Desperate Times Presents: Prose from the Wasteland

The Light

"Send me solace!" He cried; naked and alone - he walked - in the dark
- not knowing where he was - or how his legs were suddenly functioning

His miraculously cured paralysis did not astound him as much as the destruction laid out before him.

The skyline was gone.

Only rubble and rock, dust and ash remained.

He walked...

The clouds rained scarlet tears - He sought shelter and wept; and decided that he would gladly trade his newfound mobility for the world he knew

The air reaked of sulfur

The Old Man's chest pounded and he grimaced

The man fell; and he watched his knee cry the same scarlet tears as the clouds

The man walked on.

The man called out to any that would listen;

"Am I not worth being heard?!" He cursed his maker.

Sulfur seemed to filled his lungs... the Man could not breathe.

The man fell a second time; and remembered cigarettes.
Coffee; the Man remembered the smell. He remembered donuts.
The man remembered his life and cried.

"I miss you"

And a voice seemed to acknowledge his declaration.
The Old Man sighed and wished for light.
He knelt and closed his eyes.
The sun came out - and as the radiation burned away his skin and muscle tissue, the man smiled his last.


This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 United States License.

On the closing of the Scottsboro Boys (100th Post)

There is naught but a fortnight left till the winds blow hard and high
Till the song the hearts of men beat strong
Till the song of war picks up again
Till the long of the moon shines on the darkest sun cloud sky
Till the brightness of soul fills the heads of men
Till women shriek and the crows in the fields disappear for the sound marching near; beckons to the animals to flee – to flee!
For the war is coming
The war is coming; and there is nothing we can do to stop it

Wolf vs. Vulture

Desperate Times Presents: An Evening Rant

Remember when Facebook used to feel like a safe place; a place where you could rant, bitch, kvetch etc. with abandon, without fear of repercussion or consequence? No, you don't? Then you were born in the 90's. Back in it's infancy, Facebook sublimated my anger and rage - I could rant about the futility of existence without fear of someone emailing me, or "messaging me" about every little unnerving Status Update.

It used to be a fun tool; Facebook. You could (and still can) use this tool to manipulate your fantasy of what you think others will think about your random thoughts; wantings - ravings - ecstasies - wins - losses - Who Cares? I don't know. I guess I care. I have a bunch of "friends" - over 500. I don't see more than a dozen of them in a given week.

Facebook has given losers everywhere at least one friend

The problem with this manipulation (whether conscious or not) is in the execution.

I just had a very invasive Facebook experience involving an inter-loping vulture. I'm no dead meat - but this experience left me feeling chewed and swallowed. Without going in to specifics (for fear of reprisal) This particular Vulture felt the need to insert itself, uninvited in to my Wolfpack (life). The vulture felt the need to critique the Facebook Manipulation of my life that I had created, to the point that this Wolf could bear it no longer. This Wolf never expressed anything (to his knowledge) to the Vulture that the Vulture could ever misconstrue as a close, personal comment, remark or invitation in to the Wolf's existence.

This is no ordinary Vulture. This Vulture is strange, because it doesn't feed off rotting carcasses. This Vulture feeds off the living. In fact, this Vulture is more like a Vampire, or a Valkyrie. Vampire. Vulture.

When is it ever ok for a Vulture to talk to a Wolf anyway? We don't even speak the same animal language. Point being - This Wolf never wanted any contact with the Vulture.

This Wolf had seen this Vulture feed off of other members of his Wolfpack before. Luckily they had extricated themselves from the Vulture's fangs before it was too late.

This Vulture was/is a Facebook Junkie.

I dunno - I blocked the bird.

I felt stalked by this bird... and I'm a Wolf.

The madness has to end somewhere. I think the road out of madness leads out off facebook as well. That being said, the inverse is equally true.

In the end - I let the Vulture have it - I tore the bird to shreds with my vicious Wolf jaws. Blood in the snow - dripping as I walked away. The Vulture lived to fight another day.

The Wolf unfriended and blocked the Vulture and he hopes that his Wolf Pack will not suffer any repercussions.

I am Jack's momentary sense of relief.

Stupid social network.

I'm going back to the woods.

The Philosopher Pistol

Desperate Times Presents:

The Philosopher Pistol (Part 2)

I wrapped my fingers round the cold hard butt of my revolver. Squeeze, don't pull. Squeeze don't pull. They had drilled this mantra into our heads during training. If you pull the trigger, as opposed to squeezing the trigger, you'll miss high and over their heads. Halfway to Najadima - a little village in the middle of the desert - What it lacked in size, it made up for in villainy. They say only two kinds of men go to Najadima. Men who are fixing to kill, and men who are fixing to die - I headed where the work was. And the work was in Najadima. Evil lurked around these parts. I had been walking through the desert for days - water running low, no natives to speak of, no hope to be found. No, my only prospect was a bounty hunter named Floyd who'd gone off the reservation, started taking out high-ranking military officers. Now Floyd had a bounty on his head so high, he couldn't take a piss without somebody informing on it.

The general let me go. It was either I left, or his brains all over his desk - his choice. I made him sign the form and hightailed it out of Cairo as fast as I could. Three years, and dozens of bounties later, I was on my way to Najadima, with Floyd on my mind.

Next (Part 3)

Glibbery-Blibble-Bleck

I don’t like gooky mess. Does that sound gay? Whatever, maybe that sounds gay. I don’t care – I can deal with a mess – I’m a bit of a mess – but I hate – yech – that gooky feeling of sticking your hand in a pumpkin, removing the guts and seeds and juices and whatnot so the pumpkin doesn’t rot - (Yech) - it’s that awful swirling gloopy bubbling feeling of something alive that shouldn’t be alive squirming around in your hand some Glibbery-Blibble-Bleck trying to suck off your arm – y-know what I mean? Disgusting. Absolutely gross.

I didn’t remove all the guts – that was three days ago - and now my pumpkin is rotting on my kitchen counter… I carved the interlocking NY that the Yankees use on their caps into the pumpkin. It kind of looks more like the interlocking NY that the Mets use on their caps. My stomach turns. I gaze into the pumpkin that should have read “[interlocking NY symbol] 2010 World Series Champions! Suck it Philly!” And my stomach churns. It turned out all wrong – I’m admittedly not half as handy with a knife as I like to boast. But half as handy as I boast is still quite handy indeed. The Pumpkin doesn’t look right. My stomach burns and I run to the bathroom to blast off.

The Philosopher Pistol

Desperate Times Presents:

The Philosopher Pistol (Part !)

There doesn't see to be any artillery sir?
But there Must be artillery!
How can we fight a Goddamn Bloody War without Goddamn Bloody artillery?!

The general was fuming at this point and i was glad to get out of the room before the winds of politics swept in a foul thunderstorm. I left with my charge, ahead of the supply boy and with my pistol in hand. I thought this quite amusing. I'm not one to carry my pistol in my hand, but my experience in the General's office; being handed my first real assignment on my own, had my heart pumping. Perhaps I pulled my sidearm out of it's holster, who knows how or why these things happen. I promptly re-holstered my weapon and set off on my journey.

I slept for a night on the beach - i took in the smell of the sand, the sound of the water lapping against the earth, like matter smacking against time. I thought about time slowly falling away in to a deep well hole in New England; only to be retrieved by a man who once sold his daughter to a Street Performer for September 1968. Time couldn't be easily caught, or held on to for that matter. And after the Street Performer intercepted time, it quickly got away from him. Never to be caught again.

I walked a desert road for a time. I felt like a man on a mission, but what mission, I did not know. I held my gun up above me as I walked. The reflection of the Sun against my pistol warmed my soul the way the company of another human being never could. I guess it was my manner. My way. I'd never been one for company. Strangers sure. But I'd never kept company well and I wasn't about to start now. That's why i left. To get away from everyone; To find out - after all my awful misdeeds and sins, he trail of tears and broken lives I've left behind me; who I really am.

So I walk along the trodden trail - the only trail a man who's low can know.
I sing my song to no avail, for on my path, if I choose to sing it's for no one
I choose to sing to no one.

Send me a mountain to climb to the top and jump off and explode and then fly in to hell and do battle with satan - and crucify Christ - let them whip me and rape me and burn me and hate me.

Next Time on Desperate times Presents - PART 2

Sitz Probe

Sitz Probe tonight

That is all.