down into the flowers, grabbed the plunger again, waved it threateningly and said, in goggle-eyed frustration, “Trick or Treat yourself!” then slammed the door.
The door re-opened immediately, Nick reached out, grabbed the box of candy, said, “My treat this time!” and, as sparks flashed behind him, re-slammed the door.
The door again opened, this time with smoke accompanying Nick, as he said to the person, “And that’s the silliest costume I’ve ever seen!” and slammed the door once more.
The door opened still yet again and, as smoke billowed out, sparks shot from behind him and a sizzling sound grew louder, Nick added, “And my costume is not a costume at all, it’s my working wardrobe because I’m a scientist and I’m getting mad! So don’t bother me, we’re busy!” and with that he finally slammed the door for the last time, leaving Clem Clump standing there in great confusion in his Sunday best suit, wondering if perhaps Janee is busy for the evening and can’t go with him for a walk in the moonlight to watch the fireflies at the city dump.
Well, that’s (fianlly!) the end of Episode Two of Withering Flats. Will Janee survive Nick’s shocking intentions? Will Nick get the deed signed over? Will Janee agree to marry Nick? Will Clem find someone to go watch fireflies with? Will the Trick-or-Treaters find a good use for the foil packets? Will the toilet plunger become the new weapon of choice for magicians? Tune in again next time to see if these questions are answered! So for more action, suspense and romance be sure to return for Episode Three of Withering Flats!
Written by Michael Steven Platt 5-17-09
Friday, May 15, 2009
Withering Flats, Episode Two, part 5
(Episode 2, part 5)
Hello and welcome back to the story, folks! If you’ve just joined us for the first time, then get on down and read the earlier parts so you know what the heck is going on! For those who have been following the story so far, we left off with nasty Nick just finished trussing up sweet Janee with copper wiring and threatening to plug her into the electrical outlet. Let’s see what develops from this potentially shocking situation and pick up again at that point...
Stepping back to survey his handiwork, he rubbed his hands together in glee and said, “Now my sweet, you’ll see what happens when you refuse my reasonable offers!”
He picked up the two trailing ends of wire once more and was just about to plug them into the wall socket when he stopped, said, “Whoops!” put the wires back down, straightened up and said to himself, “No, no no!” giving a little chuckle, “Ha, ha, ha, mustn’t be too hasty... could be problems that way...” and then looked around the front hall in search of something. Spying the closet door on the opposite wall from where Janee was comfortable propped, he stepped over, opened it up and was immediately assailed by a powerful, rather foul odor.
“Ahhh...” nasty Nick breathed in deeply, “How I love your perfume, sweet Janee!” thus demonstrating how over all bad he really was. In the closet were three hangers, one which was empty, one holding a very large fur coat that appeared to made from a bear skin (“Hmmm,” mused Nick, “That reminds me of that lovely afternoon last summer when I put Janee in the cage with that delightfully angry black bear... I wonder whatever happened to it...”), and the third held, “Ah, just the thing!” Nick exclaimed as he pulled out the long rubberized, stained and crusty mackintosh, with a label reading Ernie’s Services sewn just below the left front lapel. He put this on over his own coat, then on the shelf above the hanger pole, next to a pretty pink bonnet, he saw a well battered, crust spattered, pink hard hat, which he reached up and took, saying to himself, “This looks promising, though it’s not really my color,” and he plonked it down on top of his black, oily-haired head.
There was a pair of large rubber boots on the floor which were a grungy match to the coat and hard hat, so he took those out as well. Carefully unzipping and taking off his own black boots, Nick pulled on the big rubber ones, stood straight, shrugged into the coat a bit, looked down at the boots, felt the hat on his head and declared, “Yes, this is just the fashionable thing for our little afternoon activity.” Looking across the hall to Janee, he smiled affectionately in anticipation. Reaching to close the closet door he saw, hanging from a hook on the back of the door, a pair of large, black rubber gloves that matched the coat and boots in design, material and crusty condition.
“Perfect! Just the thing I was looking for!” Nick cried in glee. He took them off the hook, tucked them under his arm, shut the door and strode back over to Janee. He reached down and picked up the plunger, wondering if he could perhaps put it to some kind of creative use within his plans for Janee, but just then the doorbell once again started ringing.
“No!” Nick shouted.
Ding dong...
“Not again!” Nick denied.
Ding dong...
“No fair!” Nick pouted.
Ding dong...
“Aw nuts,” Nick finally shelled out, and stomped over to the door, collected his composure, cleared his throat, pulled open the door and sweetly asked, “Yes, may I help y...?” and once again stopped in mid-sentence as he found himself facing a policeman, a fireman, an army commando and a nurse.
“Umm... uhh, hello, officer!” Nick stammered out, “What can I do for you all?” weakly smiling and hoping that perhaps they were selling tickets to the local charity balls.
“Trick or Treat!” came the same chorus as last time.
“What?” responded Nick, once more taken by surprise.
“Trick or Treat!” as the prerequisite bags were held up expectantly.
“Oh.. oh yes, heh-heh,” Nick recovered. He transferred the plunger to his left hand, still holding the rubber gloves under that arm, put his hand into his coat pocket, screwed his face up in surprise and pulled out a pair of large, crust covered goggles. He looked down at the pocket and recalled that he was wearing the rubberized overcoat, stuck the goggles back into the pocket with a thoughtful nod, reached into his own coat pocket and pulled out the box of foil packets. He held this out to the children and admonished, “Take only one apiece, Uncle Nick wants to have some left over for himself,” leering suggestively.
The four costumed characters each obediently reached into the box and pulled out a single packet (“What are these?” the nurse whispered to the fireman, who whispered in return, “I know what they are. My brother gets these. They are some kind of super balloon and they hold a LOT of water!”), and after each had had their turn they all chorused “Thank you, Mister!”
The policeman spoke up to Nick, “Hey mister, that’s a funny costume, but who are you supposed to be ... and what stinks?” scrunching up his nose.
Nick replaced the almost depleted box back into his coat pocket, took the plunger out from under his arm, raised it above his head in a regal pose and, with intense fervor, declared, “I am the Terror of the Town, the Purgative of Pleasantries, the Villain of Villains, the Embodiment of Evil and Terror, I am Nasty Nick Nak and I will ram this magic wand up your little behinds if you don’t scram pronto!” and he glared menacingly down at the four children. They stood still for a pleasurable second, then all broke into raucous laughter, “Ha ha ha!”
“You’re funny!”
“That’s silly!”
“Crazy!”
“Ha ha, thanks Mister!” and they turned and went on their way, as Nick lowered his arm and looked rather deflated.
“Kids nowadays,” he lamented, “No respect...” and he closed the door.
(end part 5)
Poor Nick... he gets no respect. Perhaps that’s why he acts out his little fantasies with Janee. But poor Janee, all trussed up and nowhere to go. Will Nick finally get to plug her in? Will the smell of his newly acquired outfit knock her out? (I doubt it... remember, it’s her outfit to begin with.) Has Nick found a new villainous device in the plunger? Will a real hero every come to the door? If Nick finally does plug her in, will Janee be able to pay the next electric bill?
Find out tomorrow when we present part 6 in the conclusion of this Electrifying Tale from the small town with big drama, Withering Flats.
Written by Michael Steven Platt 5-15-09
Hello and welcome back to the story, folks! If you’ve just joined us for the first time, then get on down and read the earlier parts so you know what the heck is going on! For those who have been following the story so far, we left off with nasty Nick just finished trussing up sweet Janee with copper wiring and threatening to plug her into the electrical outlet. Let’s see what develops from this potentially shocking situation and pick up again at that point...
Stepping back to survey his handiwork, he rubbed his hands together in glee and said, “Now my sweet, you’ll see what happens when you refuse my reasonable offers!”
He picked up the two trailing ends of wire once more and was just about to plug them into the wall socket when he stopped, said, “Whoops!” put the wires back down, straightened up and said to himself, “No, no no!” giving a little chuckle, “Ha, ha, ha, mustn’t be too hasty... could be problems that way...” and then looked around the front hall in search of something. Spying the closet door on the opposite wall from where Janee was comfortable propped, he stepped over, opened it up and was immediately assailed by a powerful, rather foul odor.
“Ahhh...” nasty Nick breathed in deeply, “How I love your perfume, sweet Janee!” thus demonstrating how over all bad he really was. In the closet were three hangers, one which was empty, one holding a very large fur coat that appeared to made from a bear skin (“Hmmm,” mused Nick, “That reminds me of that lovely afternoon last summer when I put Janee in the cage with that delightfully angry black bear... I wonder whatever happened to it...”), and the third held, “Ah, just the thing!” Nick exclaimed as he pulled out the long rubberized, stained and crusty mackintosh, with a label reading Ernie’s Services sewn just below the left front lapel. He put this on over his own coat, then on the shelf above the hanger pole, next to a pretty pink bonnet, he saw a well battered, crust spattered, pink hard hat, which he reached up and took, saying to himself, “This looks promising, though it’s not really my color,” and he plonked it down on top of his black, oily-haired head.
There was a pair of large rubber boots on the floor which were a grungy match to the coat and hard hat, so he took those out as well. Carefully unzipping and taking off his own black boots, Nick pulled on the big rubber ones, stood straight, shrugged into the coat a bit, looked down at the boots, felt the hat on his head and declared, “Yes, this is just the fashionable thing for our little afternoon activity.” Looking across the hall to Janee, he smiled affectionately in anticipation. Reaching to close the closet door he saw, hanging from a hook on the back of the door, a pair of large, black rubber gloves that matched the coat and boots in design, material and crusty condition.
“Perfect! Just the thing I was looking for!” Nick cried in glee. He took them off the hook, tucked them under his arm, shut the door and strode back over to Janee. He reached down and picked up the plunger, wondering if he could perhaps put it to some kind of creative use within his plans for Janee, but just then the doorbell once again started ringing.
“No!” Nick shouted.
Ding dong...
“Not again!” Nick denied.
Ding dong...
“No fair!” Nick pouted.
Ding dong...
“Aw nuts,” Nick finally shelled out, and stomped over to the door, collected his composure, cleared his throat, pulled open the door and sweetly asked, “Yes, may I help y...?” and once again stopped in mid-sentence as he found himself facing a policeman, a fireman, an army commando and a nurse.
“Umm... uhh, hello, officer!” Nick stammered out, “What can I do for you all?” weakly smiling and hoping that perhaps they were selling tickets to the local charity balls.
“Trick or Treat!” came the same chorus as last time.
“What?” responded Nick, once more taken by surprise.
“Trick or Treat!” as the prerequisite bags were held up expectantly.
“Oh.. oh yes, heh-heh,” Nick recovered. He transferred the plunger to his left hand, still holding the rubber gloves under that arm, put his hand into his coat pocket, screwed his face up in surprise and pulled out a pair of large, crust covered goggles. He looked down at the pocket and recalled that he was wearing the rubberized overcoat, stuck the goggles back into the pocket with a thoughtful nod, reached into his own coat pocket and pulled out the box of foil packets. He held this out to the children and admonished, “Take only one apiece, Uncle Nick wants to have some left over for himself,” leering suggestively.
The four costumed characters each obediently reached into the box and pulled out a single packet (“What are these?” the nurse whispered to the fireman, who whispered in return, “I know what they are. My brother gets these. They are some kind of super balloon and they hold a LOT of water!”), and after each had had their turn they all chorused “Thank you, Mister!”
The policeman spoke up to Nick, “Hey mister, that’s a funny costume, but who are you supposed to be ... and what stinks?” scrunching up his nose.
Nick replaced the almost depleted box back into his coat pocket, took the plunger out from under his arm, raised it above his head in a regal pose and, with intense fervor, declared, “I am the Terror of the Town, the Purgative of Pleasantries, the Villain of Villains, the Embodiment of Evil and Terror, I am Nasty Nick Nak and I will ram this magic wand up your little behinds if you don’t scram pronto!” and he glared menacingly down at the four children. They stood still for a pleasurable second, then all broke into raucous laughter, “Ha ha ha!”
“You’re funny!”
“That’s silly!”
“Crazy!”
“Ha ha, thanks Mister!” and they turned and went on their way, as Nick lowered his arm and looked rather deflated.
“Kids nowadays,” he lamented, “No respect...” and he closed the door.
(end part 5)
Poor Nick... he gets no respect. Perhaps that’s why he acts out his little fantasies with Janee. But poor Janee, all trussed up and nowhere to go. Will Nick finally get to plug her in? Will the smell of his newly acquired outfit knock her out? (I doubt it... remember, it’s her outfit to begin with.) Has Nick found a new villainous device in the plunger? Will a real hero every come to the door? If Nick finally does plug her in, will Janee be able to pay the next electric bill?
Find out tomorrow when we present part 6 in the conclusion of this Electrifying Tale from the small town with big drama, Withering Flats.
Written by Michael Steven Platt 5-15-09
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Withering Flats, Episode Two, part 4
(Episode Two, part 4)
Hello again from the ever interesting world of Withering Flats! We are continuing our installments of Episode Two and tonight we pick up right when nasty Nick Nak had sweet Janee Trubloo tied up in copper wires and was about to plug her into the electrical socket when the doorbell rang. Nik answered onoy to find himself confronted by a host of Super Heroes. Let’s find out what happened next...
He swung the door open, politely saying, “What can I do for ...” then suddenly was struck dumb in seeing right there in front of him, Superman, Batman, Iron Man, the Wolverine, Harry Potter and a Cheerleader!
“Gulp,” Nick nervously swallowed and, in his most innocent voice, asked, “Well, hello there. Whatever brings you all to ...um, visit this evening?” hoping that it was some kind of mistaken address situation.
“Trick or Treat!” they chorused, as they all raised their arms up to show the bags that they carried.
‘Huh? What’s that again?” responded Nick, in some trepidatious confusion.
“Trick or Treat!” and they all offered up their bags a bit more insistently.
Nick stood in motionless befuddlement a moment longer as the gears of his thought processes disengaged, remeshed in a realigned differential configuration, ground, chuttered and clattered a bit and finally produced enough mechanically organic electrical energy up the convoluted wiring of his evil mind, to finally light the ultra-violet bulb in his idea attic, shedding dark illumination on the realization that it was Halloween and these were kids out begging for loot. (“My kind of deal,” his subconscious entity acknowledged, and then followed with, “No wonder they all look so much shorter than I imagined them to be.”)
“Oh,” his conscious mind finally vocalized, then, “Oh! Okay, you sneaky little brats, I know your game,” once more reverting to character, rocking on his heels and putting his hands in his jacket pockets, “Well, you’re out of luck here, because I don’t...” then he stopped as his hands fondled the box in his pocket. His thoughts went through their manipulations again, his brows knit down then purled back up again, and he said, “Wait a minute ... here,” pulling the box out, “there’s one for each of you,” and as he held the box in one hand he pulled out individually wrapped foil packets from it with the other and dropped one in each proffered bag.
“There you go, kids, now beat it, I’m a busy man!” and waved them away “Thanks, mister!” they chorused one last time, as some of them looked into their bags, trying to discern exactly what it was that he had given them.
Then Superman spoke up and added, “That’s a great old fashioned costume you’re wearing,” referring to Nick’s slicked back jet black hair and pencil thin handlebar moustache, his long black coat, black string tie against the severely starched white shirt (worn to please his mother), the black trousers falling down around his high healed shiny black boots. “But what is that supposed to be,” pointing between Nick’s legs at the protruding toilet plunger still tightly held there.
“Um,” Nick looked down into the red rubber circle of the plunger’s business end as it seemed to be staring back up at him.
“Um...” he repeated, looking back up at the gathered group, once again in confused stasis. (Mental gears grind, etc.)
“Oh!” he announced, in sudden inspiration, focusing on the Harry Potter costumed child. He stuffed the half empty box back into his coat pocket, grabbed the plunger and brandished it above his head in a menacing way.
“This is my Magic Wand and I’ll use it to turn you all into sewer rats if you don’t scram!” he threatened menacingly.
The gathered children looked at him, then all broke into laughter exclaiming, “Ha-ha-ha!”
“You’re too funny, mister!”
“Cool!”
“That’s a good one!”
“Ha! Thanks again!” and they scurried off to the next house as quickly as their costumed legs would carry them.
Nick slammed the door in self-congratulatory triumph at having overcome this challenging setback, turned and strode back to where Janee was napping peacefully against the wall. He plucked out the rag with his left hand, the right hand still holding the once again forgotten plunger, and stuffed it in his back pocket. Janee stirred a bit, smacked her lips twice, smiled in her continued repose and began snoring in vibrant, open-mouthed earnest.
“I’ll make you sign the deed over,” Nick confidently announced to her, waving the plunger for emphasis, “and tell me that you’ll marry me!” he threw in for good measure, not really caring if she married him or not (or if she even heard him), but enamored with the idea of making her tell him, against her will, that she would. He put down the plunger next to Janee, went and grabbed the spool of copper wire that he had stashed behind the door, then continued trussing the solidly sleeping form of her upper body until she was quite well cocooned.
Stepping back to survey his handiwork, he rubbed his hands together in glee and said, “Now my sweet, you’ll see what happens when you refuse my reasonable offers!”
(end of part 4)
Well! Will Nick make good on his threat to plug Janee in? Will she wake up before he does? Will she wake up when he does? Is there some way to stop this evil scheme? Do we have to wait until tomorrow?
Yes, that’s all for tonight, and we will indeed pick up again tomorrow as the further adventures of those wonderful folks from Withering Flats return!
Written by Michael Steven Platt 5-13-09
Hello again from the ever interesting world of Withering Flats! We are continuing our installments of Episode Two and tonight we pick up right when nasty Nick Nak had sweet Janee Trubloo tied up in copper wires and was about to plug her into the electrical socket when the doorbell rang. Nik answered onoy to find himself confronted by a host of Super Heroes. Let’s find out what happened next...
He swung the door open, politely saying, “What can I do for ...” then suddenly was struck dumb in seeing right there in front of him, Superman, Batman, Iron Man, the Wolverine, Harry Potter and a Cheerleader!
“Gulp,” Nick nervously swallowed and, in his most innocent voice, asked, “Well, hello there. Whatever brings you all to ...um, visit this evening?” hoping that it was some kind of mistaken address situation.
“Trick or Treat!” they chorused, as they all raised their arms up to show the bags that they carried.
‘Huh? What’s that again?” responded Nick, in some trepidatious confusion.
“Trick or Treat!” and they all offered up their bags a bit more insistently.
Nick stood in motionless befuddlement a moment longer as the gears of his thought processes disengaged, remeshed in a realigned differential configuration, ground, chuttered and clattered a bit and finally produced enough mechanically organic electrical energy up the convoluted wiring of his evil mind, to finally light the ultra-violet bulb in his idea attic, shedding dark illumination on the realization that it was Halloween and these were kids out begging for loot. (“My kind of deal,” his subconscious entity acknowledged, and then followed with, “No wonder they all look so much shorter than I imagined them to be.”)
“Oh,” his conscious mind finally vocalized, then, “Oh! Okay, you sneaky little brats, I know your game,” once more reverting to character, rocking on his heels and putting his hands in his jacket pockets, “Well, you’re out of luck here, because I don’t...” then he stopped as his hands fondled the box in his pocket. His thoughts went through their manipulations again, his brows knit down then purled back up again, and he said, “Wait a minute ... here,” pulling the box out, “there’s one for each of you,” and as he held the box in one hand he pulled out individually wrapped foil packets from it with the other and dropped one in each proffered bag.
“There you go, kids, now beat it, I’m a busy man!” and waved them away “Thanks, mister!” they chorused one last time, as some of them looked into their bags, trying to discern exactly what it was that he had given them.
Then Superman spoke up and added, “That’s a great old fashioned costume you’re wearing,” referring to Nick’s slicked back jet black hair and pencil thin handlebar moustache, his long black coat, black string tie against the severely starched white shirt (worn to please his mother), the black trousers falling down around his high healed shiny black boots. “But what is that supposed to be,” pointing between Nick’s legs at the protruding toilet plunger still tightly held there.
“Um,” Nick looked down into the red rubber circle of the plunger’s business end as it seemed to be staring back up at him.
“Um...” he repeated, looking back up at the gathered group, once again in confused stasis. (Mental gears grind, etc.)
“Oh!” he announced, in sudden inspiration, focusing on the Harry Potter costumed child. He stuffed the half empty box back into his coat pocket, grabbed the plunger and brandished it above his head in a menacing way.
“This is my Magic Wand and I’ll use it to turn you all into sewer rats if you don’t scram!” he threatened menacingly.
The gathered children looked at him, then all broke into laughter exclaiming, “Ha-ha-ha!”
“You’re too funny, mister!”
“Cool!”
“That’s a good one!”
“Ha! Thanks again!” and they scurried off to the next house as quickly as their costumed legs would carry them.
Nick slammed the door in self-congratulatory triumph at having overcome this challenging setback, turned and strode back to where Janee was napping peacefully against the wall. He plucked out the rag with his left hand, the right hand still holding the once again forgotten plunger, and stuffed it in his back pocket. Janee stirred a bit, smacked her lips twice, smiled in her continued repose and began snoring in vibrant, open-mouthed earnest.
“I’ll make you sign the deed over,” Nick confidently announced to her, waving the plunger for emphasis, “and tell me that you’ll marry me!” he threw in for good measure, not really caring if she married him or not (or if she even heard him), but enamored with the idea of making her tell him, against her will, that she would. He put down the plunger next to Janee, went and grabbed the spool of copper wire that he had stashed behind the door, then continued trussing the solidly sleeping form of her upper body until she was quite well cocooned.
Stepping back to survey his handiwork, he rubbed his hands together in glee and said, “Now my sweet, you’ll see what happens when you refuse my reasonable offers!”
(end of part 4)
Well! Will Nick make good on his threat to plug Janee in? Will she wake up before he does? Will she wake up when he does? Is there some way to stop this evil scheme? Do we have to wait until tomorrow?
Yes, that’s all for tonight, and we will indeed pick up again tomorrow as the further adventures of those wonderful folks from Withering Flats return!
Written by Michael Steven Platt 5-13-09
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Withering Flats, Episode Two, part 3
(Episode Two, part 3)
Hello again, folks! Well, we’re back at Withering Flats ready to find out what nasty Nick wants with sweet Janee’s Father’s Tulip Ranch. He seemed very intent on finding that deed and Janee was rather taken aback by it. Let’s pick up the action right there and see where it flies us...
“Not the Tulip Ranch!” she cried out, then queried, “Why ever would you want that worthless place?”
Nick gave her a puzzled look, asked, “Worthless?”
“Of course,” Janee replied. “The tulips don’t grow any more since the accident that killed poor Daddy. Didn’t you know that?”
Nick evidently did not know that, for he stood there and repeated, “Worthless?” looking at the now less enticing page of dirty paper in his hand.
“It was in all the papers around here,” Janee rambled on, “about how poor old Daddy was digging a well to get fresh water for the tulips because he was tired of having to truck it in, you know, with the lake being so far away and all, so he just thought he’d dig himself a well and fix that old tulip ranch up right nice,” she kept on as Nick was shaking his head in disbelief, frowning at the deed in his hand, “...so there he was just digging away and he had himself a hole about twenty feet deep when alluva sudden, there was this rumbling and shaking and I was just over by the shed and I could hear it and it scared the dog right bad ‘cause I saw him run and hide under the porch, which I didn’t think was a good idea seein’ as how that’s where the skunks had dug themselves a burrow...” Janee had a head of steam like a run-away semi- trailer truck down a mountain road, “...he was runnin’ hard and we ain’t seen head nor tail of that dog since, but we’re not feelin’ too bad about that on account of the smell, y’know, so anyway that’s when I heard this loud whooshing sound and looked to see this big, smelly tower of wet black stuff just gushing out of Daddy’s well stinkin’ up the yard and no sign of Daddy and I was wonderin’ where he might have got to and we never did find him, of course, which I thought was strange seein’ as that was the same time that the dog had run off smellin’ pretty bad himself, but I didn’t think of that until later on the next Tuesday, or maybe it was Wednesday, but anyway...”
Nick pursed his lips, stroked his chin, knitted his brows then suddenly looked at Janee again as she said, “...so even though it’s all spoiled and oily and worthless now that the tulips won’t grow, I won’t sell the ranch ‘cause of the memories of Daddy and how he used to love the place so much, at least when he wasn’t cussin’ at it and complainin’ about all the stinkin’ manure and the stinkin’ flowers and how they was drivin’ him to a early grave and all...”
“Did you say you won’t sell the ranch even though it’s worthless?” Nick butted in, knowing he’d never be able to speak otherwise.
“What’s that?” Janee came out of her monologue.
“You said you won’t sell me the ranch even though it’s worthless?” Nick asked, hopefully.
“Well, after what Daddy went through and it being the only thing of his I got and the fact that we never did find him, no I won’t sell it because it’s like havin’ Daddy still around when I go there, but of course the smell is different, not that Daddy smelled much better y’know, but at least I was used to it..” she continued until, smiling in renewed glee, Nick casually stuffed the rag back into Janee’s jabbering mouth.
“Mmm mnnng nmmm nnn...” she continued for a few moments until the jawing action segued into her chewing on it again and her eyes closed contentedly.
“Wonderful!” Nick chortled and rubbed his hands together, “Now I can force you to sell it to me, just like I planned!”
With his evil scheme back and ready to be put to action (”He’s not a bad boy,” his mother said of him, “it’s just that he has some social issues.”), Nick grabbed the ends of the heavy copper wire trailing down from the now lightly snoring Janee, and was just about to plug them into the wall socket when the doorbell rang.
“What?” Nick cried.
Ding-dong...
“Drat!” Nick scowled.
Ding-dong...
“Curses!” Nick cursed.
Ding-dong...
“Oh, ...oh ...oh phoeey!” Nick blubbered, then dropped the wires and told Janee, “I’ll be right back. Don’t start without me,” then waddled to the door, still reflexively holding the forgotten plunger tightly between his knees, waggling back and forth.
(“Maybe it’s Mother,” Janee yawned into the rag.)
Nick stopped in front of the door, composed himself, licking his hand and slicking back his jet black (dyed) hair, twirled his moustache, put on his best pearly gray smile (he’s so bad his teeth show it), and swung it open, politely saying, “What can I do for ...” then suddenly was struck dumb in seeing right there in front of him, Superman, Batman, Iron Man, the Wolverine, Harry Potter and a Cheerleader.
(end of part 3)
Oh my goodness! Have these brave Super Heroes arrived in time? (I think it is in their contracts that they do, their agents wouldn’t want them to look bad for the folks at home by being tardy.) Will Nick’s plans for Janee be handily foiled by this impressive group of Do-Gooders? Does Nick have a trick up his jet-black sleeve to treat these characters to? Will Janee stay awake to see what happens?
Tune in again tomorrow for the next exciting installment of adventure, drama and romance from Withering Flats!
Written by Michael Steven Platt 5-12-09
Hello again, folks! Well, we’re back at Withering Flats ready to find out what nasty Nick wants with sweet Janee’s Father’s Tulip Ranch. He seemed very intent on finding that deed and Janee was rather taken aback by it. Let’s pick up the action right there and see where it flies us...
“Not the Tulip Ranch!” she cried out, then queried, “Why ever would you want that worthless place?”
Nick gave her a puzzled look, asked, “Worthless?”
“Of course,” Janee replied. “The tulips don’t grow any more since the accident that killed poor Daddy. Didn’t you know that?”
Nick evidently did not know that, for he stood there and repeated, “Worthless?” looking at the now less enticing page of dirty paper in his hand.
“It was in all the papers around here,” Janee rambled on, “about how poor old Daddy was digging a well to get fresh water for the tulips because he was tired of having to truck it in, you know, with the lake being so far away and all, so he just thought he’d dig himself a well and fix that old tulip ranch up right nice,” she kept on as Nick was shaking his head in disbelief, frowning at the deed in his hand, “...so there he was just digging away and he had himself a hole about twenty feet deep when alluva sudden, there was this rumbling and shaking and I was just over by the shed and I could hear it and it scared the dog right bad ‘cause I saw him run and hide under the porch, which I didn’t think was a good idea seein’ as how that’s where the skunks had dug themselves a burrow...” Janee had a head of steam like a run-away semi- trailer truck down a mountain road, “...he was runnin’ hard and we ain’t seen head nor tail of that dog since, but we’re not feelin’ too bad about that on account of the smell, y’know, so anyway that’s when I heard this loud whooshing sound and looked to see this big, smelly tower of wet black stuff just gushing out of Daddy’s well stinkin’ up the yard and no sign of Daddy and I was wonderin’ where he might have got to and we never did find him, of course, which I thought was strange seein’ as that was the same time that the dog had run off smellin’ pretty bad himself, but I didn’t think of that until later on the next Tuesday, or maybe it was Wednesday, but anyway...”
Nick pursed his lips, stroked his chin, knitted his brows then suddenly looked at Janee again as she said, “...so even though it’s all spoiled and oily and worthless now that the tulips won’t grow, I won’t sell the ranch ‘cause of the memories of Daddy and how he used to love the place so much, at least when he wasn’t cussin’ at it and complainin’ about all the stinkin’ manure and the stinkin’ flowers and how they was drivin’ him to a early grave and all...”
“Did you say you won’t sell the ranch even though it’s worthless?” Nick butted in, knowing he’d never be able to speak otherwise.
“What’s that?” Janee came out of her monologue.
“You said you won’t sell me the ranch even though it’s worthless?” Nick asked, hopefully.
“Well, after what Daddy went through and it being the only thing of his I got and the fact that we never did find him, no I won’t sell it because it’s like havin’ Daddy still around when I go there, but of course the smell is different, not that Daddy smelled much better y’know, but at least I was used to it..” she continued until, smiling in renewed glee, Nick casually stuffed the rag back into Janee’s jabbering mouth.
“Mmm mnnng nmmm nnn...” she continued for a few moments until the jawing action segued into her chewing on it again and her eyes closed contentedly.
“Wonderful!” Nick chortled and rubbed his hands together, “Now I can force you to sell it to me, just like I planned!”
With his evil scheme back and ready to be put to action (”He’s not a bad boy,” his mother said of him, “it’s just that he has some social issues.”), Nick grabbed the ends of the heavy copper wire trailing down from the now lightly snoring Janee, and was just about to plug them into the wall socket when the doorbell rang.
“What?” Nick cried.
Ding-dong...
“Drat!” Nick scowled.
Ding-dong...
“Curses!” Nick cursed.
Ding-dong...
“Oh, ...oh ...oh phoeey!” Nick blubbered, then dropped the wires and told Janee, “I’ll be right back. Don’t start without me,” then waddled to the door, still reflexively holding the forgotten plunger tightly between his knees, waggling back and forth.
(“Maybe it’s Mother,” Janee yawned into the rag.)
Nick stopped in front of the door, composed himself, licking his hand and slicking back his jet black (dyed) hair, twirled his moustache, put on his best pearly gray smile (he’s so bad his teeth show it), and swung it open, politely saying, “What can I do for ...” then suddenly was struck dumb in seeing right there in front of him, Superman, Batman, Iron Man, the Wolverine, Harry Potter and a Cheerleader.
(end of part 3)
Oh my goodness! Have these brave Super Heroes arrived in time? (I think it is in their contracts that they do, their agents wouldn’t want them to look bad for the folks at home by being tardy.) Will Nick’s plans for Janee be handily foiled by this impressive group of Do-Gooders? Does Nick have a trick up his jet-black sleeve to treat these characters to? Will Janee stay awake to see what happens?
Tune in again tomorrow for the next exciting installment of adventure, drama and romance from Withering Flats!
Written by Michael Steven Platt 5-12-09
Monday, May 11, 2009
Withering Flats, Episode Two, part 2
(Episode Two, Part 2)
We left off last night with Nick rummaging in Janee’s purse after wrapping her in copper wire and stuffing a rag in her mouth. He had just found a significant piece of paper and was flaunting it in front of Janee’s face. Let’s tune in and catch the suspense from there...
He grabbed the purse off of her wrist, reached into it, pulled out a piece of paper and exclaimed, “Aha! I have it at last!” brandishing it in front of Janee’s face
Her quizzical frown caused him to look at what he held and mirrored her frown as he realized he held the invitation to a bridal shower to take place later that week.
“Drat!” he muttered, as he shoved it into his back pocket and again reached in to Janee’s grab bag purse. He found another piece of paper, pulled it out triumphantly and said, “HERE it is!” again waving it in Janee’s face. She shrugged at him with a blank stare, causing him to look closer at this item, which turned out to be a receipt from Ernie’s May Day Floral Supplies and Sludge Haulers for the removal of 130 gallons of “Liquid Waste” from a septic retention tank. Grimacing with frustration, Nick stuffed this into his shirt pocket and once again thrust his hand into the purse, rummaging around until her found some more papers, which he pulled out and exclaimed, “Finally!” but growled in anger as he saw it wasn’t what he was looking for, then paused in thoughtful musing as he saw that it was a copy of ‘Soap Opera Crossword Puzzles,’ raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips and thoughtfully tucked it in his other back pocket from the Shower invite. He reached in one more time and came out with yet another sheet of paper which turned out to be a preprinted-autographed picture of purple-haired Rosco MacGoulash (Oodles and Oodles served) which he reverently folded and stuck in the inside pocket of his black coat.
“This isn’t going to be as easy as I thought,” muttered nasty Nick, and he opened the purse up wide to look into its voluminous depths.
“Sheesh!” he complained, “What is it with women and their purses? What is all this stuff for?” as he started to haul out various contents, placing them in his pockets (a Television Program Directory, a half eaten apple, several bottles of ‘Color Perfect’ nail polish and typing correction fluid, a tin of Garlic Roses Breath Mints and a screwdriver), under one arm (volume seven of the Encyclopedia Lusitania), then the other (a deflated inflatable ‘Man-around-the-House’ for the girl who has everything else) and finally between his legs (a short necked toilet plunger... it really is a big purse). He finally noticed a grungy piece of paper sticking out from an outside pocket, and, as carefully as his encumbered arms could allow him, he extricated it, unfolded it , perused it, scrunched his face up in confusion, rubbed some dried mud off it, had a sudden insight, turned it top to bottom and perused it once more. He then raised his arms and jumped up and down in lock-legged triumph (dropping everything except the toilet plunger, which he still held between his knees) and cried, “Eureka! I’ve found it at long last!”
Janee, mulling over her own issues as Nick was occupied with the contents of her purse (“I wonder if Clem will show up tonight, this place is a mess and I haven’t raked my hair yet,” shaking out her seaweed locks), was startled as Nick jumped up and shouted. He grinned evilly and held out the soiled yet still legible piece of paper. She looked at it with mild curiosity, then looked at Nick and shrugged. Nick frowned, said, “Don’t you recognize this?” and waved it around for emphasis.
Janee, bobbed and weaved her head as best she could, trying to study the unsteady paper. Nick stopped moving it around, grabbed top and bottom to straighten it out and held it up close to her face as she still stood wrapped and propped against the brightly stylish cinder block wall. She looked closely and then shook her head as she once more regarded her tormentor.
“Oh really,” Nick exclaimed in exasperation, turning it around so he could look at it again, “it’s really quite easy to see...” and he stopped as he studied the paper, frowned, then sheepishly turned it right-side up again and once more offered it to Janee, stating in triumph, “It’s the deed to your father’s Tulip Ranch!” and, as he once again turned it around to study his prize, he sneeringly added, “And, it comes complete with tip-toe rights!”
“Oh no!” thought Janee, still chewing on the rag in her mouth as if it were cud, “Not the Tulip Ranch!”
“Mmm-nnh!” articulated Janee out loud through the rag, as she stopped her rhythmic chomping, “Nnn mmm Nng-nngm Rnnnhn!”
“What’s that?” asked Nick, looking up from the dirty deed, and then, seeing her wide-eyed, plugged mouth stare, apologized, “Oh, sorry, didn’t mean to be rude,” and he reached over to pluck out the rag.
“Not the Tulip Ranch!” she cried out...
(end of part 2)
Oh dear! Janee seems to be quite taken aback by Nick’s desire for her father’s ranch. Will he force it from her? Will she suffer at his whim? Will he stuff the dirty, oily rag back in her mouth? Will she survive it if he does? Will the rag survive it?
Tune in again tomorrow for the next exciting installment of adventure, drama and romance from Withering Flats!
Written by Michael Steven Platt 5-11-09
We left off last night with Nick rummaging in Janee’s purse after wrapping her in copper wire and stuffing a rag in her mouth. He had just found a significant piece of paper and was flaunting it in front of Janee’s face. Let’s tune in and catch the suspense from there...
He grabbed the purse off of her wrist, reached into it, pulled out a piece of paper and exclaimed, “Aha! I have it at last!” brandishing it in front of Janee’s face
Her quizzical frown caused him to look at what he held and mirrored her frown as he realized he held the invitation to a bridal shower to take place later that week.
“Drat!” he muttered, as he shoved it into his back pocket and again reached in to Janee’s grab bag purse. He found another piece of paper, pulled it out triumphantly and said, “HERE it is!” again waving it in Janee’s face. She shrugged at him with a blank stare, causing him to look closer at this item, which turned out to be a receipt from Ernie’s May Day Floral Supplies and Sludge Haulers for the removal of 130 gallons of “Liquid Waste” from a septic retention tank. Grimacing with frustration, Nick stuffed this into his shirt pocket and once again thrust his hand into the purse, rummaging around until her found some more papers, which he pulled out and exclaimed, “Finally!” but growled in anger as he saw it wasn’t what he was looking for, then paused in thoughtful musing as he saw that it was a copy of ‘Soap Opera Crossword Puzzles,’ raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips and thoughtfully tucked it in his other back pocket from the Shower invite. He reached in one more time and came out with yet another sheet of paper which turned out to be a preprinted-autographed picture of purple-haired Rosco MacGoulash (Oodles and Oodles served) which he reverently folded and stuck in the inside pocket of his black coat.
“This isn’t going to be as easy as I thought,” muttered nasty Nick, and he opened the purse up wide to look into its voluminous depths.
“Sheesh!” he complained, “What is it with women and their purses? What is all this stuff for?” as he started to haul out various contents, placing them in his pockets (a Television Program Directory, a half eaten apple, several bottles of ‘Color Perfect’ nail polish and typing correction fluid, a tin of Garlic Roses Breath Mints and a screwdriver), under one arm (volume seven of the Encyclopedia Lusitania), then the other (a deflated inflatable ‘Man-around-the-House’ for the girl who has everything else) and finally between his legs (a short necked toilet plunger... it really is a big purse). He finally noticed a grungy piece of paper sticking out from an outside pocket, and, as carefully as his encumbered arms could allow him, he extricated it, unfolded it , perused it, scrunched his face up in confusion, rubbed some dried mud off it, had a sudden insight, turned it top to bottom and perused it once more. He then raised his arms and jumped up and down in lock-legged triumph (dropping everything except the toilet plunger, which he still held between his knees) and cried, “Eureka! I’ve found it at long last!”
Janee, mulling over her own issues as Nick was occupied with the contents of her purse (“I wonder if Clem will show up tonight, this place is a mess and I haven’t raked my hair yet,” shaking out her seaweed locks), was startled as Nick jumped up and shouted. He grinned evilly and held out the soiled yet still legible piece of paper. She looked at it with mild curiosity, then looked at Nick and shrugged. Nick frowned, said, “Don’t you recognize this?” and waved it around for emphasis.
Janee, bobbed and weaved her head as best she could, trying to study the unsteady paper. Nick stopped moving it around, grabbed top and bottom to straighten it out and held it up close to her face as she still stood wrapped and propped against the brightly stylish cinder block wall. She looked closely and then shook her head as she once more regarded her tormentor.
“Oh really,” Nick exclaimed in exasperation, turning it around so he could look at it again, “it’s really quite easy to see...” and he stopped as he studied the paper, frowned, then sheepishly turned it right-side up again and once more offered it to Janee, stating in triumph, “It’s the deed to your father’s Tulip Ranch!” and, as he once again turned it around to study his prize, he sneeringly added, “And, it comes complete with tip-toe rights!”
“Oh no!” thought Janee, still chewing on the rag in her mouth as if it were cud, “Not the Tulip Ranch!”
“Mmm-nnh!” articulated Janee out loud through the rag, as she stopped her rhythmic chomping, “Nnn mmm Nng-nngm Rnnnhn!”
“What’s that?” asked Nick, looking up from the dirty deed, and then, seeing her wide-eyed, plugged mouth stare, apologized, “Oh, sorry, didn’t mean to be rude,” and he reached over to pluck out the rag.
“Not the Tulip Ranch!” she cried out...
(end of part 2)
Oh dear! Janee seems to be quite taken aback by Nick’s desire for her father’s ranch. Will he force it from her? Will she suffer at his whim? Will he stuff the dirty, oily rag back in her mouth? Will she survive it if he does? Will the rag survive it?
Tune in again tomorrow for the next exciting installment of adventure, drama and romance from Withering Flats!
Written by Michael Steven Platt 5-11-09
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Withering Flats, Episode Two, part 1
Withering Flats
Episode Two
Yes, Folks, it’s time once again to pull up a chair and gather ‘round the virtual radio screen because we’re off to take a trip to the Heartland of Truth, Justice and the Tongue-in-Cheek Way, out where men are men, women are women and the cows come home for supper (they wouldn’t want to miss the show) in Withering Flats, USA.
Last time we were introduced to our All-American Boy Hero and self-made man (just like his mother is still raising him to be), Clem Clump, and to his best (8 out of 10 on the Hussel Magazine scale) girl and light of his life, Sweet Janee Trubloo, and to Clem’s arch-rival and evil foil, the ever-unpleasant and despicably heartless, Nasty Nick Nak. We left off with Clem telling the punch line to a joke that Nick did not understand and Janee had thought so funny that she laughed uncontrollably as she fell into a pit of hungry alligators.
So let’s head back to the simple pleasures and travails of yestertimes in Withering Flats and see what is happening back then right now...
A dark, late October night wraps its chilly fingers around the corners of the small town society as sweet Janee is just getting back home after a hard day at Jack Rackem’s Chiropractic Bar and Grille Emporium where she is employed as secretary and bouncer. She is carrying her stylish new alligator skin purse (and wearing matching shoes, hat, gloves and coat) and is looking tired after a rough day at the office.
“All I wanna do,” she is thinking to herself, “is take a hot mudbath, slip into my canvas nightie, curl up in front of the gas grill with a glass of port and read the latest issue of Soap Opera Indigestion.” She fumbles for her keys in her oversized purse, stops and digs deeper, pulling out various items and placing them in her pockets, under her arm and between her legs in search of the errant keychain. Out comes lipstick, compact, hairbrush, a pipe wrench (all of which go in various pockets of her coat), a leather truncheon (gripped awkwardly between her legs), a well thumbed copy of Farm Animal Monthly (stuck under the arm not holding the purse), an opened, large, economy sized brand name box of Hector Horse’s one-size fits all ‘Lubricated and Individually Wrapped for the Prevention of Disease Only’ foil packets (which she stuck in her mouth), a fat, half smoked cigar (“Aha,” she garbled excitedly to herself, “I thought I still had a bit of this left,” as she stuck it behind her ear) and, finally, a large, yellow plastic, squeaking rubber ducky that had a chain attached to it which held her keys. With her feet spread, knees locked together to hold her truncheon, arms tight to her body to hold magazine and purse respectively, she fumbled at the door lock until she was able to insert (choosing from several dozen) the correct key into the lock and pushed open the door. She waddled forward into the front hall of her warehouse bungalow, stuck her butt out to catch the door and swing it shut and was ready to drop everything in a sigh of relief when a voice suddenly cried out from behind the door, “Baby, I love it when you do that!”
With a croak of surprise through the box clamped between her teeth, Janee dropped everything (but the box, with her purse now dangling from the strap looped over her wrist) in panic, spun around and was confronted with the evil leer of that no-good despoiler of virtue, that slick and sly corrupter of innocence, that foul-mouthed cad (Mr. Bad Breath of 1937), Nasty Nick Nak himself. He quickly looped a ready coil of copper wire over and around her, pulled it tight to pin her arms to her sides, then looped it around over and over, many more times, trussing her up into immobility. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out an oily rag that he raised to her face to stuff into her mouth. He paused in confusion as he noticed the box that was already occupying that space, frowned, shrugged, took the box out with his other hand and smoothly stuffed the rag in its place. He read the label on the box, raised his eyebrows in further surprise, smiled and put the box in his coat pocket for later attentions. He turned back to Janee, who was occupied in chewing on the rag and making pleased, “Mmm-mmmm,” sounds, twirled his well waxed moustache in anticipatory glee, grabbed and shuffled her back a few steps against the bright magenta painted brick wall, then grabbed the purse off of her wrist, reached into it, pulled out a piece of paper and exclaimed, “Aha! I have it at last!” brandishing it in front of Janee’s face.
Oh dear! Whatever does nasty Nick have? What does he want to do with it? What will happen to poor Janee?
Be sure to tune in again tomorrow night for the next installment of episode two of Withering Flats!
(end of part 1)
Episode Two
Yes, Folks, it’s time once again to pull up a chair and gather ‘round the virtual radio screen because we’re off to take a trip to the Heartland of Truth, Justice and the Tongue-in-Cheek Way, out where men are men, women are women and the cows come home for supper (they wouldn’t want to miss the show) in Withering Flats, USA.
Last time we were introduced to our All-American Boy Hero and self-made man (just like his mother is still raising him to be), Clem Clump, and to his best (8 out of 10 on the Hussel Magazine scale) girl and light of his life, Sweet Janee Trubloo, and to Clem’s arch-rival and evil foil, the ever-unpleasant and despicably heartless, Nasty Nick Nak. We left off with Clem telling the punch line to a joke that Nick did not understand and Janee had thought so funny that she laughed uncontrollably as she fell into a pit of hungry alligators.
So let’s head back to the simple pleasures and travails of yestertimes in Withering Flats and see what is happening back then right now...
A dark, late October night wraps its chilly fingers around the corners of the small town society as sweet Janee is just getting back home after a hard day at Jack Rackem’s Chiropractic Bar and Grille Emporium where she is employed as secretary and bouncer. She is carrying her stylish new alligator skin purse (and wearing matching shoes, hat, gloves and coat) and is looking tired after a rough day at the office.
“All I wanna do,” she is thinking to herself, “is take a hot mudbath, slip into my canvas nightie, curl up in front of the gas grill with a glass of port and read the latest issue of Soap Opera Indigestion.” She fumbles for her keys in her oversized purse, stops and digs deeper, pulling out various items and placing them in her pockets, under her arm and between her legs in search of the errant keychain. Out comes lipstick, compact, hairbrush, a pipe wrench (all of which go in various pockets of her coat), a leather truncheon (gripped awkwardly between her legs), a well thumbed copy of Farm Animal Monthly (stuck under the arm not holding the purse), an opened, large, economy sized brand name box of Hector Horse’s one-size fits all ‘Lubricated and Individually Wrapped for the Prevention of Disease Only’ foil packets (which she stuck in her mouth), a fat, half smoked cigar (“Aha,” she garbled excitedly to herself, “I thought I still had a bit of this left,” as she stuck it behind her ear) and, finally, a large, yellow plastic, squeaking rubber ducky that had a chain attached to it which held her keys. With her feet spread, knees locked together to hold her truncheon, arms tight to her body to hold magazine and purse respectively, she fumbled at the door lock until she was able to insert (choosing from several dozen) the correct key into the lock and pushed open the door. She waddled forward into the front hall of her warehouse bungalow, stuck her butt out to catch the door and swing it shut and was ready to drop everything in a sigh of relief when a voice suddenly cried out from behind the door, “Baby, I love it when you do that!”
With a croak of surprise through the box clamped between her teeth, Janee dropped everything (but the box, with her purse now dangling from the strap looped over her wrist) in panic, spun around and was confronted with the evil leer of that no-good despoiler of virtue, that slick and sly corrupter of innocence, that foul-mouthed cad (Mr. Bad Breath of 1937), Nasty Nick Nak himself. He quickly looped a ready coil of copper wire over and around her, pulled it tight to pin her arms to her sides, then looped it around over and over, many more times, trussing her up into immobility. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out an oily rag that he raised to her face to stuff into her mouth. He paused in confusion as he noticed the box that was already occupying that space, frowned, shrugged, took the box out with his other hand and smoothly stuffed the rag in its place. He read the label on the box, raised his eyebrows in further surprise, smiled and put the box in his coat pocket for later attentions. He turned back to Janee, who was occupied in chewing on the rag and making pleased, “Mmm-mmmm,” sounds, twirled his well waxed moustache in anticipatory glee, grabbed and shuffled her back a few steps against the bright magenta painted brick wall, then grabbed the purse off of her wrist, reached into it, pulled out a piece of paper and exclaimed, “Aha! I have it at last!” brandishing it in front of Janee’s face.
Oh dear! Whatever does nasty Nick have? What does he want to do with it? What will happen to poor Janee?
Be sure to tune in again tomorrow night for the next installment of episode two of Withering Flats!
(end of part 1)
Thursday, May 7, 2009
A World of Questions
What to say:
It’s Poetry Day:
So here you go:
On with the show:
World Of Questions
Standing on a world of questions
Looking toward a sky of answers
We reach up for knowledge
Trying to grasp the contentment there
Not realizing that the sky is made of air
And has been in our hands the whole time.
Michael Steven Platt 1971, Posted 5-07-09
It’s Poetry Day:
So here you go:
On with the show:
World Of Questions
Standing on a world of questions
Looking toward a sky of answers
We reach up for knowledge
Trying to grasp the contentment there
Not realizing that the sky is made of air
And has been in our hands the whole time.
Michael Steven Platt 1971, Posted 5-07-09
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
A Random Rambling Digression
In keeping with my random postings I haven’t yet decided what to put up here for tonight, but I’m fairly certain that I will come up with something. I’m working on the second installment of Withering Flats, which I originally called “The Hi-Ho Funnies” in my journal when I wrote them over thirty years ago, but I wanted to give the series a less trite title. I wrote three ‘episodes’, each about two years apart and have decided to rewrite, refine and update them for presentation here. I hope to have the next one ready and posted over the upcoming weekend. I have a couple ideas for more Zlodt Bardo, Spaceman episodes, but I do not have one already worked out. The first one, Zlodt Bardo and the Space Pirate, I made up the day I posted the first half, about three weeks ago. The story turned out quite well and there will be more adventures in the future!
I do have a variety of short stories contained in my Making Sand collection, and I have posted some of these already (Master Bishu and the Genie, Realization and All in the Mind) but I don’t want to take too many from that source as I would like to publish them all as a complete unit. I also have taken excerpts from my book, Endless Shifting Sand (seeming to have some kind of affinity for sand), but again, I intend on publishing that and I don’t want to give away more than a taste here and there.
I also have random things I have written into the computer over the years, and I will throw some of those up occasionally, but that is a limited resource. My desire is to write more spontaneously and create interesting reads as I go, which was what the Zlodt and the Pirate story was. However, that takes a lot of time and energy and, at this time, I am not able to devote either of those in the quantities I would like. Yet I want to keep posting and keep adding to the collection of literary oddities that will, eventually/hopefully/someday, draw in readers and produce a following of people who enjoy what I write. My ambition is to become a writer/artist as a fulltime occupation and not have my creative talents be just fascinating hobbies, so I write (and draw) and believe that what I produce is good enough to warrant a closer look and thus develop a following. I have two followers so far, Dianne and Stringffellow1, and I am deeply and humbly grateful for their appreciation of my work.
I wasn’t intending to write in the direction that I did, but that’s where my words carried me and so that’s where we went. I will be write back...
Written by Michael Steven Platt 5-05-09 (Fell ease, sink the mayo)
I do have a variety of short stories contained in my Making Sand collection, and I have posted some of these already (Master Bishu and the Genie, Realization and All in the Mind) but I don’t want to take too many from that source as I would like to publish them all as a complete unit. I also have taken excerpts from my book, Endless Shifting Sand (seeming to have some kind of affinity for sand), but again, I intend on publishing that and I don’t want to give away more than a taste here and there.
I also have random things I have written into the computer over the years, and I will throw some of those up occasionally, but that is a limited resource. My desire is to write more spontaneously and create interesting reads as I go, which was what the Zlodt and the Pirate story was. However, that takes a lot of time and energy and, at this time, I am not able to devote either of those in the quantities I would like. Yet I want to keep posting and keep adding to the collection of literary oddities that will, eventually/hopefully/someday, draw in readers and produce a following of people who enjoy what I write. My ambition is to become a writer/artist as a fulltime occupation and not have my creative talents be just fascinating hobbies, so I write (and draw) and believe that what I produce is good enough to warrant a closer look and thus develop a following. I have two followers so far, Dianne and Stringffellow1, and I am deeply and humbly grateful for their appreciation of my work.
I wasn’t intending to write in the direction that I did, but that’s where my words carried me and so that’s where we went. I will be write back...
Written by Michael Steven Platt 5-05-09 (Fell ease, sink the mayo)
Monday, May 4, 2009
Another Thoughts of the Moment Triple Play
Another set of Thoughts of the Moment...
We are living in tomorrow’s past, so use the memories of that to guide your actions today.
A dollar might have an attractive bottom worth, but it is the pennies that get pinched.
The situation is not all it seems to be, and more.
Written by Michael Steven Platt 4-04-09
We are living in tomorrow’s past, so use the memories of that to guide your actions today.
A dollar might have an attractive bottom worth, but it is the pennies that get pinched.
The situation is not all it seems to be, and more.
Written by Michael Steven Platt 4-04-09
Sunday, May 3, 2009
All in the Mind
All in the Mind
Two hermit monks were each meditating on adjacent mountain tops. Neither acknowledged the other as they sat for many years. Then suddenly, on a warm, sunny afternoon, one called out to the other, “Are you a product of my imagination or am I a product of yours?”
The second monk called right back, “Neither, we are each the product of our own imagination.”
And so they sat and meditated in silence while the years slipped by, neither realizing that as soon as I stop writing about them, your imagination will soon move on and they will be gone.
Written by Michael Steven Platt Posted 5-03-09
Two hermit monks were each meditating on adjacent mountain tops. Neither acknowledged the other as they sat for many years. Then suddenly, on a warm, sunny afternoon, one called out to the other, “Are you a product of my imagination or am I a product of yours?”
The second monk called right back, “Neither, we are each the product of our own imagination.”
And so they sat and meditated in silence while the years slipped by, neither realizing that as soon as I stop writing about them, your imagination will soon move on and they will be gone.
Written by Michael Steven Platt Posted 5-03-09
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Initiative Redaction
Taken in from the top, everything else looks down and out, but the best way to get here from there is to wait until you catch up with yourself and see who arrives first. Tie goes to the rumor. I surround my ambitions with a yawn and prepare for the next available moment after this current one winds up its down time, pantemporal travel notwithstanding in the rain of my every day dreams for a better tomorrow in spite of yesterday’s misfunctions. The crowding hours keep my hesitation to broach anything more radical than a mid-morning snack, but I bite off the substance of freedom, chew over the implications of lateral intent, ruminate on a better way of strife, swallow my pride, digest what comes to my attention and generally get a belly full of short-changed inspiration just in time for lunch. Close call. Slow day at the okay corral. Round up your posse and ride like the dust that blows through the sweep of your mountain stone mind, like a rock. Here come the good guys and there goes the neighborhood out the back door, down the alley, into the streets of lost and found angels looking for a way to share a smile. All emotion is primal, all opinion is biased.
Writing as fast as you read, the images and words that flow from the fingertips of my every active mind to the walls of your never changing mend (substitutions abound) of the way you would like to see what it is that holds your breath between each and every distraction, come around and eventually trade sense for substance. I offer relief in the form of a cloud, you hold clouds in the arms of your clear blank eye, and between the motion found therein, the weather makes out just find in the loss of something else to lose. All reality is conditional, all perception is subjective.
One thing follows another until there is a whole series of confusion that only makes signs to point and ponder the way back to where you are going in any situational aspect of being lost without realizing it. Here you go there in the sunshine of the clear blue night, holding without touching and feeling without believing. All awareness is current, all actions change your future reality, ad infinitum.
Written by Michael Steven Platt 5-02-09
Writing as fast as you read, the images and words that flow from the fingertips of my every active mind to the walls of your never changing mend (substitutions abound) of the way you would like to see what it is that holds your breath between each and every distraction, come around and eventually trade sense for substance. I offer relief in the form of a cloud, you hold clouds in the arms of your clear blank eye, and between the motion found therein, the weather makes out just find in the loss of something else to lose. All reality is conditional, all perception is subjective.
One thing follows another until there is a whole series of confusion that only makes signs to point and ponder the way back to where you are going in any situational aspect of being lost without realizing it. Here you go there in the sunshine of the clear blue night, holding without touching and feeling without believing. All awareness is current, all actions change your future reality, ad infinitum.
Written by Michael Steven Platt 5-02-09
Friday, May 1, 2009
A Poetry Day Late and A Poem, Short
Okay, okay... I know what you’ll say:
I didn’t come through on Poetry Day.
Apologies, regrets, atonement, amends
My self recriminatory angst forefends…
I guess I’ll ameliorate this loss somehow
And offer a poem… so, how ‘bout right now?
Wrought Write Read
How much Writ
Can a Right Write Write
If a Wrought Write
Wrote Right Writ?
Wrap that around confusion’s find
Then plant it in your fertile mind,
And wonder if you were mislead
And wrote right write was left instead.
So with that read of wrought write fun
This Poetry Day is write right done!
Wrote right write wrought by Michael Steven Platt 5-1-09
I didn’t come through on Poetry Day.
Apologies, regrets, atonement, amends
My self recriminatory angst forefends…
I guess I’ll ameliorate this loss somehow
And offer a poem… so, how ‘bout right now?
Wrought Write Read
How much Writ
Can a Right Write Write
If a Wrought Write
Wrote Right Writ?
Wrap that around confusion’s find
Then plant it in your fertile mind,
And wonder if you were mislead
And wrote right write was left instead.
So with that read of wrought write fun
This Poetry Day is write right done!
Wrote right write wrought by Michael Steven Platt 5-1-09
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Thank Goodness!
Pounding away on the keyboard like it was a piano grande from Star Bonks (that’s when you hit your head and see sparkles), I would lather up a hot little number and serve it out to you, but unfortunately the substance of this offbeat imagery is just words I dream as I doze into the late afternoon. I find that my energy level is strong and flowing in creative directions right up until about the time I get home from work and then my drive turns off the highway, pulls into a rest stop, puts the vehicle in park and kicks back for a mighty nap, figuratively or literally. And it seems that every time I take it upon myself to recharge and rev up the engine with caffeine, as was the case today, something else comes along and steals my thunder until it reins no more. I have many stories and ideas, a few are finished (like The Big Cookie), several are rough drafted (like the second and third installments of the Withering Flats series) and many are just a title (like The Magic Chicken and The Garrulous Rock, which are titles I found in one of my old notebooks today). So I do have creative material. I am lacking in time and energy to transcribe, refine and create. Thanks goodness for Thoughts of the Moment. Here, have a few...
If there were nothing of interest to write about, I’m sure you’d read about it here first.
Remember: it’s corporate America who put the “hip” in Hypocrisy and the “super” in Superficial.
The realm of “what if’ exists so close to our perceptions that we often lose track that we inhabit the world of “what is.”
And with that I have managed to come up with an adequate (if not satisfactory to my creative drive, parked, napping and dreaming wonderful stories, living it up in the world of ‘what if’) posting for today. I wish you pleasant encounters, many smiles and perspicacious insights!
Written by Michael Steven Platt 4-29-09
If there were nothing of interest to write about, I’m sure you’d read about it here first.
Remember: it’s corporate America who put the “hip” in Hypocrisy and the “super” in Superficial.
The realm of “what if’ exists so close to our perceptions that we often lose track that we inhabit the world of “what is.”
And with that I have managed to come up with an adequate (if not satisfactory to my creative drive, parked, napping and dreaming wonderful stories, living it up in the world of ‘what if’) posting for today. I wish you pleasant encounters, many smiles and perspicacious insights!
Written by Michael Steven Platt 4-29-09
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Three more Thoughts of the Moment
From out of my magic hat of writing I pull these little bits of tid to share with you...
The older and more experienced I become, the more I rely on memory and intellect and the less I rely on inspiration and intuition.
We must think not only of today’s posterity but the posterity of the future as well.
Some people are like a small piece of tree branch put firmly into the heavy, very wet earth.
And with that I put my magic hat back on and take a nap...
Written by Michael Steven Platt 4-28-09
The older and more experienced I become, the more I rely on memory and intellect and the less I rely on inspiration and intuition.
We must think not only of today’s posterity but the posterity of the future as well.
Some people are like a small piece of tree branch put firmly into the heavy, very wet earth.
And with that I put my magic hat back on and take a nap...
Written by Michael Steven Platt 4-28-09
Thursday, April 23, 2009
A Sentimental Poem
Oh dear, oh no, look out below,
It’s once more time to post in rhyme,
So here’s the view I offer you,
A little treat that’s short and sweet,
Another blog about a frog,
So now I say, take it away!
My Froggy
I once had a froggy,
He was a nice froggy,
He hopped and he hopped and he hopped,
But then he hopped away,
But that’s okay,
‘Cause now I got a duck.
A masterpiece to say the least,
A little sad, but not too bad,
A bit of fun, and now it’s done,
We’ll try a quack when I come back,
So there you go, that’s all the show...
See you later mashed potater!
Written by Michael Steven Platt 4-23-09
It’s once more time to post in rhyme,
So here’s the view I offer you,
A little treat that’s short and sweet,
Another blog about a frog,
So now I say, take it away!
My Froggy
I once had a froggy,
He was a nice froggy,
He hopped and he hopped and he hopped,
But then he hopped away,
But that’s okay,
‘Cause now I got a duck.
The End
A masterpiece to say the least,
A little sad, but not too bad,
A bit of fun, and now it’s done,
We’ll try a quack when I come back,
So there you go, that’s all the show...
See you later mashed potater!
Written by Michael Steven Platt 4-23-09
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
An Earth Day Birthday Toast
April 22, 2009, Earth Day and my youngest daughter's birthday, so, the day before Poetry Thursday, I offer a birthday poem in honor of my Earth Day Birthday Girl!
Birthdays
A birthday is a funny thing,
I'm sure you will agree,
Caught as we are within each year's
Inevitability;
As time rolls on and we grow old,
The seasons slip away
While birthdays seem to come and go
As sure as night and day.
Our memories collect in scope
The time that's passing by,
And as the view grows long with age
The birthdays seem to fly!
A paradox of dread and joy
Is felt upon this date,
We cringe at thoughts of growing old,
Yet still we celebrate.
I guess we're glad we made it through
The year that's lately passed,
Or maybe trying to bolster up
For the one that's coming fast!
But from the youth that passes on
We have the chance to trade
For wisdom and maturity
Experience has made.
Thus all in all we age along,
Through Life and all it's ways,
As years are gathered up in sheaves
Of bundled day-to-days.
So now to laud you on your day,
One thing I'd like to do,
And that's to raise my glass to cheer
This Happy Birthday Toast
To You!
Happy Earth Day and a Toast of Joy to You as well!
Written by Michael Steven Platt 4-22-09
Birthdays
A birthday is a funny thing,
I'm sure you will agree,
Caught as we are within each year's
Inevitability;
As time rolls on and we grow old,
The seasons slip away
While birthdays seem to come and go
As sure as night and day.
Our memories collect in scope
The time that's passing by,
And as the view grows long with age
The birthdays seem to fly!
A paradox of dread and joy
Is felt upon this date,
We cringe at thoughts of growing old,
Yet still we celebrate.
I guess we're glad we made it through
The year that's lately passed,
Or maybe trying to bolster up
For the one that's coming fast!
But from the youth that passes on
We have the chance to trade
For wisdom and maturity
Experience has made.
Thus all in all we age along,
Through Life and all it's ways,
As years are gathered up in sheaves
Of bundled day-to-days.
So now to laud you on your day,
One thing I'd like to do,
And that's to raise my glass to cheer
This Happy Birthday Toast
To You!
Happy Earth Day and a Toast of Joy to You as well!
Written by Michael Steven Platt 4-22-09
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Three Thoughts of the Moment
Thoughts of the Moment:
A person with an open mind will question whether he truly has an open mind while a person with a closed mind believes unequivocally that he has an open mind and will refuse to listen to anyone suggesting otherwise.
If you are not perfect, then you have no grounds to criticize; if you are perfect, then you have no reason to criticize.
If I had the time and energy I’d probably do something else… but I don’t, so I’m going to sit right here and do this.
And that's that.
Written by Michael Steven Platt 4-21-09
A person with an open mind will question whether he truly has an open mind while a person with a closed mind believes unequivocally that he has an open mind and will refuse to listen to anyone suggesting otherwise.
If you are not perfect, then you have no grounds to criticize; if you are perfect, then you have no reason to criticize.
If I had the time and energy I’d probably do something else… but I don’t, so I’m going to sit right here and do this.
And that's that.
Written by Michael Steven Platt 4-21-09
Monday, April 20, 2009
Withering Flats, part 2, conclusion
Yes, Folks, it’s time again for Withering Flats, the small town in the Heartland of Decency and Family Values. Tonight we conclude the episode we started last night, when our hero and red- blooded boy, Clem, went all over town looking for his steady girl and heartthrob, sweet Janee Trubloo, who was last seen in the company of the villainous bad boy of town, nasty Nick Nak. Clem had just come from Mr. Woodinpate’s saw mill and had decided to go see Sheriff Blyndors. Let’s pick up the action from there...
Walking back into town, Clem was at a loss as to where to try next. He thought, that since Mr. Woodinpate had mentioned him, to try Sheriff Blyndors and ask if he had seen Janee or Nick. He was beginning to get worried that his searching would get him to the subjects of his concern too late!
He started running so that by the time he came up Main Street and stopped in front of the Sheriff’s Office, he was out of breath. The Sheriff was sitting out in front, in the shade under the awning, seated with his chair tipped back whittling on a stick. When Clem ran up out of breath he dropped the stick, jumped out of his chair and demanded, “What’s wrong? What’s going on? Is there trouble? Is there a fire? Has there been an accident? Are those danged hippies coming around again?”
Clem caught his breath and said, “No sir, I’m just looking for Janee Trubloo and Nick Nak, and it’s really important!”
“Eh? What’s that you say?” Sheriff Blyndors blustered, “The hippies aren’t back in town? Well they better not be or I’ll knock 'em around and lock 'em up again. Can’t have people who disagree with our way of life running around loose! You never know what kind of crazy ideas they will put in people’s heads!”
With that he pushed his big Western hat back a bit, bent over, picked up his stick and sat back down. He pointed his Bowie Knife at Clem and warned, “Don’t you go getting me all riled up, boy, you know I’ve got to keep the peace here,” and went back to his careful strokes against the wood.
“I’m sorry Sheriff Blyndors, but I really need to find Janee and Nick,” stammered Clem.
“Now Clem, you’re basically a good boy and have never given me much trouble. Although,” he mused, “you did go off to that Yooneeversity in the big city and you know I don’t cotton to the crazy ideas they put into young folk’s heads. All that eddy-kashun ain’t good for a body. People get too much of that kind of thing and they start wanting to change things and it just ain’t natural.”
“I know, Sheriff,” agreed Clem, having heard this same things many times over the years, “but have you seen Janee and Nick?”
“Say, Clem, why can’t you be more like that nice Nick Nak and do as you’re told?” Sheriff Blyndors asked. “Nick was by here a while ago and he gave me a friendly wave. Quite a nice boy. He knows his place and is someone to make a parent proud.”
“You saw Nick?” Clem exclaimed incredulously, “did you see Janee?”
‘Oh yeah, he had her by the hair dragging her down the street. He said he was taking her over to the old saw mill where Limmbug’s Alligator Farm is now. Yessir, that is a boy that knows how to treat a woman,” as he continued whittling.
Then, “You get along, boy, and stop causing trouble before I lock you up,” and with that he tilted his chair back, tilted his hat down and was quiet.
“Thanks, Sheriff!” Clem said, as he started off at a run.
“Slow down, boy!” barked the sheriff.
“Yes sir,” Clem responded obediently, easing to an anxious amble until he was around the corner, then set off running again, heading for the edge of town.
“I hope I’m not too late,” Clem worried to himself as he huffed and puffed up to the large, dilapidated shed that was the former saw mill and was now the office of the Limmbug Alligator Farm and Petting Zoo. There was a large sign outside the door stating that the feeding time shows were Tuesday and Saturday afternoon at 4pm and that there would be no between meal feedings (“So we keep ‘em hungry for you!”), and that trespassers would be prosecuted.
Ignoring the sign (he’s read it many of times when he came to watch the feedings) and bursting through the door he saw Nasty Nick standing by a long lever, similar to the one Mr. Woodinpate operated in the new saw mill, and sweet young Janee Trubloo (only a few years older than Clem) tied up and lying on the conveyor belt that remained from the old milling operation, although the saw itself was long gone. The far end of the belt stopped over the opening where the saw used to be that was now used to throw dead chickens and other delicacies down to the alligators in the pit below. It appeared that Janee had chewed through the gag, and she was peacefully snoring as Clem shouted, "Stop!”
Nick turned to face him, surprised anger gathering on his features while Janee snorted, grunted and woke with a start.
“Curses!” cried Nick.
“Huh?” blinked Janee.
“Stop!” repeated Clem.
“You’re too late, Clump chump! I’ve finally got her where I want her!” Nick scowled, his black suit and boots, as usual, were impeccably trim and neat, a black string tie dangling sharply against the stiffly starched white of his shirt. (“I wear the white shirt for my mother ‘cause I’m not ALL bad,” he explains to those who ask.)
“NO! Stop I say!” urged Clem, frantically.
Nick reached out, put his hands on the lever and sneered, “Tell me why, just for fun!” His beady eyes reflecting the black of his dark soul, his well waxed handlebar moustache equally black and shiny.
“Oh Nicky, you’re such a tool,” complained Janee. “Go ahead Clem, honey, tell him why,” and she looked at Clem with that sweet grin of hers that always touches him in a way he can’t control, making him blush and stammer.
“Uh... uh... uh... “ stammered Clem, blushing on cue, completely bedazzled by her radiant, gap-toothed smile.
“I thought so,”Nick snorted, and leaned into the lever, starting the belt and Janee toward the dark, open hole at the far end of the shack.
“Uh,” gave Clem one more time, “No... it’s umm, oh yeah!” he suddenly recalled his purpose as Janee and Nick watched him expectantly.
He dug into his pocket and fumbled with something as Nick raised his oily black eye-brows, reached beneath his black coat, whipped out a pistol, aimed it at Clem and took up a defensive posture.
“Here!” cried Clem, triumphantly, pulling his hand out of his pocket and brandishing a small piece of paper.
Nick looked relieved, Janee looked bored and Clem looked quite pleased with himself, continuing, “I finally remembered the punch line to that joke!”
“What!?” Nick and Janee exclaimed in unisoon. They froze for a second, looked at each other, looked back at Clem and then blurted out a harmonious, “Well what is it?”
“No one has told you yet, have they? I’m still in time aren’t I?” Clem asked them, a bit hesitantly.
“No, no one told us,” they harmonized, “Now tell us!”
“Whew,” huffed Clem, releasing his pent up breath, “I thought I’d be too late and you would have heard it from somebody else!” He looked greatly relieved, “Even though it’s only been a week,” and smiled from ear to ear.
“Tell us!”
Clem held up his piece of paper and triumphantly read, “No, it’s the OTHER way!”
There was a moment of silence as Clem looked rather smug, then Janee burst into hysterical laughter and Nick, looking rather puzzled, said, “I don’t get it.”
“You don’t get it, Nick?” exclaimed Clem, with a surprised look on his face.
“No, Clem, I’m sorry, I just don’t get it,” returned Nick as he replaced his revolver and walked over to where Clem was standing.
“Well, Nick, let me explain it,” began Clem as Sweet Janee Trubloo reached the end of the conveyor, tipped and plunged into the pit, still laughing hysterically.
And, as Clem talked with avidly grand gestures and Nick listened intently, neither one paying any heed to the loud splashing and thrashing noises coming from the shed, they wander away down the path back to town.
Well, folks, that’s all we have for this episode of Withering Flats, and we’ve been left in a real doozy of a spot. Will Clem be able to explain the joke to Nick? Will they be prosecuted for trespassing? Will they be prosecuted for feeding the alligators outside of the schedule? Will Janee be alright? Will she be prosecuted for trespassing or feeding the 'gators? Will the alligators be all right?
The answers to these and whatever questions you might think of will have to wait until the next exciting episode of Withering Flats, so until then this is your narrator saying so long for now!
Written by Michael Steven Platt 4-20-09
Walking back into town, Clem was at a loss as to where to try next. He thought, that since Mr. Woodinpate had mentioned him, to try Sheriff Blyndors and ask if he had seen Janee or Nick. He was beginning to get worried that his searching would get him to the subjects of his concern too late!
He started running so that by the time he came up Main Street and stopped in front of the Sheriff’s Office, he was out of breath. The Sheriff was sitting out in front, in the shade under the awning, seated with his chair tipped back whittling on a stick. When Clem ran up out of breath he dropped the stick, jumped out of his chair and demanded, “What’s wrong? What’s going on? Is there trouble? Is there a fire? Has there been an accident? Are those danged hippies coming around again?”
Clem caught his breath and said, “No sir, I’m just looking for Janee Trubloo and Nick Nak, and it’s really important!”
“Eh? What’s that you say?” Sheriff Blyndors blustered, “The hippies aren’t back in town? Well they better not be or I’ll knock 'em around and lock 'em up again. Can’t have people who disagree with our way of life running around loose! You never know what kind of crazy ideas they will put in people’s heads!”
With that he pushed his big Western hat back a bit, bent over, picked up his stick and sat back down. He pointed his Bowie Knife at Clem and warned, “Don’t you go getting me all riled up, boy, you know I’ve got to keep the peace here,” and went back to his careful strokes against the wood.
“I’m sorry Sheriff Blyndors, but I really need to find Janee and Nick,” stammered Clem.
“Now Clem, you’re basically a good boy and have never given me much trouble. Although,” he mused, “you did go off to that Yooneeversity in the big city and you know I don’t cotton to the crazy ideas they put into young folk’s heads. All that eddy-kashun ain’t good for a body. People get too much of that kind of thing and they start wanting to change things and it just ain’t natural.”
“I know, Sheriff,” agreed Clem, having heard this same things many times over the years, “but have you seen Janee and Nick?”
“Say, Clem, why can’t you be more like that nice Nick Nak and do as you’re told?” Sheriff Blyndors asked. “Nick was by here a while ago and he gave me a friendly wave. Quite a nice boy. He knows his place and is someone to make a parent proud.”
“You saw Nick?” Clem exclaimed incredulously, “did you see Janee?”
‘Oh yeah, he had her by the hair dragging her down the street. He said he was taking her over to the old saw mill where Limmbug’s Alligator Farm is now. Yessir, that is a boy that knows how to treat a woman,” as he continued whittling.
Then, “You get along, boy, and stop causing trouble before I lock you up,” and with that he tilted his chair back, tilted his hat down and was quiet.
“Thanks, Sheriff!” Clem said, as he started off at a run.
“Slow down, boy!” barked the sheriff.
“Yes sir,” Clem responded obediently, easing to an anxious amble until he was around the corner, then set off running again, heading for the edge of town.
“I hope I’m not too late,” Clem worried to himself as he huffed and puffed up to the large, dilapidated shed that was the former saw mill and was now the office of the Limmbug Alligator Farm and Petting Zoo. There was a large sign outside the door stating that the feeding time shows were Tuesday and Saturday afternoon at 4pm and that there would be no between meal feedings (“So we keep ‘em hungry for you!”), and that trespassers would be prosecuted.
Ignoring the sign (he’s read it many of times when he came to watch the feedings) and bursting through the door he saw Nasty Nick standing by a long lever, similar to the one Mr. Woodinpate operated in the new saw mill, and sweet young Janee Trubloo (only a few years older than Clem) tied up and lying on the conveyor belt that remained from the old milling operation, although the saw itself was long gone. The far end of the belt stopped over the opening where the saw used to be that was now used to throw dead chickens and other delicacies down to the alligators in the pit below. It appeared that Janee had chewed through the gag, and she was peacefully snoring as Clem shouted, "Stop!”
Nick turned to face him, surprised anger gathering on his features while Janee snorted, grunted and woke with a start.
“Curses!” cried Nick.
“Huh?” blinked Janee.
“Stop!” repeated Clem.
“You’re too late, Clump chump! I’ve finally got her where I want her!” Nick scowled, his black suit and boots, as usual, were impeccably trim and neat, a black string tie dangling sharply against the stiffly starched white of his shirt. (“I wear the white shirt for my mother ‘cause I’m not ALL bad,” he explains to those who ask.)
“NO! Stop I say!” urged Clem, frantically.
Nick reached out, put his hands on the lever and sneered, “Tell me why, just for fun!” His beady eyes reflecting the black of his dark soul, his well waxed handlebar moustache equally black and shiny.
“Oh Nicky, you’re such a tool,” complained Janee. “Go ahead Clem, honey, tell him why,” and she looked at Clem with that sweet grin of hers that always touches him in a way he can’t control, making him blush and stammer.
“Uh... uh... uh... “ stammered Clem, blushing on cue, completely bedazzled by her radiant, gap-toothed smile.
“I thought so,”Nick snorted, and leaned into the lever, starting the belt and Janee toward the dark, open hole at the far end of the shack.
“Uh,” gave Clem one more time, “No... it’s umm, oh yeah!” he suddenly recalled his purpose as Janee and Nick watched him expectantly.
He dug into his pocket and fumbled with something as Nick raised his oily black eye-brows, reached beneath his black coat, whipped out a pistol, aimed it at Clem and took up a defensive posture.
“Here!” cried Clem, triumphantly, pulling his hand out of his pocket and brandishing a small piece of paper.
Nick looked relieved, Janee looked bored and Clem looked quite pleased with himself, continuing, “I finally remembered the punch line to that joke!”
“What!?” Nick and Janee exclaimed in unisoon. They froze for a second, looked at each other, looked back at Clem and then blurted out a harmonious, “Well what is it?”
“No one has told you yet, have they? I’m still in time aren’t I?” Clem asked them, a bit hesitantly.
“No, no one told us,” they harmonized, “Now tell us!”
“Whew,” huffed Clem, releasing his pent up breath, “I thought I’d be too late and you would have heard it from somebody else!” He looked greatly relieved, “Even though it’s only been a week,” and smiled from ear to ear.
“Tell us!”
Clem held up his piece of paper and triumphantly read, “No, it’s the OTHER way!”
There was a moment of silence as Clem looked rather smug, then Janee burst into hysterical laughter and Nick, looking rather puzzled, said, “I don’t get it.”
“You don’t get it, Nick?” exclaimed Clem, with a surprised look on his face.
“No, Clem, I’m sorry, I just don’t get it,” returned Nick as he replaced his revolver and walked over to where Clem was standing.
“Well, Nick, let me explain it,” began Clem as Sweet Janee Trubloo reached the end of the conveyor, tipped and plunged into the pit, still laughing hysterically.
And, as Clem talked with avidly grand gestures and Nick listened intently, neither one paying any heed to the loud splashing and thrashing noises coming from the shed, they wander away down the path back to town.
Well, folks, that’s all we have for this episode of Withering Flats, and we’ve been left in a real doozy of a spot. Will Clem be able to explain the joke to Nick? Will they be prosecuted for trespassing? Will they be prosecuted for feeding the alligators outside of the schedule? Will Janee be alright? Will she be prosecuted for trespassing or feeding the 'gators? Will the alligators be all right?
The answers to these and whatever questions you might think of will have to wait until the next exciting episode of Withering Flats, so until then this is your narrator saying so long for now!
Written by Michael Steven Platt 4-20-09
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Withering Flats, part one
Today, coming from the storied vaults of Memory’s Old Literary Domain, where the shows of yestertimes just don’t get any better, it’s drama, suspense and romance from Withering Flats, the small town in the Heartland of Decency and Family Values. Yes, dear old Withering Flats, where men are men, women are women, children are seen and not heard (unless written into the script) and tongues (when they aren’t wagging about the neighbors) are planted firmly in cheeks where they belong.
This morning we find our protagonist and hero, down right up right Clem Clum, out searching by the railroad tracks, looking for his sweetheart, the twinkle of his thoughts, the bell of his heart and the apple of his smile, sweet Janee Trubloo. It was very important that he find her for she was last seen in the company of that archfiend, that despoiler of good manners, that vicious and dastardly unsavory character, nasty Nick Nak.
The train track switch house operator, Mr. Wuntrak was sitting outside his little shelter near the big switch that moved the tracks to send trains to the left or right, depending on their cargo.
“Hello, Mr. Wuntrak,”Clem called out in greeting, “Have you seen Janee or Nick about at all today?”
The old man looked up from his dozing focus on the ground in front of him and sputtered, “Eh...huh? What’s that?” And, upon looking closer as Clem approached, said, “Oh it’s you, youngster. What’s that you say?”
“I’m looking for Janee Trubloo and Nick Nak and I was wondering if you’d seen them,” Clem repeated as he stopped along the track bed near Mr. Wuntrak’s chair. “It’s really important!”
“Hmmm,” mused the grizzled veteran of countless decades along the tracks, “Seems to me I saw a couple of whippersnappers this morning. They wanted to know if that silly, new-fangled passenger express was due soon. I told them it had already gone by, off to the left into the city and good riddance. Then they wanted to know about the slow and steady freight that goes right to the industrial mills with all the important stuff for industry, and I told ‘em it wasn’t due until late this afternoon. Gotta keep to the schedule, you know.”
“Was Janee okay, Mr. Wuntrak?”asked Clem, seeming a bit anxious.
“Janee? Was she the one gagged with her hands tied behind her back? She didn’t say much... grunted a lot. She seemed well enough to me. It was the other one all dressed in black that did the talking,” was the answer. “Seemed a nice polite boy,” Mr. Wuntrak continued.
“Did he say where he was taking her?” asked Clem, a bit more nervously.
“Well, it seems to me he said something about Woodinpate’s new saw mill, but I warn’t payin’ too much attention ‘cause I gotta mind the track,” replied old Mr. Wuntrak
“Now you skeedaddle, young man, you’re too young to be playing about these here tracks, it’s a dangerous place,” shaking his finger and standing up to emphasize his point and then over-balancing on his wobbly legs and falling onto the nearer rail.
“Eh?” he grunted, “Where’d you go?” he wondered, as Clem hurried over and helped him back up.
“Oh, there you are,” getting his bearings again. “What was I saying?” he wondered out loud.
“You were telling me I’m too young to be near the tracks, but I was forty-two last October, Mr. Wuntrak,” Clem voiced.
“What’s that? Forty-two? Yessir, that’s what I said, too young to be around here. Now move along home, your mother is probably wondering where you are and I’ve got to get ready for the train... it’s due in a couple hours and the track needs to be switched.”
“Okay,” said Clem, “thanks, Mr. Wuntrak!” as he scurried off.
“Maybe I should try Mr. Woodinpate’s new saw mill,” Clem spoke to himself, as he hurried back along the way he came, desperate to find them. He turned down the path through the woods and headed back toward town.
Coming up to the old mill a few minutes later he was greeted by the loudly abrasive sounds of lumber being sawn into planks. Stepping through the open door he was greeted with a spray of saw dust and wood chips as the vibrant buzz of the big blade screamed into a fresh log. Mr. Woodinpate was standing by the long lever that operated the belt-driven conveyor that ran the log into the whirling teeth. The log finished its run through, the newly hewn plank falling off onto the rollers along side of the belt platform. The plank slid along the slight downslope of the rollers as the angle of their plane tilted to the left causing the plank to fall into a large, long bin holding several other freshly cut planks. Mr. Woodinpate pulled the lever, stopping the forward motion of the belt, then flipped a small switch in the box next to the lever and pushed the lever forward again putting the belt into reverse, bringing the log back to the front of the saw once more.
As he stopped the conveyor after the log had been pulled back far enough, Clem shouted out, “Mr. Woodinpate! It’s Clem Clump!”
Mr. Woodinpate flipped the small switch again, pushed the long lever forward to start the conveyor’s motion toward the saw once more then turned, saw Clem, lowered his eyebrows in suspicion and shouted, “Hey there, what are you doing here?”
“I’m looking for Janee Trubloo and Nick Nak, have you seen them?” Clem shouted above the shrill whine of the blade.
“Hold your horses, young man, there’s too much noise here,” shouted back Mr. Woodinpate as the blade tore noisily into the log again.
He reached over to a nearby upright beam and pulled off a large pair of sound proofing head gear from a hook, pulled them on over his ears and said, “That’s better,” with a contented smile as the log kept screaming into the saw, “now I can talk,” then he looked at Clem again and scowled with suspicion, “You’re not one of those danged perverted tree-hugger types are you?”
“Oh no, sir” Clem shook his head, “I’m looking for Janee Trubloo and Nick Nak and I was wondering if you had seen them.”
“Confounded tree-huggers,” continued Mr. Woodinpate, not hearing Clem’s query, or anything else for that matter, “Can’t trust ‘em and don’t want to. All they want to do is grow things. If they had their way, pretty soon we’d all be overrun with trees and we wouldn’t have any lumber to build things!”
“No, Mr. Woodinpate,” protested Clem, “I just want to know if you’ve seen Janee or Nick!”
But Mr. Woodinpate was lost in his own musings, and said, “Why just the other day I was out cutting down a prime specimen to make lumber for the new tourist office for the Visitor’s Bureau and some busybodies tried to stop me saying some silly thing about that tree being the main attraction of the town,” he fumed, getting into his subject.
“Well, of course it would be something to look at, it was a wonderfully large oak, hundreds of years old! Did they think I was stupid and wanted to cut down some scrawny little sapling? Sheesh, it’s no wonder those tree-hugger saps are so ignorant and full of ridiculous ideas trying to stop progress,” he was getting more into his story.
“So I told them if they wanted tourists to look at it, then hang up a picture of it in the new building. Then I knocked a few of those protesters down and had Sheriff Blyndors lock the rest up until I was done,” he finished with smug satisfaction. “I showed those wacko’s a thing or two, and told them that when the trees are all gone then I’ll go ahead and stop!”
And with that, he turned and pulled the lever to stop the conveyor, which had long since finished running the log through the saw. He flipped the small switch, pushed the lever once more, brought the remaining log back, pulled the lever to stop it, flipped the small switch again, then before putting the conveyor in motion again, twisted to Clem and said, “Go on, sonny, just like I told that nice young fella earlier today who wanted to cut up his rolled up, lumpy carpet, I’m too busy keeping this place running to be bothered with unimportant, mundane things like anyone else’s problems,” and he pushed the lever forward sending what remained of the log into the hungry saw once more.
“Thanks, Mr. Woodinpate,” shouted Clem as he turned and left.
Walking back into town, Clem was at a loss as to where to try next. He thought, that since Mr. Woodinpate had mentioned him, to try Sheriff Blyndors and ask if he had seen Janee or Nick. He was beginning to get worried that his searching would get him to the focus of his concern too late!
... to be continued ...
Oh my, dear readers! What ever will happen? Will Clem find Janee and Nick in time? Will Nick find a place he can act out his evil plans? Will Sheriff Blyndors see the need for action? Will I stop asking these silly questions? Find out tomorrow in the conclusion of this episode of Withering Flats!
Written by Michael Steven Platt 4-19-09
This morning we find our protagonist and hero, down right up right Clem Clum, out searching by the railroad tracks, looking for his sweetheart, the twinkle of his thoughts, the bell of his heart and the apple of his smile, sweet Janee Trubloo. It was very important that he find her for she was last seen in the company of that archfiend, that despoiler of good manners, that vicious and dastardly unsavory character, nasty Nick Nak.
The train track switch house operator, Mr. Wuntrak was sitting outside his little shelter near the big switch that moved the tracks to send trains to the left or right, depending on their cargo.
“Hello, Mr. Wuntrak,”Clem called out in greeting, “Have you seen Janee or Nick about at all today?”
The old man looked up from his dozing focus on the ground in front of him and sputtered, “Eh...huh? What’s that?” And, upon looking closer as Clem approached, said, “Oh it’s you, youngster. What’s that you say?”
“I’m looking for Janee Trubloo and Nick Nak and I was wondering if you’d seen them,” Clem repeated as he stopped along the track bed near Mr. Wuntrak’s chair. “It’s really important!”
“Hmmm,” mused the grizzled veteran of countless decades along the tracks, “Seems to me I saw a couple of whippersnappers this morning. They wanted to know if that silly, new-fangled passenger express was due soon. I told them it had already gone by, off to the left into the city and good riddance. Then they wanted to know about the slow and steady freight that goes right to the industrial mills with all the important stuff for industry, and I told ‘em it wasn’t due until late this afternoon. Gotta keep to the schedule, you know.”
“Was Janee okay, Mr. Wuntrak?”asked Clem, seeming a bit anxious.
“Janee? Was she the one gagged with her hands tied behind her back? She didn’t say much... grunted a lot. She seemed well enough to me. It was the other one all dressed in black that did the talking,” was the answer. “Seemed a nice polite boy,” Mr. Wuntrak continued.
“Did he say where he was taking her?” asked Clem, a bit more nervously.
“Well, it seems to me he said something about Woodinpate’s new saw mill, but I warn’t payin’ too much attention ‘cause I gotta mind the track,” replied old Mr. Wuntrak
“Now you skeedaddle, young man, you’re too young to be playing about these here tracks, it’s a dangerous place,” shaking his finger and standing up to emphasize his point and then over-balancing on his wobbly legs and falling onto the nearer rail.
“Eh?” he grunted, “Where’d you go?” he wondered, as Clem hurried over and helped him back up.
“Oh, there you are,” getting his bearings again. “What was I saying?” he wondered out loud.
“You were telling me I’m too young to be near the tracks, but I was forty-two last October, Mr. Wuntrak,” Clem voiced.
“What’s that? Forty-two? Yessir, that’s what I said, too young to be around here. Now move along home, your mother is probably wondering where you are and I’ve got to get ready for the train... it’s due in a couple hours and the track needs to be switched.”
“Okay,” said Clem, “thanks, Mr. Wuntrak!” as he scurried off.
“Maybe I should try Mr. Woodinpate’s new saw mill,” Clem spoke to himself, as he hurried back along the way he came, desperate to find them. He turned down the path through the woods and headed back toward town.
Coming up to the old mill a few minutes later he was greeted by the loudly abrasive sounds of lumber being sawn into planks. Stepping through the open door he was greeted with a spray of saw dust and wood chips as the vibrant buzz of the big blade screamed into a fresh log. Mr. Woodinpate was standing by the long lever that operated the belt-driven conveyor that ran the log into the whirling teeth. The log finished its run through, the newly hewn plank falling off onto the rollers along side of the belt platform. The plank slid along the slight downslope of the rollers as the angle of their plane tilted to the left causing the plank to fall into a large, long bin holding several other freshly cut planks. Mr. Woodinpate pulled the lever, stopping the forward motion of the belt, then flipped a small switch in the box next to the lever and pushed the lever forward again putting the belt into reverse, bringing the log back to the front of the saw once more.
As he stopped the conveyor after the log had been pulled back far enough, Clem shouted out, “Mr. Woodinpate! It’s Clem Clump!”
Mr. Woodinpate flipped the small switch again, pushed the long lever forward to start the conveyor’s motion toward the saw once more then turned, saw Clem, lowered his eyebrows in suspicion and shouted, “Hey there, what are you doing here?”
“I’m looking for Janee Trubloo and Nick Nak, have you seen them?” Clem shouted above the shrill whine of the blade.
“Hold your horses, young man, there’s too much noise here,” shouted back Mr. Woodinpate as the blade tore noisily into the log again.
He reached over to a nearby upright beam and pulled off a large pair of sound proofing head gear from a hook, pulled them on over his ears and said, “That’s better,” with a contented smile as the log kept screaming into the saw, “now I can talk,” then he looked at Clem again and scowled with suspicion, “You’re not one of those danged perverted tree-hugger types are you?”
“Oh no, sir” Clem shook his head, “I’m looking for Janee Trubloo and Nick Nak and I was wondering if you had seen them.”
“Confounded tree-huggers,” continued Mr. Woodinpate, not hearing Clem’s query, or anything else for that matter, “Can’t trust ‘em and don’t want to. All they want to do is grow things. If they had their way, pretty soon we’d all be overrun with trees and we wouldn’t have any lumber to build things!”
“No, Mr. Woodinpate,” protested Clem, “I just want to know if you’ve seen Janee or Nick!”
But Mr. Woodinpate was lost in his own musings, and said, “Why just the other day I was out cutting down a prime specimen to make lumber for the new tourist office for the Visitor’s Bureau and some busybodies tried to stop me saying some silly thing about that tree being the main attraction of the town,” he fumed, getting into his subject.
“Well, of course it would be something to look at, it was a wonderfully large oak, hundreds of years old! Did they think I was stupid and wanted to cut down some scrawny little sapling? Sheesh, it’s no wonder those tree-hugger saps are so ignorant and full of ridiculous ideas trying to stop progress,” he was getting more into his story.
“So I told them if they wanted tourists to look at it, then hang up a picture of it in the new building. Then I knocked a few of those protesters down and had Sheriff Blyndors lock the rest up until I was done,” he finished with smug satisfaction. “I showed those wacko’s a thing or two, and told them that when the trees are all gone then I’ll go ahead and stop!”
And with that, he turned and pulled the lever to stop the conveyor, which had long since finished running the log through the saw. He flipped the small switch, pushed the lever once more, brought the remaining log back, pulled the lever to stop it, flipped the small switch again, then before putting the conveyor in motion again, twisted to Clem and said, “Go on, sonny, just like I told that nice young fella earlier today who wanted to cut up his rolled up, lumpy carpet, I’m too busy keeping this place running to be bothered with unimportant, mundane things like anyone else’s problems,” and he pushed the lever forward sending what remained of the log into the hungry saw once more.
“Thanks, Mr. Woodinpate,” shouted Clem as he turned and left.
Walking back into town, Clem was at a loss as to where to try next. He thought, that since Mr. Woodinpate had mentioned him, to try Sheriff Blyndors and ask if he had seen Janee or Nick. He was beginning to get worried that his searching would get him to the focus of his concern too late!
... to be continued ...
Oh my, dear readers! What ever will happen? Will Clem find Janee and Nick in time? Will Nick find a place he can act out his evil plans? Will Sheriff Blyndors see the need for action? Will I stop asking these silly questions? Find out tomorrow in the conclusion of this episode of Withering Flats!
Written by Michael Steven Platt 4-19-09
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Ivory Tower Dreams
Drive this disjointed day on. Redeem your coupons for more, take a number, stand in line: clamp down on my ivory tower dreams, they are getting too real to discern from what’s actually going on, the attraction of the fabricated fantasy looking more substantial, enticing and desirable than the factual alternatives. A golden door appears at the base of the tower, firm and stately with an aura of great power emanating from it, causing my heart to long to pass through its presence and realize the fulfillment of desires and needs that lies beyond. I see people lined and waiting to be able to enter, impatient and edgy, yet steadfast in their order and purpose, each knowing that the answers to their particulars are available within. Time takes a giant leap forward into the next moment, only to trip, stumble and staccato off to a steady infinity of others. Some might say it was worth the wait, others won’t notice (thus holding up the line for the rest of us). However, I’m interrupted among all this as other intricate stairways pull my wander mind to climb to a new view, only to have a lateral branching lead my steps in a variant direction, only to have a lateral branching lead my steps in a contrasting direction, only to have a lateral branching lead my steps in a different direction, only to have a lateral branching lead my steps in another direction, when I suddenly look back, wonder just where I am and see a lateral branching I hadn’t noticed before, so I think how interesting that way looks and I wander still further on ….um, what was I talking about? I am tumbled in my goals like a leaf in the wind, hurry scurry flurrying around and around and never catching a solid moment of peace, a stable foundation of belief and confidence, a basis to find cohesive function and balance in my creative pursuits, my inspired efforts, my labored offerings, my dreams come true. Like a bird bobbing around a bush looking for insects, a squirrel scritching upon the circumference of a tree trunk keeping away from potential predators or a bear climbing over a succession of mountains just to see what he could see, the situation is redundant in the fact that I look at each stepped moment of life and see an altered, lateral view of reality’s scope, my time catching stride and tangling in the infinite stairways thus revealed each and every step along the way…. Becoming excited, I run quickly to follow (lead) up on this new path only to lose my footing and fall bum dee bum bump in ominous music tuned to my sudden descent back down. I stop and ease to a sitting position, look around as I feel the bruising sure to be seen upon the morrow, scratch my head, stand back up, turn and find myself facing a long narrow hallway that leads into the dim of distance. Looking left and right at the endless stairs, I give a mental shrug and head on down the open hall. After a few dozen steps, a closed door marks its place on the left as I pass, and then another on the right, and then one on the left and another on the right as they become the norm, my steps taking me past them one after another in monotonous continuation. I finally tire of this and step to the next door on the left, grasp its handle, push it open and look inside: like an answer to subconscious prayers, it’s a bathroom. How convenient. I step in, close the door, unbuckle my belt and … (censored)… and buckle my belt, step to the sink and wash my hands, check my reflection in the mirror as I use a paper towel, throw the towel in the trash and open the door again to come face first with an angry looking man who says, “About time!” pushes past me and slams the door shut, cutting off his exclamation of, “Cripes! It stinks in…” leaving me standing facing the outside of the door. I notice that it is gold and that the hallway is gone and I am on the upper landing of a stairway, with a long line of people all frowning at me and muttering to themselves about time and consideration of the needs of others. I sheepishly step my way down on one side of the stairs, saying, “Sorry … sorry…” to the frowning people I pass, trying to be as quick and unobtrusive as I can. Reaching the bottom of the stairs, I look back to once more see the ivory tower of my dreams, but it has somehow lost the aura of magic and wonder that it had held earlier. I purse my lips, put my hands into my pockets, shrug my shoulders around my hunched stance, shake my head in slow wonder as to what just happened, then turn and wander away into the next paragraph.
(Again) From my book Endless Shifting Sand... it’s nice to have a quick and easy source for postings when I get home too late to be able to be very creative.
Posted by Michael Steven Platt 4-18-09
(Again) From my book Endless Shifting Sand... it’s nice to have a quick and easy source for postings when I get home too late to be able to be very creative.
Posted by Michael Steven Platt 4-18-09
Friday, April 17, 2009
The Loney Puddle
Here's a story I 'borrowed' from my book Endless Shifting Sand.
The Lonely Puddle
Arnold the puddle was lonely. There were no other puddles nearby to give him company and no other friendly creatures around, either. There was only a rock, just at his moist fringes, but, being a rock, he was quite taciturn.
“Hello!” said Arnold, trying to strike up conversation.
“Hmph,” grunted the rock, stonily.
“It certainly is a nice day today!” responded Arnold at this notice the rock bestowed upon him.
“Hmph,” repeated the rock.
“Maybe it’ll rain,” quipped Arnold hopefully, wanting to keep this friendly chat rolling along.
“Go jump inna lake,” grumbled the rock.
“Thank you!” sloshed Arnold, taking great pleasure in this compliment and getting so excited that he began seeping out, touching the rock.
“Hey!” exclaimed the rock, “Whaddaya doin’?”
“I’m spreading my happiness at finding a friend to talk to,” said Arnold.
“Aww… yer all wet,” glummed the rock.
“Oh, you sure have a nice way with words, Mr. Rock …I like you, too!”
“Dry up, will ya?”
“Oh … dear,” said Arnold, and he thought that perhaps he had somehow offended his new friend. He became so worried that he pulled away from the rock and tried to think of something cheery to say, in hopes of making amends. Putting his best reflection up, he said, “It sure does look like rain.”
“Dry up!” repeated the rock, gruffly.
Arnold was so hurt by this insult that he forgot his manners and, without thinking, blurted out, “Oh, you hard guy!”
The rock replied in surprise, “Why … thank you…” but Arnold only sniffed wetly to himself, feeling very lonely as the first few drops of rain began to fall.
Written by Michael Steven Platt years ago, but posted 4-17-09
The Lonely Puddle
Arnold the puddle was lonely. There were no other puddles nearby to give him company and no other friendly creatures around, either. There was only a rock, just at his moist fringes, but, being a rock, he was quite taciturn.
“Hello!” said Arnold, trying to strike up conversation.
“Hmph,” grunted the rock, stonily.
“It certainly is a nice day today!” responded Arnold at this notice the rock bestowed upon him.
“Hmph,” repeated the rock.
“Maybe it’ll rain,” quipped Arnold hopefully, wanting to keep this friendly chat rolling along.
“Go jump inna lake,” grumbled the rock.
“Thank you!” sloshed Arnold, taking great pleasure in this compliment and getting so excited that he began seeping out, touching the rock.
“Hey!” exclaimed the rock, “Whaddaya doin’?”
“I’m spreading my happiness at finding a friend to talk to,” said Arnold.
“Aww… yer all wet,” glummed the rock.
“Oh, you sure have a nice way with words, Mr. Rock …I like you, too!”
“Dry up, will ya?”
“Oh … dear,” said Arnold, and he thought that perhaps he had somehow offended his new friend. He became so worried that he pulled away from the rock and tried to think of something cheery to say, in hopes of making amends. Putting his best reflection up, he said, “It sure does look like rain.”
“Dry up!” repeated the rock, gruffly.
Arnold was so hurt by this insult that he forgot his manners and, without thinking, blurted out, “Oh, you hard guy!”
The rock replied in surprise, “Why … thank you…” but Arnold only sniffed wetly to himself, feeling very lonely as the first few drops of rain began to fall.
Written by Michael Steven Platt years ago, but posted 4-17-09
Thursday, April 16, 2009
The Tube and My Thought, both in Poetry Caught
Oh no, not again! I’d thought to bypass this trial
And write a quick post in some prosaic type style,
But wouldn't you know my that conscience would say
That I'd better come through for this Poetry Day!
So that is the music, but what is the dance?
Thoughtful, adventure, humor, romance?
I guess I'll start writing and play it by ear
And see how it sounds when the subject is clear.
So polish your eyes and get set to go,
The Tube
I don’t know why I watch it,
So foolish pours its craze.
That goulish view of hypno-hue
From jabbered cyclop gaze;
A teasing taste of baited plot
It offers to my eye
And has me hooked on spoken lines
Before I wonder why.
And so I’m caught within its spell
Held fast by programmed lure,
Each minute brings new spewing forth
…can sanity endure?
It caters to its own designs,
All labeled ‘Public Taste’,
But the only flavor I can sense
Is the brew of time at waste.
Then, sprinkled in the featured shows,
Like thorns among the weeds,
Commercial wiles sincerely pledge
To fill my wants and needs;
Those syrup voiced announcers,
With their subtle badgering,
Glib forth their Product Names until
My ears begin to ring.
I’m being fed with poisoned sweets
That disintegrate free will,
And tuned to me it flays my mind
Enough! I’ve had my fill!
But no escape is easy found
From fiendish Tube’s strong hold,
To wrest my eyes from its deep warmth
I’ll keep the damn thing cold!
In the greater part of my belief, society needs some television relief,
Too much time is spent in thrall to the tube’s enticing siren call.
But each to their own, I will agree, and my view’s just what’s best for me.
And so this poem is offered fun, and with that my rhymes are once more done.
Written by Michael Steven Platt 4-16-09
And write a quick post in some prosaic type style,
But wouldn't you know my that conscience would say
That I'd better come through for this Poetry Day!
So that is the music, but what is the dance?
Thoughtful, adventure, humor, romance?
I guess I'll start writing and play it by ear
And see how it sounds when the subject is clear.
So polish your eyes and get set to go,
With our mindset to rhyme, it's on with the show!
The Tube
I don’t know why I watch it,
So foolish pours its craze.
That goulish view of hypno-hue
From jabbered cyclop gaze;
A teasing taste of baited plot
It offers to my eye
And has me hooked on spoken lines
Before I wonder why.
And so I’m caught within its spell
Held fast by programmed lure,
Each minute brings new spewing forth
…can sanity endure?
It caters to its own designs,
All labeled ‘Public Taste’,
But the only flavor I can sense
Is the brew of time at waste.
Then, sprinkled in the featured shows,
Like thorns among the weeds,
Commercial wiles sincerely pledge
To fill my wants and needs;
Those syrup voiced announcers,
With their subtle badgering,
Glib forth their Product Names until
My ears begin to ring.
I’m being fed with poisoned sweets
That disintegrate free will,
And tuned to me it flays my mind
Enough! I’ve had my fill!
But no escape is easy found
From fiendish Tube’s strong hold,
To wrest my eyes from its deep warmth
I’ll keep the damn thing cold!
In the greater part of my belief, society needs some television relief,
Too much time is spent in thrall to the tube’s enticing siren call.
But each to their own, I will agree, and my view’s just what’s best for me.
And so this poem is offered fun, and with that my rhymes are once more done.
Written by Michael Steven Platt 4-16-09
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Digging Deep and Three Thoughts
Dianne and I spent a taxing couple of hours looking through old notebooks of mine for stories that have never been put into the computer, and, by the time we had found a few, there is not enough time to transcribe, edit and present one in a suitable format. Dianne did a delightful job typing up a transcription of a dream I once had, but I will use this as a rough draft and offer the polished version at a later date. So for today’s entry I will make due by putting forth a few Thoughts of the Moment and call it a night.
Doing the best one can is the ultimate goal of any given moment.
Sometimes I feel like I’m fighting a losing uphill battle just to stay where I am.
Some people are gifted with a generous dearth of awareness.
Catch you in the greater later on!
Written by Michael Steven Platt 4-15-09
Doing the best one can is the ultimate goal of any given moment.
Sometimes I feel like I’m fighting a losing uphill battle just to stay where I am.
Some people are gifted with a generous dearth of awareness.
Catch you in the greater later on!
Written by Michael Steven Platt 4-15-09
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Realization, A Moral Story
Today I have a short story taken from Making Sand, which is the title of my collection of stories that, for the most part, have a semi-spiritual basis. I employ various made-up personalities in many of these tales, several of whom are simple and rather foolish characterizations of Zen monks. Part of the posting from last Wednesday, April 8, about Bishu and the Genie, was also taken from this collection. I generally try to convey a tongue-in-cheek offering of positive note in most of these anecdotes, with some kind of spiritual, moral or practical lesson about life. But I also write some just for fun!
I enjoy Zen koans, which are a kind of verbal puzzle in the form of a story or question, which a Zen teacher will give a student in order to create the mindset for the student to reach a particular awareness or realization. The answers are not found through logic or deduction, but rather are understood through intuition and insight. One well known such koan is, “What is the sound of one hand clapping?” Another one, in story form, tells of two monks who were arguing about a flag.
The first says, “The flag is moving.”
The second says, “The wind is moving.”
The Master of their monastery happened to be passing by and he told them, “Not the wind, not the flag, mind is moving”
These two koans are meant to inspire the student to step outside his comfort zone of experience, to see things in a non-traditional way and realize that what is taken for granted is not necessarily in line with the Zen view of the world. My purpose in sharing these is not to attempt to explain them, but to give you a perspective into where I find the inspiration for my own stories. Of course, I usually have a more broadly appealing variation within my stories.
And so with that, I present this sort of ‘koan’, in hopes that the lesson, or moral, I attempt to impart might touch your mind and perhaps broaden your perception of the world around you.
Realization, A Moral Tale
There once was a man who had everything anyone could ask for in material possessions, but no matter how much he acquired, he still wanted more and he was not happy. He was wealthy, handsome, had a wonderful wife and family, many friends and a very successful business. But still, he did not feel satisfied with his life, it wasn’t enough. So one day, when he was downtown in the busy city where his business was located, he went across the street to the office of his favorite Guru (this is a fictional story, for convenience).
He was welcomed into the small room where this spiritual master received those seeking his guidance, sat in respectful silence until the Teacher ended his meditations and said, “Now, my son, what troubles you?”
“Oh Great Teacher, I am a wealthy man in the prime of my life. I have a beautiful wife and loving children, I have many friends, I have a successful business, I am handsome, healthy, intelligent and respected, but I am not at ease and feel dissatisfied with life. All my successes are not enough. I need to find some kind of peace within myself. Can you help me?”
The Teacher looked at him for a moment, then smiled and said, “All your treasures, your wealth, your material possessions, your family and friends are nothing if you do not live for each and every moment of your life as it is happening. Feel yourself in the now and do not think of what you own or have. See that whatever you are doing at any given moment is the most important thing you have ever done, see each instant for the unique and unrepeatable experience that it is. Your will not find inner peace by chasing things, but only by appreciating what you already have. It is okay to work toward goals, but be aware that it is within this eternal moment of now that happiness resides. This is the key to a fulfilling life.”
The man thought it over for a minute, realized that the Teacher was right and that he had been living by working toward things to come, anticipating instead of enjoying what he actually had. He understood the teacher’s message, took it into himself, felt a great rushing surge of joy within his heart and finally smiled.
Understanding that he had found a satisfying peace and great happiness, he thanked the Teacher very warmly and made his way out of the office. He went down to the ground level, smiling at everyone he saw, strode through the lobby, stepped outside, looked up at the clear blue sky, took a refreshing breath of cool morning air, threw his cares to the wind and, still smiling, stepped off the curb into the street where a bus ran him right over dead.
The moral of the story is: Look both ways before crossing the street.
And so, please do accept the moral of this story and, if you are able, apply it to your life whenever you feel the opportunity arise. I thank you and wish you a most pleasant day!
Written by Michael Steven Platt 4-14-09
I enjoy Zen koans, which are a kind of verbal puzzle in the form of a story or question, which a Zen teacher will give a student in order to create the mindset for the student to reach a particular awareness or realization. The answers are not found through logic or deduction, but rather are understood through intuition and insight. One well known such koan is, “What is the sound of one hand clapping?” Another one, in story form, tells of two monks who were arguing about a flag.
The first says, “The flag is moving.”
The second says, “The wind is moving.”
The Master of their monastery happened to be passing by and he told them, “Not the wind, not the flag, mind is moving”
These two koans are meant to inspire the student to step outside his comfort zone of experience, to see things in a non-traditional way and realize that what is taken for granted is not necessarily in line with the Zen view of the world. My purpose in sharing these is not to attempt to explain them, but to give you a perspective into where I find the inspiration for my own stories. Of course, I usually have a more broadly appealing variation within my stories.
And so with that, I present this sort of ‘koan’, in hopes that the lesson, or moral, I attempt to impart might touch your mind and perhaps broaden your perception of the world around you.
Realization, A Moral Tale
There once was a man who had everything anyone could ask for in material possessions, but no matter how much he acquired, he still wanted more and he was not happy. He was wealthy, handsome, had a wonderful wife and family, many friends and a very successful business. But still, he did not feel satisfied with his life, it wasn’t enough. So one day, when he was downtown in the busy city where his business was located, he went across the street to the office of his favorite Guru (this is a fictional story, for convenience).
He was welcomed into the small room where this spiritual master received those seeking his guidance, sat in respectful silence until the Teacher ended his meditations and said, “Now, my son, what troubles you?”
“Oh Great Teacher, I am a wealthy man in the prime of my life. I have a beautiful wife and loving children, I have many friends, I have a successful business, I am handsome, healthy, intelligent and respected, but I am not at ease and feel dissatisfied with life. All my successes are not enough. I need to find some kind of peace within myself. Can you help me?”
The Teacher looked at him for a moment, then smiled and said, “All your treasures, your wealth, your material possessions, your family and friends are nothing if you do not live for each and every moment of your life as it is happening. Feel yourself in the now and do not think of what you own or have. See that whatever you are doing at any given moment is the most important thing you have ever done, see each instant for the unique and unrepeatable experience that it is. Your will not find inner peace by chasing things, but only by appreciating what you already have. It is okay to work toward goals, but be aware that it is within this eternal moment of now that happiness resides. This is the key to a fulfilling life.”
The man thought it over for a minute, realized that the Teacher was right and that he had been living by working toward things to come, anticipating instead of enjoying what he actually had. He understood the teacher’s message, took it into himself, felt a great rushing surge of joy within his heart and finally smiled.
Understanding that he had found a satisfying peace and great happiness, he thanked the Teacher very warmly and made his way out of the office. He went down to the ground level, smiling at everyone he saw, strode through the lobby, stepped outside, looked up at the clear blue sky, took a refreshing breath of cool morning air, threw his cares to the wind and, still smiling, stepped off the curb into the street where a bus ran him right over dead.
The moral of the story is: Look both ways before crossing the street.
And so, please do accept the moral of this story and, if you are able, apply it to your life whenever you feel the opportunity arise. I thank you and wish you a most pleasant day!
Written by Michael Steven Platt 4-14-09
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Keep Dreaming, Valiant Warrior
Friday, from the couch as I ease into dream: … hazy start drifts into newscasts of aliens landing to some resistance… those people of Earth still fighting being defeated and crushed, bombs devastating cities… the mothership in orbit as we watch TV to get some idea of what is happening… the east coast of the USA bearing the brunt of this assault, which is headed this way. Someone says we should shoot missiles to blast the big ship out of the sky but the newsman on the tube immediately says that no missiles are available, the government will not further antagonize these creatures, they will not fire.
"The private people have a missile… they're going to use it!" sounds out from the general crowd. Sure enough, the view pans to a steaming rocket on the launch pad… the governmental representative says, "No!" but too late... up into the sky it flares, armed and ready, Mankind's last hope... the TV picks up the view as it arcs upward and then levels out over the land, heading east, the camera on board showing towns and cities streaking by below.
"This is a "live" picture", I comment, somehow becoming the moderator for those watching on the tube, "it's actually happening as we watch.” And the view from the spaceship missle is sharp and clear, from about 500 feet to a hundred miles up at the same time, compressed for the benefit of the viewers. The landscape stretches out below, with New York against the oncoming horizon of evening, a look back showing Chicago outlined against the setting sun, and down below, as the ship passes over, the fiery hole of a bombed out city flickerflaming angrily in the offsetting dim of dusk.
I look up from my perch, where I have somehow become situated in the very nose of the speeding craft (the camera view is now from my helmet), shoulders, arms and head sticking out like a hood ornament, control box on the side of the ship in front of me, my body up to my chest enclosed within the ship. The steering has become visual/manual, and I note, from some innerglimpse of outerview, that I should have my goggles on. The ship hurtles over the land at varying altitudes, but seems to be best if flying low and (hopefully) out of detection range. The city looms near and I start to weave in and out, around the bridges, buildings and other obstacles that present themselves in my path. The mother ship is now settled in New York's harbor, safe, they believe, and secure. My way to it more and more confused, following through tunnels and byways that don't make much sense, but must be navigated all the same.
The Lincoln Tunnel is right in front of me… should I go down and under, flying over the backed up automobile traffic, or should I follow the stairs up to use the George Washington bridge? I opt for the bridge and wind my way up the staircase, camouflaged as another person in the crowd, minus my ship in a smooth, dreamlike (as real as that could seem here) transition, when suddenly, right in front of me, at the top of the stairs, the stewardess stops the line to let the surface of the bridge buckle up for a moment, then back straight and flat again. (Compensating for the crowds? Stretching?) I am let through (whew!) to follow some East Indian women up into the (suddenly materializing) waiting airplane's door, way up above the crowds still milling about on the bridge, onto a ramp that drops to the wing, with no walls on that side to hamper the view. I see the downtown area of the city in the distance as the bridge continues on over the river, but don’t have time for more than this quick glance.
The women jump down to the wing and (for some obscure reason) begin to undress, their saris unwrapped and bare skin starting to show. I avert my eyes, remembering that the folks at home are still watching through my TV camera eyes, turn and step over to and through a door that opens to the grassy side yard of a school. My two daughters suddenly tagging along beside me, sad that I must go, knowing that I'm going for good. I bend and hug them, kissing them goodbye, telling them I love them and they should think of me, saying that I love Mommy and everything will be okay. I shed them, climb back into my conveniently waiting spaceship (we had become separated somehow at the tunnel-bridge choice…it must have gone ahead through the tunnel) climb up and strap in quickly, for the authorities are coming. A man suddenly grabs onto the side of the ship, clawing at my arms to try to stop me as I flip the switches and blast off. He is torn away and I'm flying off on my rocketing mission once again.
My heart cries out for my girls as I rise above the harbor, spy the submarine like craft of the alien’s mothership, thrust the throttle full and head (literally) straight for them. I wonder if there is some kind of force shield that might protect them from the bombs loaded in my ship, but realize it is too late to worry about anything like that. I zoom slant in at an accelerating killer dive, faster and faster, closer, closer tense and POW crashcrush helmet head body ship exploding into the side of that evil vessel without so much as even scratching it…
My ghost floats over to where my wife has been watching all this on TV, and I ask her if I destroyed the enemy's space craft. "No"… was her distracted reply (she was still engrossed in the replays of the last action from my helmetcam). So I shook my head in resigned frustration and faded into oblivion...
Well, it was a good try anyway…..
I had another, much more mundane and typical dream before that one, but I can’t recall more than a particular scene. I remember that there was this short, stocky, scowling dwarf dressed in bright pantaloons and a gaudily decorated vest. He had a large hammer with a hugely oversized head on it as big as his body, which he was holding in threatening manner in both hands by the long, thick pole of its handle. He had just walked away from us, gone over and bonked the giant rabbit into unconsciousness when it had come outside of the nearby cave for a drink, letting it lie at his feet as he looked around for anything else to hit. He left the monstrous, over-muscled, gnarly, snarling ogre and its companion (also strange within my peripheral view, yet not seen enough for a valid description) character to guard me and my hapless companions as we were busy with shovels and picks filling the large, roundish pit in the ground with garden salad.
So how was your sleep?
Written by Michael Steven Platt 4-11-09
"The private people have a missile… they're going to use it!" sounds out from the general crowd. Sure enough, the view pans to a steaming rocket on the launch pad… the governmental representative says, "No!" but too late... up into the sky it flares, armed and ready, Mankind's last hope... the TV picks up the view as it arcs upward and then levels out over the land, heading east, the camera on board showing towns and cities streaking by below.
"This is a "live" picture", I comment, somehow becoming the moderator for those watching on the tube, "it's actually happening as we watch.” And the view from the spaceship missle is sharp and clear, from about 500 feet to a hundred miles up at the same time, compressed for the benefit of the viewers. The landscape stretches out below, with New York against the oncoming horizon of evening, a look back showing Chicago outlined against the setting sun, and down below, as the ship passes over, the fiery hole of a bombed out city flickerflaming angrily in the offsetting dim of dusk.
I look up from my perch, where I have somehow become situated in the very nose of the speeding craft (the camera view is now from my helmet), shoulders, arms and head sticking out like a hood ornament, control box on the side of the ship in front of me, my body up to my chest enclosed within the ship. The steering has become visual/manual, and I note, from some innerglimpse of outerview, that I should have my goggles on. The ship hurtles over the land at varying altitudes, but seems to be best if flying low and (hopefully) out of detection range. The city looms near and I start to weave in and out, around the bridges, buildings and other obstacles that present themselves in my path. The mother ship is now settled in New York's harbor, safe, they believe, and secure. My way to it more and more confused, following through tunnels and byways that don't make much sense, but must be navigated all the same.
The Lincoln Tunnel is right in front of me… should I go down and under, flying over the backed up automobile traffic, or should I follow the stairs up to use the George Washington bridge? I opt for the bridge and wind my way up the staircase, camouflaged as another person in the crowd, minus my ship in a smooth, dreamlike (as real as that could seem here) transition, when suddenly, right in front of me, at the top of the stairs, the stewardess stops the line to let the surface of the bridge buckle up for a moment, then back straight and flat again. (Compensating for the crowds? Stretching?) I am let through (whew!) to follow some East Indian women up into the (suddenly materializing) waiting airplane's door, way up above the crowds still milling about on the bridge, onto a ramp that drops to the wing, with no walls on that side to hamper the view. I see the downtown area of the city in the distance as the bridge continues on over the river, but don’t have time for more than this quick glance.
The women jump down to the wing and (for some obscure reason) begin to undress, their saris unwrapped and bare skin starting to show. I avert my eyes, remembering that the folks at home are still watching through my TV camera eyes, turn and step over to and through a door that opens to the grassy side yard of a school. My two daughters suddenly tagging along beside me, sad that I must go, knowing that I'm going for good. I bend and hug them, kissing them goodbye, telling them I love them and they should think of me, saying that I love Mommy and everything will be okay. I shed them, climb back into my conveniently waiting spaceship (we had become separated somehow at the tunnel-bridge choice…it must have gone ahead through the tunnel) climb up and strap in quickly, for the authorities are coming. A man suddenly grabs onto the side of the ship, clawing at my arms to try to stop me as I flip the switches and blast off. He is torn away and I'm flying off on my rocketing mission once again.
My heart cries out for my girls as I rise above the harbor, spy the submarine like craft of the alien’s mothership, thrust the throttle full and head (literally) straight for them. I wonder if there is some kind of force shield that might protect them from the bombs loaded in my ship, but realize it is too late to worry about anything like that. I zoom slant in at an accelerating killer dive, faster and faster, closer, closer tense and POW crashcrush helmet head body ship exploding into the side of that evil vessel without so much as even scratching it…
My ghost floats over to where my wife has been watching all this on TV, and I ask her if I destroyed the enemy's space craft. "No"… was her distracted reply (she was still engrossed in the replays of the last action from my helmetcam). So I shook my head in resigned frustration and faded into oblivion...
Well, it was a good try anyway…..
I had another, much more mundane and typical dream before that one, but I can’t recall more than a particular scene. I remember that there was this short, stocky, scowling dwarf dressed in bright pantaloons and a gaudily decorated vest. He had a large hammer with a hugely oversized head on it as big as his body, which he was holding in threatening manner in both hands by the long, thick pole of its handle. He had just walked away from us, gone over and bonked the giant rabbit into unconsciousness when it had come outside of the nearby cave for a drink, letting it lie at his feet as he looked around for anything else to hit. He left the monstrous, over-muscled, gnarly, snarling ogre and its companion (also strange within my peripheral view, yet not seen enough for a valid description) character to guard me and my hapless companions as we were busy with shovels and picks filling the large, roundish pit in the ground with garden salad.
So how was your sleep?
Written by Michael Steven Platt 4-11-09
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