Lives guided by feces...

I walked past a yard today that had piles of dog shit neatly spaced about one foot apart, like a simple grid. We know the dog as an incredibly old incredibly large dog named "Bear"...

The owner can be found either saying "Bear..." threateningly off the back porch as if Bear would wander into the street (there is no fence). Or he might be found just yelling "God..."

"...Damnit Bear!" out the screen when Bear has wandered to the front yard. Bear doesn't bark... he just peacefully makes it to the next poopless spot, leaves a deposit, and returns IF he wants to forfeit an adventure into the unknown.

When furniture is built better than you are...

a man's sweaty, tight fist pinches a small delicate cloth between his thumb and forefinger. He holds the glasses up to a light and inspects them for grease. when he puts the glasses on he is visibly disturbed. something is truncating his full field of vision. what it is, he cannot determine. he clears his throat, adjusts his squeaky office chair underneath him. places his hands on the desk and breathes through lips making an "o" shape quickly... visibly, he is calming.

he stretches his inverted folded hand out before him, listens to the comforting pop of his shoulders, springs up, and begins a spasmatic furious punching of the air. his face is tight, the calm is gone. his ears are red, and the blood is spreading to his face. a bead of sweat begins to form on his brow... now his chair has toppled.

one of the legs hits his shin as it awkwardly descends. he curses, begins to kick the chair. his shoes scuffing the legs as he misses the chair, full force. he loses his balance. time is standing still.

his arms pointed slightly upward, arms bent, back arched... his head is the leader in this race to the open drawer of his desk.

The furniture dealer knew him, he knew his type at least. The sale would be a good one. No cheap fiber board for this man, no. He bought mahogany; wood of the gods. solid top, nearly two inches thick... the rest of the desk well built, like a perfectly operating machine. "This desk will outlive any owner."

"This desk will outlive any owner" thought the plummeting man as his head neared the opened drawer. it takes nearly half a second to fall to the floor, and half of that half is spent in a smile. this man has found complete happiness for the first time in his life for a mere quarter second.

the only thing he ever wanted was not to be in control. the calm has returned and amplified. he relaxes entirely. to see a skull split open is unlike any horrifying image a physical injury you can imagine. to see it monday morning, realizing that it has been split open for nearly two full days will make you vomit.

Cindy hated her boss, but she didn't want him dead. Cindy had never seen a dead person, aside from the plastic substitutes in coffins. her boss was dead, those coffins didn't hold people. the bile was rising in her throat when his partner strolled in, he knew something was wrong, Cindy was upset. "Mark..." was all she said as he approached her. she threw up. a physical representation of emotion. he was doubled over, gagging at Cindy's breakfast, a bagel apparently... when he saw Cliff. one fly circling his head like a vulture.

You are going to die...

...and what will you leave for everyone? Do NOT become your job. Make your job you.

*

there is dust, everywhere. caking the keys of typewriter, in between the spokes of a wooden chair in the corner, there is dust on dust. the light in the room comes from two identical and aligned windows about one foot from the floor. the floor itself looks so old, you know it will either creak or give you a splinter with each step you take. the walls are bare apart from the bubbles of water damaged wallpaper that forms near each seam of said paper. near a few corners and the light switch you can see the paper is starting to finally peel back. the outlet that the typewriter is plugged into has been ripped out of the wall, being held in place by the cabling behind.

the man sitting in front of the typewriter sits in a lazy chair that isn't nearly as dilapidated as the room. it's upholstery has filtered most of the dust out of the air and expels it back out into it each time the typist moves even slightly, merely breathes.

the text on the paper, long since dried read:

New site

Check out this launch pad for my projects...

http://www.mjbcomics.com/webtest/myweb.html

I'm experimenting with contemporary web design.

walk the dog

I was walking the dog today, between him jumping up on my clothes with dirty paws and me singing to myself, I came upon several realizations. I will outline them here. One. "False prophet" is another word for politicians and big media. Two. We are helpless to help others; that is, we are unable to help everyone we would be able to help.

This second realization came from a website that determined where you sat as far as "how rich are you" to the rest of the world. Basically if you made over 30 grand or so you were in the top five percent. The irony is that it was a webpage displaying this information.

fiction friction is here

fiction friction is here, and it is here to stay. I need an easy outlet for my writing and blogspot takes the work out. thanks for checking... I will update often.