The man stood in front of his easel, a brush held loosely in his right hand, staring at the blank canvas. Once, he indecisively brought his hand closer to the canvas, let it hover, and, a couple of seconds later, let his hand fall back. Setting the brush down, he picked up his cup of tea from the stool next to the easel and took a sip. The man was in his late sixties, had a lean build, and his head had a bald patch surrounded by greying hair.
“Move, move it faster! If you don't stay with them, they drag you behind the machines,” said the old translator. “I’m tired and hungry. We’ve been walking for three days now!” “It doesn't matter. Have many more days to hike, so better move the faster, otherwise will torture you.” “I told you. They won't lay a finger on me. I’m a genius. Do you know what a fucking genius is? It means I’m smarter than all these bastards. Although, I still don’t know exactly how their machines work. We don't have those in my country. It must be some hydraulic robotic tech equipped with motion sensors. I haven't really worked with robots before. Of course, I understand the theories, but I'm more of a chemist
“Holy Moley Joe, you have to come and see this,” said Adam, acting a little bit excited but still quite calm, like he always is. “Whatt. Whaat izz it? Tell me,” I said in a drunken/stoned/retarded/slurry voice. “You'll see, you'll see, come with me.” My house now looked like it could start winning Guinness World Records for the most-sickest party, and after what I saw the kids doing, we actually did win a Guinness record. It was fucking amazing! I followed Adam through the crowded living room, out my front door, down the steps, and to the side of the house. “Come on, you´ll see in just a second,” he whispered, with a sinister grin.
After the intense poetry jam, I went out back to see what was going on. Ping-pong tables were set up behind my house. Several teams were competing in organized tournaments with prizes awarded to the best players. This wasn’t your typical ping-pong match; this was Beer-Pong. Where competitors had to maneuver their balls across the table and directly launch them into big plastic cups that were full of beer. A highly skilled and difficult game, and one that I didn’t dare play because my pathetic pong skills were no match for the fierce rivalry found along those wet tables. Plus, I was already quite tipsy and was trying to pace my drinking.
“Damn, how tall are you?” I asked him. “6,8. That tall enough for ya?” he asked mockingly. “I used to play ball back in school.” “I believe you. But I know someone even taller than you. He’s not of this world though,” I rebutted. Implying that he ain’t as badass as he thinks he may be. “Sir, what the hell are you talking about?” “Never mind,” I said, “May you and your lovely wife have a glorious evening.” I walked out of the store with my bottles in hand. The only beings that could tolerate my pathetic commentary. Here I was. Alone. Completely Alone. Christian was gone. Probably living well with his family. I’m sure they don’t mind spending all that extra cash that just appeared in their lives. Because of me...
Sometimes, I like to write short pieces based on a specific thought. This is a fun and interesting exercise, and a good way to express myself through the Stream of Consciousness style. Below are five examples I’ve been working on, enjoy! The Eagle and the Rat An eagle swoops down from above with great speed and agility, diving to the ground like a military jet. His eyes set. His form; a symbol of perfection. His target stands carefreely, munching on plant matter, as he always does. He takes his ultimate and final munch and swallows the life-giving nourishment through his tiny little throat...
I had no idea who this guy was or where the hell he came from. Dave found him somehow through his vast array of contacts. His specialty was snakes. He toured around the country with his elongated friends to add an extra amount of culture and edge to house parties and various social events. He had wavy blond hair, a transparent goatee, khaki shorts, and thick leather boots. One of my rooms was converted into a snake lover’s paradise. There were various props, branches, and edibles set up along the walls for the creatures to climb on and eat. A few rats and mice scurried across the floor waiting for their imminent deaths. The space was supposed to help people to conquer their fears.
So, I bought my ticket at the station. There must have been five thousand freakin people in that place. Every type of fried food was available; filling the air with a tempting aroma. Screaming babies, kids running around like maniacs, and adults acting like typical adults, patiently waiting for the buses to come in, listening to the call of the conductor’s assistants yelling and naming off the various destinations. And there I was, with my few bags, my slacks, my spectacles, my panama hat. Everything I needed to begin this new adventure.
“The first thing you have to realize before we undergo on this path is that everything around is okay, you are okay, I am okay, Joe´s house is okay, Jessica and the pill dealers are okay, Jimbo isn’t okay, but we will bring him to the sacred land of okay eventually with some effort, the earth is okay, everything, generally speaking is okay, do you understand this overall okayness?” He said this in a low raspy struggling yet poetic voice, and then a huge puff of smoke left his mouth, and he coughed so hard that the bed shook beneath them,
For this reason, I have not been able to hold a “normal” job since 1982. That was the year when shit really got serious for me. In 82´, most of my family and friends disowned me. Leaving me to my own devices. I had long unkempt hair back then, wilder than histories maddest scientists. Actually, my hair is still this way, which is one of the few things I cherish in life and am relatively proud of. Anyways, I almost graduated University. I was studying chemistry which always came easy to me. For me, chemicals were as typical as looking at the marks on the palm of my hand. I knew them all. How to use them, combine them and exploit them. I was one of the most talented and dedicated pupils. But one day I was overly stressed.
Brent Hill Keeper - the bold, depraved trucker. The Viking-esque conqueror of America’s highways. The cigarette smoking, head banging, black wearing, lead-footed gas fiend, finally parked the enormous metallic beast and I was actually quite happy to step out and stretch my legs. We had been blasting and barreling through the states like a cannonball of death and pain. Death, because of the death metal he constantly played at full throttle while we screamed along at insanely excessive speeds, scaring the shit out of me, driving right through and over countless - helpless furry little creatures; squirrels, snakes, stray dogs, coyotes, and a few baby deer. I think we even had some pigeon carcasses impregnated into the front grill of the truck,
God forbid I keel over on this here island one day by accident without having documented the story of the Greatest Party in all of its glorious detail. Existing only in my consciousness. Deceasing with my corpse. Buried in a sandy grave on an isolated isle of the Caribbean. For this reason, I feel compelled to tell the story. Almost as an obligation/service to my fellow man. But before we begin, you must prepare yourself both mentally and physically. Mentally, because after reading this story your mind will be
When I came upon that huge pile of trash with the broken furniture legs sticking out, it was quite dark outside and I thought one of those wooden legs was going to reach out and attack me. As if it would morph into a living branch arm thing and the nails and sharp splintered ends would pierce my helpless pedestrian flesh. Injecting me with tetanus and other horrible diseases or possibly end me right there on the sidewalk by a stabbing or slow strangulation.
I’ve been living in Colombia for several years now and I have a lot of stories to tell about this region, too many actually. Today, I’ll be writing about one of my wildest nights out in a lesser known city called Bucaramanga, which is home to an infinite amount of gorgeous Latinas. So readers, lend me your ears, get comfortable, take a few shots of your favorite whiskey or tequila and enjoy the tale. A tale you won’t soon forget! Let’s begin… I arrived to Bucaramanga alone, it was my first time in the city. A city that is located in the department of Santander.
“Damnit, I told you Joe, I’m the captain! Your only job is to scrub the decks, make sure everything is clean and in order and make sure we don’t run into any pirates, sharks or whales. You’re in charge of lookout. That’s it! You got that?” he exclaimed sternly, with a fire red face. “I know, that’s what I've been doing, but I still want to learn the technical stuff and the tricks of the trade too!” I demanded.