Closing in

By Bryan M.

When Max spoke, people listened. The problem was, he was behind in the polls by 13 points and now he watched his lead plummet like mercury in a New England winter.

His left foot took the last step before he'd be at his podium. The sea swelled. Arms and flags and signs with his name undulated in a powerful heave all around him. Red, white, blue sparks danced around him. They were good, he thought, to stick with me to the end. But a wounded animal knows when it's licked. Would Max play dead and hope his predator had mercy? He had a chance to go out graciously, to tell the masses of New Hampshire voters to back Barack or huzzah Hillary.

No, the instincts told him otherwise. Go out swinging, his conscience said. Take 'em all down. Make them believe you were their last, great ... white ... hope. Make them regret their doubts. Make them guilty for being suckered in by slick ads and shiny propoganda. Make them second-guess, don't make yourself the second choice.

Max raised his arms. The crowd hushed. His eyes lowered.

They waited for a speech that never came.

He raised his arms because his suit was stifling, and he needed his arms free. The crowd hushed - it saw something in him it hadn't seen before, and for the first time their confidence wavered. His eyes lowered to take one last look at the speech he'd never give, and to make sure the podium wasn't bolted to the floor.

In one motion he lifted his leg and sent the wood podium flying. His hands went to his waist, and fluidly his belt was off. Before the heavy box crashed to the convention floor, flattening a widow in the process, his back was turned. His pants were down.

And the last thing they'd remember was Max. The great white hope.

And his butt.

One week

Write a story set during your most recent vacation.

by Bryan

The cordless phone crackles a bit and pushes sound through cheesecloth, but it's the intent that matters. Never mind the Fs that sound like S and forget the pop of the Ps. If you can catch the drift of the disembodied voice on the other end, no one comes out the wiser. This is Communication 101 at Mahoney U.

For the better part of the year I was stuck to that black hunk of wires and metal and hard-to-kill plastic (proven through countless dropped calls - the ones that fall 10 feet per second after gliding away from the wedge you create with shoulder and ear). Always I was searching, looking, pining for employment opportunities from the comfort of the wood chair in my then-girlfriend's living room. The process intensified those last six months after moving far enough away from home to obliterate any thoughts of the weekend visits with Mom and Dad, venturing to make my fortunes monetarily and metaphysically in a city ripe for my taking.

It was then, at the end, that the phone granted one call of clarity and I could peacefully lay it back in its cradle. It somehow knew that this call was important - It rang a little louder and a little longer this time, as if to say this was the call I was waiting for. "Put the resume away," it seemed to say, "and settle in."

A brief conversation. Crystal clear. No hisses or pops. And I sat it down once the call ended, and I looked around the living room. Six months I'd been on again, off again. Six months not knowing where my next paycheck was going to be, or from whom. But now I knew. I had a week before I started the job.I had a week of vacation.

Tanks for Nothing

Assignment: What is life like in a fish tank?

(A lament from an alcoholic goldfish named Bruce who used to work at a radio station)

By Bryan

This is the dawning of the age of aquarium,
where love is thicker than water.

But I've got those backwater blues
In my neighbor's garden in the shade.

They say you never miss the water
But as any little fish will attest,

I can't feel at home in this world anymore.Won't someone change the filter?

Surprise report

by Bryan

Her Royal Highness, at 0800 hours our time this morning, a warship in the gulf reported a ball of fire hit the southern zone of Abu Dhabi.
How do I confirm the worst? The absolute worst. The kind of thing we laugh about in strategy meetings, when there's that one general in the corner who's the only one not laughing. I wish I'd listened to him.
Have to be strong. Can't let emotion interfere here. I was prepared when we went to war. Hell, I could have handled the second coming of the Dark Ages. God I don't want to go out like this. Not like this.
HMS Surprise deployed at 0802 on 4 January, YOL 1809; first report at 0922.
Capt. S. Aubrey writes: "Bosun's watch first reported; given orders at 0830 sailed north to Persia from east Africa. Officer on deck reported seeing flash, Ship's Crew all report seeing fireball falling from sky. Some report dark center, as if large object was on fire. Did not report seeing impact.
My House will not fall. It will be remembered for getting us out of this. We will do what needs to be done. But how?
Upon investigation Capt. Aubrey reports a large Engine, made of a metal he nor his crew have seen, created a crater on coast. At 40 metres out engine stirred, and 'stood up,' according to Capt. Aubrey.
NEXT PAGE FOR QUEEN'S EYES ONLY
And here we come to it. I wouldn't have believed it myself, though my advisers needed more convincing. Aubrey's one of the best men in the admiralty, but his report left even his staunchest supporters questioning the man.
It was then that the engine stood on two legs. It had two arms, and what appeared to be a head that "looked" at the crew before bending over and "transforming" into what appeared to Capt. Aubrey and his crew as the HMS Surprise.
And now, well, now no one needs his report. Now they need me more than ever. They need to know why the unmanned HMS Surprise is here, on the Thames, changing into a giant man and walking toward the House of Lords.

Corn costs a buccaneer

By Bryan

Green peas on flat spoon
Rolling lazily around
above the soup bowl

An eye-patched man comes
ill tidings he brings under
a flourescent sky

Guarding the deep bowl
I stand with scabbard to fight
Alas I'm run through

Last day

Sorry for the departure from the assignment. I had thoroughly intended to follow it. But this story came out. I think it's because I'm writing full-time again, so Existential Bryan reared his ugly, confusing head.
By Bryan
On the last day of your life, the world moves with you. Thump thump. Sometimes it has to catch up.
The guy next door goes for his paper. Yours is already on the table, spewing stock quotes and personal injury ads in one dusty breath staring dead at the burnt-out kitchen light. The phone rings. Pops. Leave it. Thump thump.
On the last day of your life, seven forks are left in your drawer. You will use four. Drop one on the floor thump thump. You will use three.
The song on the radio has played at the same time every day for the past week but there's an extra note this time, somewhere between losing the love and getting her back. Thump thump.
You lost an argument in your head once, something about washing your feet in the shower and debating the merits and abilities of the washwater to adequately perform its function solo, or does it need the cloth? The vice presidency of bathroom politics is lost to you on the last day of thump thump your life.
And it is then, pausing rigid with spatula under the heat lamp of the stove as your eggs fog over, that you begin to doubt the most-improved singer award from chorus you earned was really yours to own. Pity is fickle, which worked in your favor, but talents need definition or else you'd still be proud you learned to blow smoke rings in college. All this you'd learn in a week but it is the last day of your life and the eggs need salt.
Thump thump. A brick comes through the window. It has two words on the small sides: One is written in a different language and you shouldn't understand it but you can; the other is "hint." And your fork drops because all the blood in your body hurries to your brain where everyone's working overtime; your brain is opening up and someone's in there flipping switches. And it makes sense, that poem you read in 11th grade written by the old dead dude. It was rather insightful but you could write it much better now.
Thump thump. A brick comes through the window. That's the third time this week, but the offending vaulters' parents don't care. You speak in non sequitirs to no one who'll listen. On the last day of your life the parents don't care. Much like yesterday, neither do you.
Thump.
Th

Cleaning Up

By Bryan

NOTE: I don't know if this is a beginning, a middle, or an end. I write stories like that sometimes, and rarely do I go back to them. I guess I'm satisfied in letting people guess what it is, and let them draw their own conclusions. Here, you'll find yourself asking who, what, and where, and the only real question answered is why, but it's only partially answered.
ALSO: I begin my new job as editor of the Lexington Minuteman tomorrow. I'll let y'all know of the Web site once I get me some stories posted.


“Sorry,” he said as he picked his three remaining teeth. “Ain’t goin’.”
This makes it easy. As a last resort I’d planned to knock those last three chompers clean off his gums. He had his chance. And when I say join us or die, men usually listen. Usually.
This summer makes me sweat at bad times, like when you got to keep it all in and not show anything. The wrong soggy spot or wet forehead can give the impression you got something to hide. Maybe that’s what he’s thinking. Jesus it’s hot.
He’s gone back to his beer, and the two goons with me just keep staring at him. They don’t know what else to do. The bar’s dark but I know he sees them, even as he stares at the busted TV on the wall leaking a basketball game through the static. He probably thinks I’m going to make the last move. He’s right.
“Hawk isn’t takin’ no for an answer, Smokey. You and I both know the Demons are on their way out anyway. Heard just last week they split from the house on Route 30. Got no money, no prospects, and the last three robberies put most of you in jail.”
He’s listening still. Didn’t know I found out about that house, did you? In their heyday the Demons had some 50 or 60 of ‘em across the Midwest. Three were always kept top secret, where their treasuries were. But even those dried up like dust, and I’m the wind blowin’.
He’s looking at me again. Neither of those glassy eyes look like they got much smarts behind them. But even a dumbass like this one knows when he’s beat.
I remember when a guy like this – arms thick as trees, tattoos all over, and leather to match them – could shake down a liquor store owner just by lookin’ at him. The backing he had could open the floods of Hell on you if he wanted. He scared kids like me. But you get older, you start seeing things the way they really are. They operate like a machine, these guys. But you loosen enough of the screws and the whole damn thing falls apart. Maybe that’ll happen to us Angels one day. I’ll be long gone before then.
“Nope,” he says. “Ain’t goin’.”
That’s too bad. You’re already gone.

Crossover Bloggage

Howdy Hack Fans!
Marcy Here.
Here's an old Hacks post that originated on my blog, Playtime at Hazmat. I meant to post this on the Hack blog a long time ago and never got around to it. Dave, Bryan, and I were playing Lego Star Wars and somehow managed to write this story at the same time. Enjoy!

We'll meet the ninjas at the Barbary Coast

This post brought to you by:
Marcy, the Media Ninja
Dave, Lord Ledley the Ravager and
Bryan, Hooch the Destroyer

I just asked two guys playing video games in the same room as me to give me a sentence to start this story with. Then I made them write it with me off the top of our heads, each of us trading off a sentence at a time. Here's the pathetic but entertaining result:

"We'll meet the ninjas at the Barbary Coast."
"No, we shall not; have you so soon forgotten the Black Ninja Eradication of 2023?"
Halsom shook his head and pounded his fist into the wooden plank table, toppling Mardon's ale jug.
Truly, it was a strange conversation to be having at Wal-Mart but the furniture delivery was late and the stock clerks were restless.
And Myron the assistant manager was nowhere to be seen; they suspected he and Marge from layaway were off somewhere, uh, laying away.
"I assure you, the ninjas will be there, and they will be bringing with them the lost cheese of Zandlar," said Mardon, scratching his head and tossing the twelve sided dice aimlessly as he was thinking.
Before Halsom's reply, a bay door creaked to life and light flooded the room, casting gold sparkles atop the ale.
"Crap," Mardon hissed, "so much for cheese."
"I thought I told you morons no roleplaying on the job," bellowed Dan Yonker, the wall-eyed night shift manager as he strode through the goldish haze of the loading dock security lights.
And before the clerks could pick up their board, before their last thoughts could return to the loving crush of their mothers' arms, two ninja stars pierced their hearts, thrown from the able and mastered wrists of Dan Yonker, the last remaining ninja of Sheboygan and lone survivor of the Black Ninja Eradication of 2023.

In the matter of your transporter, model number 08746

TO: Satish Mahalzat
c/o Syntech Transports

FROM: Cletus B.

RE: Transporter model 08746


Dear Mr. Mahalzat:

I purchased your home model of the E-Z Tranz personal transporter 30 days ago. I am writing to express my utter disappointment with your product and demand a full refund after your company puts my head back where it was.

I was using your product Wednesday to go from my house here in Farmington, N.Y. to the racetrack in Watkins Glen, N.Y. Previously I used the E-Z Tranz to make trips to the store, the lake, and Ghana, and after this week I would have used it to go to the doctor. But my sister drove me there in her pickup, as I can no longer sit in my own car. That’s because your product put my head where my rear should be, and vice versa.

Do you know what it’s like to fart burps? I don’t think you do, because if you did you would clearly put a warning on the box that this product may induce head and butt reversal, and as such make it difficult for users to sit or wear hats. As it is, I’ve had to endure taunts from the neighborhood kids who call me assface.

I sincerely hope you have a compensation plan in place for me, as I will undoubtedly sue you and your company until I’m blue in the face. Which, may I remind you, is just below my back.

My terms are thus: Make my body the way it was, plus compensate me for the anguish your product has caused. My lawyers and I determine that price is $1,000,000,000,000. Any less and I will see you in court. That is, unless you’re in front of me.

Thank you for your urgent attention to this matter.

Yours,

Cletus Buttheadski

Green blues

By Bryan

You are sixteen, prom time is nigh, and
your moss suit needs watering.
The way the light catches it, you swear
there are gold flecks in it. But it's been
getting browner since you first hung it
in the downstairs shower, away from the creeping
soap scum blanketing the bath between your room
and your sister's.
You've been spending all your time trying
to care for it but what the hell do you know
about horticulture?

Fly on the wall

By Bryan

ZZZhit! Why’s it so FRIGGIN cold in here?! Is it me? It must be me. Gotta get my wings de-iced. What’s this thermostat say? Crap! I can’t read! Gotta get someone to turn it up. Ooh – who’s that? The new guy? He’ll do. Now to buzz his ear – Whoa! He’s a quick one! Not to worry – the ol’ Dodge, duck, dip, dive and dodge trick evades ‘em every time. Better back off just in case.
Look up here, dude! Look! The thermostat! You know you wanna turn it up. You’re cold, man! You’re already rolling down your sleeves. Crank that heat! Crank it! Uh oh. Who’s this now? The blonde from accounting? Man, she works fast! She’s got him smiling now, though … good … now make some small talk … the weather … good, man – you’re almost there … How cold is it out? Cold enough to TURN UP THE HEAT! C’mon – be the man! Turn it up for her! Hurry! She’s walking away! Ugh. You blew it, dude.
Aha – you’ve go the temp on your computer screen! Look at your screen, man! No – not your folder – over here! I’ll just land on the weather report here … uh oh … my feet won’t stick … slipping … slipping … Aw nuts! I’m on a coffee ad?!? Wait … he’s getting up. Good! Now just go over to the – NO! Not the coffee machine!!! Wings .. frozen shut … can’t move … I’ll just have to rub my hands and try to stay warm. Gotta get off this screen. Too … cold … must move wings …

Thunk.

Bryan's contribution to this week's assignment

Having been hit by a preposterous proposal from one Samuel J. Ledley of Cambridge, who in his desire to explore the fashion trends of the Franco-Prussian war illuminated the many arguments of historians seeking to unearth the origins of buckled shoes (and whether the soles of which could be entirely fabricated from the cartilaginous gristle of discarded tendons found wholly in subsidized Scottish lowland farms), I was forced to promote a matrix within the relatively small social circle of Merovingian scholars at Saxonbury that directly correlated four points: that Portugese bluebills could, in fact, be indirectly related to sandpipers and as such prove a land link through evolution to exist much in the way some Galapagos species are thought to have similar lineage to more pedestrian mainland creatures; that the study of said species’ biology could also prove some link between cultures of the Andean foothills and their counterparts in other parts of Europe as they relate to how these animals were hunted and gathered; that the bird is, indeed, the word; and that subcutaneous ridges in their lower sedimenta and just below bluebills’ ankles could in fact prove that the utilization of these appendages could justify the cultures of 1650-1820s Prussia’s use of spats.

Green War Part 3

(By Bryan)

The duke was met with confused stares and rumblings amongst the folk – a dark rumor spread among them, it was madness they said—and a few of the younger men spoke up, willing to fight at their duke’s side. At their offers the duke rebutted; no man was to stay save him. And after a morning full of the duke’s urging, every family was packed and off just after noon.
A quiet sank the valley, a dim hush that seemed to breathe in its walls and inhabit the dust on the streets. There the duke stood, between two of the larger houses, sword sheathed and fists clenched. He slowly spun about himself once, taking in the sight one last time, as he walked toward the edge of town. It ended in the center of each hill where two great brown-green hills sloped steeply up into white snowcaps. It was under these caps that the duke now saw dark forms. They started small, then grew quickly. They were the armies of the Podrain and the Draymoor, and they descended quickly now down the hills. The duke could see each form clearer now; one was brighter and sparkled slightly more than the other. He saw glints of metal, of pikes and shields made of metals long lost to the peoples of the duke’s race.
Whether this truly was madness the duke could not say. He prayed to his father and to all the men of his race who had kept the valley before him, prayed for strength and bravery and constitution. For too long his people lived under this invisible threat, a prevailing wind that ever blew through the valley. Too long did they go unaware, playing the part of prisoner and captor. No more.
The armies were close to the bottom now, and the duke could see their strange faces screwed up and battle-ready. Some had war-paint, others bore little or no clothes. They chanted as they descended in a language not ever heard in the valley. It was a battle chant, and it grew louder as they approached. But the duke saw each side slowing now, curbing their trots until they were at a slow walk, and as each side approached the duke he saw faces changing. Gone were their bloodthirsty expressions, gone was the hatred. They looked bewildered, confused at the sight of the lone soldier standing before them. They took to murmuring to each other in a common tongue, and soon a hush fell over the valley.
The one that led the Podrain, the one called Clamagh, walked ahead of his clan toward the duke.
“What say you, duke,” he shouted while still some paces away. “Are your people prepared to defend against these rogues, will they stand up and fight this menace?”
“Hallo,” came a cry from the opposing side. It was Dramhain of the Draymoor, now a few paces ahead of his people. “Come to hear more lies, ah duke? Shall we set to rights this scourge?”
The duke raised his hands, an impressive showing as he stood a few heads above both armies.
“Nay, listen to me, people of the hills. My folk have fled this place, gone far away and I am all there is left.” More whispers and cries of betrayal came from both camps. “And before they are summoned back, if ever, I entreat you sirs to sit with me a moment before you let your blades fly.”
The Draymoor were first to respond.
“And what, brave duke? Talk ye of truce?” cried Dramhain. “What business is it of yours to belay this quarrel? I had given yeh chance enough to side with the victors this day, but now we fight and shall roll ye down with the braggards!”
At this the army roared. They flashed their spears and shields, their eyes shone in the dimming light. Again the duke raised his arms, and let a cry so fierce it rumbled the very hilltops. It shook each man in turn, sending ripples through both sides and they were quiet again.
“What man silences armies such as this?” said Clamagh of the Podrain, who until then shared a thought with his enemy, that if the duke shall not choose he should be mowed like the grass of the hillside. “What man indeed? Perhaps we shall entertain him.”
The duke let down his arms and motioned for each leader to come closer to him. From under his breastplate he produced a haggard cloth of green and grey. It was wound tight around something, though what neither enemy could say. When Clamagh and Dramhain were but a few paces from each other, the duke stepped away and spoke to the armies.
“People of the hills,” he spoke, and as he did the hush over the armies grew, as neither realm had ever spoken to the people of the valley except for their chiefs. “I have been visited twice under this moon, first by the Podrain then by the Draymoor. I have been given reason to take up arms against both your peoples, and so I shall. But first I will ask ye: Who is invading whom?”

Green War, Part 2

By Bryan M.

The rest did not last. He was awoken again by a presence, a different face than that of the previous night. This man was smaller and older, and his clothes were darker and more earthy. He smoked a long brown pipe, and its scent was unlike those of the pipes of the duke’s land. It was sweeter and yet somehow more bitter. He guessed from the little man’s posture that he’d been staring at the duke a long while, and he continued to do so even as the duke sat up in his bed and lit a candle by his bedside.
“You are one of the hillfolk,” said the duke, though whether it was a statement or question even the duke was not sure. “Why have you come?”
The man took another puff of his pipe and exhaled a long, deep breath. He cocked an eye toward the duke.
“You’ve been visited by the Podrain, haven’t ye?” said the man. “And a lyin’ folk they be. I am Dramhain of the Draymoor.”
The duke sat straighter, trying to muster all the royal blood that pumped in him. The effect worked, for he looked wiser and more powerful than he had in the moments before, and Dramhain took notice.
“I know of your people,” said the duke. “I know what is to be done in two nights’ time. Your people seek to undo what has been done here for generations of my family’s history. You seek to crush the peace we’ve upheld like a boat on the wave. You have drawn us in your war and no it is I who must decide what role our folk play.”
The little man smiled a little, but it was not out of malice or delight. He emptied the bowl of his pipe onto the floor and repacked it with a strange weed before speaking.
“Is that what they’ve got yeh believing? We’re to war on them in two nights?” The man stopped smiling and stood before the duke, mustering all the height he could. “This is the mark of the Podrain, my man. They would conjure a story to make an ally of you and your land, only to turn on all of you in the end and take all of it – the hills, the valley – all of it for themselves. In truth it is they who will strike first. They will waylay our walls with the help of your people, they will tear down our homes and our land. Then they will consume what they can and leave it bare, and rape your land next until nothing is left. That is why you must stand with us. You and your people must be at the ready at dusk the day-after-tomorrow, to fight for your—and our—very lives.”
The smoke grew thicker, and when it faded so did the man, and again the duke was alone. He sat upright until the dawn, when the town below his windows awoke and the wheels of the day began to turn.
That day he walked his streets. He watched as children played at their mothers’ and fathers’ sides, as mothers and fathers worked and laughed with each other indoors and out. He drank each moment in as if it were his last, and the weight of what was to come became too great to bear.
That night he’d reached his decision. He had just one last day before war, though which side was in the right he still could not say. On this night he did not sleep, awaiting another visitor though none came. He greeted the dawn in the same way he greeted nightfall—alone. And cold.
But this day did not start like the others. There was no lazy retreat from slumber for the folk of the valley. Today the duke burst from the doors of his home, clad in the armor of his people. It shone under the winter sun and reflected each house, each door and chimney of the homes of the valley. He came out in force, beating his chest so the clanging scrapes of metal on metal awoke each man, woman and child.
“Arise ye and stand! Arise! Leave your homes and be gone from this place! Arise!”
His shouts continued until every family was out their doors, some still rubbing their eyes from sleep. The clamor woke the livestock as well, and now the duke was shouting over a din of confused animals and people.
“We have lived here long,” the duke said, “and for many years have seen peace in our lands. But a new day comes, and with it a new life for all of us. Long have I hid from you the truth of these hills, for within them live two dark and mysterious peoples; long have they known me and my family, and have enjoyed the peace that we have upheld. But the peace has run its course, and before war brings ruin upon you I ask—nay, I demand—you leave this place and your belongings. Head for the next town where you might stay until it is safe to return. If it is ever safe.”

Green War, Part 1

By Bryan M.

Long ago, long before engines of industry drove magic away from Ireland’s shores and hills, before the webbing of our memories was stretched too thin, there lived a duke who sat upon a satin throne. His lands stretched far between two hills; they were cut by his domain and all who lived there lived in peace. In his many days he sat watching out a narrow window, looking out on the long crevasse, thinking of those who dwelt between those hills and of those who lived within, unknown to the people under his care.
They were the hillfolk, as was their name whispered in the streets of the duke’s place. Never to be seen nor heard, they lived as two kingdoms, on their own, in constant hatred of the other. Where the source of the strife existed no one could say, and they lived apart from the outer land of the valley, spending their days buttressing their defenses in the event the other should ever choose to wander across. This was known only to the duke, the only outsider to ever have met the hillfolk, and he was disturbed by their warmongering and hateful ways. Their appearance to him was strange; they wore clothes of green sewn from the hillsides, and ate nothing but the grasses and mushrooms that grew there. As such their hair and most elements of their likenesses were kissed with a green hue, yet their faces were pale and fair as the moon’s reflection on a river. Indeed, they seemed to sparkle as if imbued with the stars’ light itself.
On the coldest night of winter one of the hillfolk set to visit the duke. He came to his bedside at midnight, waking the duke with a touch to his hand. The duke awoke quickly, angered by the intrusion.
“Who comes to my chamber!?” he spoke to the dark, and to the face that seemed lit from within.
“It is Clamagh from the hill,” said the stranger. “I come to you this night to impart a warning from my people. The folk of the Other Hill, the Draymoor, are to descend upon us three dusks from this. We Podrain do not wish to fight but will defend our home tooth to nail to keep it. We tell this to you, leader of the land between, in hopes that your people might help belay our conflict—that your folk would take up arms against the Draymoor and help drive them back so that the peace might be preserved.”
The duke’s grey face showed more years than it possessed, for he knew that such a time would come under his watch of his family’s lands. He did not wish for his people to turn to war; theirs was a peaceful clan whose lives were given to tending of flocks and sowing of fields. Once a year they cleared their storehouses of leftover grains for the brewing of fine ales and stouts, which would produce such yields that they had enough for a year and more, the surplus of which they traded with neighboring lands. The duke sought to preserve that life, without armaments, and so told the stranger at his bedside.
But the creature responded, “We must have your people ready to stand at the third dusk, else they are run over in the fray and all peace wracked for ever.”
Whether the figure slinked away silently or simply faded, the duke could not ascertain in the dim light. He was again alone, and no quilt could belay the chill now set on his skin. He laid awake for some hours, transfixed on the words, and he spent much of the next day the same as he performed his duties. He had thought of little else when he laid to rest the following night, when his eyes and bones finally succumbed to weariness.

Solarainne 2

(For an explanation of this project, please see the note on the post entitled "Solarainne 1." Thanks!)
(And sorry - for some reason this won't let me indent paragraphs.)

By Marcy and Bryan

The class filed out quickly, mumbling to each other about the absurdly short class. Connall looked at none of them. He fixed his eyes on the floor, making a line for his professor's desk. He wanted to know what the note meant, or what he should do. This guy says one thing to me and I'm going to deck him. He straightened himself up just in time to see Mary McCrary, a pretty girl that sat in the front, head him off. She was focused on Mr. Durst, and opened her mouth to speak.
"Mr. Durst, this is by far the most outrageous form of sexual harassment I have encountered at this school, and I hang out with rugby players, so that is saying a lot!" Mary said, her green eyes flashing with anger. She held up her essay, which had the same blue-inked message on it as Connall's did.
Mr. Durst laughed.
Connall's brow furrowed. "What is going on here? Is this some kind of joke?"
"Well, at least you both took offense to my little experiment," Mr. Durst said. "That's a good sign."
"A good sign of what? That we're human beings? And that we don't like being treated as objects by a professor who uses his assignments for his own personal agenda?" Mary retorted hotly.
"Exactly, Miss McCrary. That you are humans. And humans with some shred of moral character to boot. It's taken me half a semester to root you out of the crop of this year's pathetic hybrids. Our kind are rarities anymore."
"What the hell are you talking about? Hybrids? Are you on crack?" Connall asked, and then realized that he was simply asking questions that the good professor was already about to explain.
But Mr. Durst simply handed them a small business card. "Go to this address, at precisely four o'clock. Show this card to no-one, do you understand? I will meet you there and show you exactly what I am talking about. I'm afraid this classroom, even this campus, is not the place to discuss such subjects."
"Why should we trust you?" Connall asked.
"Do me a favor," Mr. Durst said. "Go to the coffee shop. Sit down with a mocha and observe your fellow college mates. Really observe them. And imagine that you are watching a cosmic science experiment. You'll be surprised what you see."
He gathered his things and headed for the door, leaving Mary and Connall completely baffled. Before he exited, he turned to them again. "Stay together until you meet me later. It's not as safe for you out there anymore; you're in the know."
He left.
Connall looked at Mary. She said:
"Do you have any clue what he's talking about? I've got another class at four. What's he talking about? He's not getting off that easy..."
But something in the way he said cosmic science experiment didn't sit right with Connall. He had heard those words once before, but where exactly he couldn't recall. Clearly, though, this professor had a plan for them. And it didn't involve wine and cheese in his dining room followed by gladiator movies in the bedroom.
"Look, it's a little weird, but maybe we should do this," Connall said. "And I know you don't know me and I don't know you, but it's probably just part of some lesson he's trying to teach."
Mary's breathing slowed a little. Curiosity began to take over.
"Well, he can't rape us both, can he?" she said, wishing instantly she hadn't. I don't even know this guy, hope he's not offended. His smile told her he wasn't.
"Well, I hope not. Here's what's really wrong: I left my money in my dorm room, so if we're supposed to hang out for the next three hours, I guess you're coming too. What do you think?"
Half an hour later, after money was fetched and more cold braved, Mary and Connall were sitting in the coffee shop, each with a mocha and a chocolate chocolate-chip muffin. They kicked back in a booth and began their people watching experiment, oblivious to what they were actually looking for.
"I can't believe I'm skipping Chem to sit here and ingest carbs with a stranger at the request of a perverted, demented professor." Mary said through a bite of muffin.
"Tell us how you really feel," Connall countered.
"What are we supposed to be looking for, anyway."
Connall sipped his mocha, then wiped whipped cream from the tip of his nose. "A cosmic science project."
"This whole thing is a cosmic science project." Mary mumbled.
Connall scanned the crowd, a regular mix of coffe shop patrons. The punks, the goths, the poets, the preps, and the average joes all mingled and gorged on treats. He watched them for weirdness, but spoke to Mary as he did.
"So where are you from, Mary McCrary?"
"Ohio. You?"
"Buffalo."
"You came a long way for school then." She huffed.
"That's original."
Mary sighed. "I'm sorry. I'm frustrated. None of this makes any logical sense, but it seems to be the right thing to do here."
Connall smirked, and was about to speak, when something caught his eye...
He found himself staring back at an iguana with a pearl necklace sitting atop Ben Ngyuen's shoulder.
Ben took a poetry class with Connall, and Connall remembered his was particularly bad, not just for the writing but because Ben came from Korea, and his r's were sometimes lost in the shuffle. Even with the public readings in class, up until now Connall never saw Ben communicate much with anybody, let alone a pet lizard. Yet here he was, feeding cracker crumbs to it as he read a bike manual in a far corner of the room. And the lizard looked at Connall like it was waiting for him to look away, but he didn't.
Mary saw the confusion smattered on Connall's face.
"What is it? What's the matter?" But before he could answer, she turned around to look at the lizard, which was now whispering into Ben's ear.
Ben's head snapped around to look directly at Connall and Mary. Connall swore he thought he saw Ben's eyes flare a brilliant yellow, and then fade back to normal. Ben pulled the lizard off of his shoulder and carefully placed her inside his backpack. He shouldered the bag, and with a cold glare, turned his back on the two observers and left the coffee shop. The backpack rustled, and the lizard peeked out of the bag, flipping off Mary and Connall.
"Did you see -"
"Oh yes, I saw," Mary replied before Connall could finish.
"How soon until four o'clock?"
Mary looked at her cell phone's time display. "Thirty-five minutes. Should we go? A trained lizard doesn't necessarily constitute a cosmic science experiment."
"But a Korean poet's eyes glowing yellow might." Connall stood and donned his jacket. "Safety in numbers. Let's go."
"How reassuring," mumbled Mary, but she followed Connall out to the bus stop.

Solarainne 1

Hello Hack fans!

It's your friendly neighborhood Marcy here.

As you can tell, our writers' group is still warming up to this blog thing. So as we continue to work on our individual pieces, we will present some of our creative outlet assignments from meetings and such on this blog. (Some of which you have seen already.
This particular post is an unfinished, ongoing story that Bryan and I started writing last summer as a stress reliever at work. We've been e-mailing paragraphs back and forth, and letting it meander to see where it goes. So for the Blog, we're going to post a couple paragraphs at a time.

It is rough, cheesey, and random. Like my feet. So, I guess we'll call it a serial, because that sounds cooler that rough, cheesy, random and unfinished story.

Here's the first installment of Solarainne:

Connall threw his jacket on and zipped it as far as it would go. He could hear the wind screaming outside of the walls, and lamented that he had to leave the warmth of his dorm room to brave the winter chill. But alas, he thought, Mr. Durst's fiction writing class waits for no-one. While donning his fleece ski cap, he glanced at the calendar picture hanging by the door. Palm trees waved in sunshine over white sandy beaches. A margarita in hand, and steel drum music drifting on the air, he dreamed of digging his bare toes into warm sand. A Jimmy Buffet song worked its way into his brain, and the refrain would be stuck in his head the rest of the day. Heaving a huge sigh, Connall grabbed his bag and gloves and headed out into what was most definitely not Margaritaville.
No, this was indeed Williamsville, where sombreros are traded for stocking caps and a bite of wind can hurt more than the worm in tequila. There was at least one good bit of news awaiting him before he hit his professor's door at the University of Buffalo campus. He had to pick up his paycheck at Hooters around the block, and spend a few minutes basking in the glow of deep fryers and a woman named Pamela.
"UUUhhhhh... Pamela..." he drooled in his best Homer Simpson voice as the lock of the dorm room clicked. With a hop he shouldered his bookbag, stuffed his wallet in his coat, and dreamed of Hooters.
Glancing at his watch, he decided that suffering through class and then seeing Pamela would be a better course of action; it gave him something to look forward to. So he re-routed his steps to class and dreamed. Hooters and the beach. Somehow those two thoughts seemed to meld in Connall's mind, and kept him warm throughout the rest of his trek to class.
When he reached the warm building, he stripped a few of his layers off on the chair, and felt slightly overheated, despite the cold he had just come in from. He wondered why the brass heated class buildings to the high seventies or eighties. They knew that students overbundled for the upstate NY cold, and then huffed their way around campus. The insta-heat would most certainly put them to sleep. Didn't that seem rather counterproductive to classtime?
Mr. Durst began his review of the previous assignments he had graded and was handing back to his students. It was the same speech as always; "You all are capable of better writing than this. Why is it that you insist on not living up to your potential?" He passed by Connall on his way to hand Mandy Marco her essay. As he walked by, Connall noticed the familiar odor of his professor; stale coffee and minestrone soup. Why did this guy always smell like minestrone soup?
The smell intensified as Mr. Durst stopped in front of Connall, essay in hand. In scrawling blue ballpoint pen, there was a message on the top of the page, and Mr. Durst looked at Connall pointedly. The message said "I love you, sweetie." The last word was underlined twice.
Connall looked back at his teacher, who only shot a fleeting smile and a look out the corner of his eye before turning to the next desk, making his rounds. Connall's arm drooped and his pen fell to the floor. He could only shake his head, dumbfounded. The professor resumed his place behind his desk.
"Now class, this abomination of an assignment has left me utterly defeated," he said as each student held their breath for the hammer to fall. "You are all dismissed. Except for Connall. You stay."

Bad Poetry Night in Hackland!

Hello Hack Fans!
Here it is - as promised. The No-Talent Hacks take a swing at pretend teenage poetry!
Keep in mind the youngest member of the Hacks is 27.
(Bonus points to whomever guesses which one of us is 27!!)
(Pete - you don’t count, you know the answer. Thanks for playing though!)

Sunshine and Light
By Matt

Why does school have to be so crass?
My entire life ruled by the hall pass.

Across the street the slackers smoke
I envy them their lives without care

My parents are always in my hair
I’m just not good enough
Does anyone here care?

My soul is ripped.
My mind a waste.

Why’d you leave?
I hate you



Grounded
By Marcy

No one listens to me
It's like I'm not even here
A voice in the dark
Faceless
Formless
Sound from everywhere
So loud it becomes nothing
Background noise
I am static
I am wind
I am the grinding screech of a dot matrix printer
Annoying
Repetitive
Obsolete
And they tune me out
Nothing I say is important
So I hide in the dark
Soundless
Barely breathing
And I scream



SOUL SQUISHER
By Dave

Crippled cockroach climbing
warily, gingerly, erratically
up the basement wall
hanging on with
furious insectoid desperation shrieking
I am more than vermin
I am life
I am your soul
Suddenly it topples
dead as a dead bug
How do I pay it due tribute?
Choking back a sob
I squish my soul



Angst
By Allison

No one understands
the dark
I'm here alone
without him

I felt the fear
of losing
I tried to fight
it won

Now my life
gray, torn
No one understands
I'm trapped

There is time
now for
breaking free from
the dark



Title: Combustible
By Bryan

The universe has swallowed me
wallowing in the haze
Shut me out don't let me in
shout at me my name
Am I girl? not yet a woman
Mother of the cosmos, speak
I will hear you and come
the class bell rings but I wait
to hear you speak once more
Shut them out don't let them in
My mind is yours, my womb is mine
The universe spits me back out



A snippet from a love poem
By Kris

"Watch me and take it
as I extend my love.
I'll only give it once."



The meeting
By Matt

You said meet behind the bleachers
I was there for hours
You never came
My tears were fertilizer

You were my idol
For you I'd do anything
Did it make feel good,
Your little prank?

My dreams were crushed
Life is over

I hope you enjoy the flowers



You Know What You've Done
By Dave

You've put it all behind you.
Such a luxury.
Such effrontery.



Breakup Haiku
By Marcy

Back of the school bus
Track meet races on outside
I cry tears alone


Waring souls
By Marcy

Who will win the long battle
Chuck Norris or Screech
Only Pete can tell