Lunch bullies

By Matt

Arrrgh! Be that a word?
'Tis a question immortal
No answer have I

A ship be sighted
White sails the horizon show
So hungry a crew we

Life be tough at sea
The English be hearty fed
Their food we will take

Aside their ship drawn
Our swords at the ready be
Plunder their corned beef

A battle won, we retire
To our fortunate repast
Pirates we always be

Rum we now consume
Fat and happy we rest
Our next fight soon comes

Till that time cometh
Hearty lunch we shall consume
Hark, there be more sails

Arrrgh! Be that a word?
'Tis a question immortal
No answer have I

Writing Assignment: Pesky troll

By Matt

“Honest officer, it wasn’t my fault.”

How many times has that line been used over the years to get out of a ticket or explain an accident? Well in my case it was true, it wasn’t my fault. Sit back and you’ll hear the tale of the time a troll wrecked my car.

It was late winter, March in fact. I’d just gotten some bad news at work. I work at a word factory, see, and I’d just found out I’d have to work 16 hour days, six days a week. Now if that’s not a killer schedule, I’m not sure I understand what a killer schedule is.

Now as you can imagine, as I left the factory, I was in a pretty rotten mood. I mean, it was a two hour drive home and now I only had eight hours to drive home, get some dinner, go to bed, and then get up and start all over again. That meant I was going to about 3 hours sleep a night at best.

So there I was on the freeway, humming along at a cool 75 miles an hour, listening to the afternoon DJ on the radio make some of some poor drunken unfortunate. It was snowing a bit, but the roads were just wet. It was a pretty easy drive, all things considered for late March. I was in the last half-hour of the trip as I hit the city and I was getting pretty groggy. That’s why when the troll appeared, I thought it was just a paranoid delusion. Little did I know…

The troll appeared as I was passing a one of the massive tractor-trailers with two trailers hooked up to it. I pulled alongside the behemoth, hauling food for the local uber-super-duper mart. That’s when I heard it…

From somewhere in the back there was this low growl, which sounded suspiciously like my cat, who I knew wasn’t in the back seat. Just the same I glanced back through the rear view mirror. Seeing nothing, I passed it off as being a product of my weary mind.

I punched the accelerator and my car's 250 horses pulled it past the lumbering semi. As I pulled in the right lane again, I heard it again. That same low growl. This time, it seemed a bit closer. Again I looked in the rear view mirror. Nothing. I turned my attention back to the road. That’s when it happened.

The growl came again. This time it sounded as if it had come from the seat next to me. I looked over and saw it. The troll was about five feet tall, with coffee- colored skin covered in festering boils. His face was dominated by a massive nose and fat, ugly lips. His eyes, mere slits were like looking into the soul of darkness itself. Most strange, though was what came out of its mouth.

“I say, chap, nice of you to notice me. Might you give me a lift to Eleron? I’m frightfully late for a pillaging seminar, and if I don’t arrive soon, I just might be sacked. Couldn’t have that now, could we? I’m afraid my people’s idea of sacking is quite unpleasant.”

At this point, an odd feeling came over me. My stomach grew tight, my breath coming in gasps. As I tried to focus on the wheel, the road started growing more indistinct, until there was nothing but blackness.

When I awoke, I was surrounded by firefighters and policemen. My car cocooned around me, I was unable to move more than a few inches. There was no sign of the troll. After about an hour of frantic work by the rescue workers I was freed and taken to a waiting ambulance. As I was being put inside, I noticed a street sign. Eleron Boulevard.

Undecided Voter

By Matt

Man, this president thing is haaarrdd. I didn’t know when is said I was a decider, I’d have to make so many … well … decisions. I thought this war stuff was gonna be easy. Least that’s what Dick and Condi and Rummy said.

“Just go in there and kick a little wimpy dictator butt and you’ll be a hero,” they said. I shoulda listeneded to Colin.

“Now people are makin’fun of me, sayin I talk funny an I’m dumb. It’s the difficultest thing in the world bein’president, but people don’ seem ta care. I tell ya, ma brain hurts …

Whoa wait a minute ... what’s going on here, I fell funny, like some East Coast liberial’s takin over mah body … Oh no, not him!!!!

This wah is a fahlly. Ah nevah shouldah voted fah it.

Now Kahl Rove’s slandering me all ovah the ahrwaves and the Swift Boaters are teahrin apaht my Vietnam Wah recahrd. Whay ah evah say I voted fahr the money bafahr ah voted against it? Whay does everyone say ah look like Lurch? Who is this Lurch fellah anywhay?

Oh look aht tha time. I need to get mah Botox and and mah haih done …

(OK- This probably deserves a little perspective. My last Halloween costume was as an undecided voter in the 2004 election. I took some license with that and entered the bodies of W and John Kerry.)

El Tiro

It's been forever since I posted something here. Here's a short one. - Matt

"Want to go up? I'd been expecting the question, but it still surprised me. "Sure."

A few minutes of preparation and I was strapped in. We were connected to the plane in front of us by a simple rope. A few hand signals and the plane was on its way. The desert ground was rough, we took a few strong bumps. Then it was smooth. Airborne.

We stayed with our lifeline for several minutes. A pull of the release and we were free. And everything changed.

The wind has the power. Without it, I'd be staring up at the peaks, instead of eye-to-eye with their tops. The world is nearly silent, my benefactor nearly silent.

The wind can be violent, ripping apart trees and homes. Today it is my friend, letting me see the world in unencumbered beauty. The Earth is magnificent, I am insignificant against it.

Crocs with tools

By Matt

A cuddly saltwater croc swung the sledgehammer with a vengeance while getting his freak on.

Now if you think this is the result of a mad hallucination brought about by some Australian wacky weed, you're wrong. It's actually a well-know fact that saltwater crocs love getting their freak on. Crocs DID invent the leisure suit.

This in contrast to freshwater crocs who spend all day wallowing in shallows waiting for errant dingoes. They're really dull - and mean.

But what about the sledgehammer you ask? Isn't it unusual to see crocs using tools? Not really, if you think about it. After all, don't they need to build places to live too. Despit their prehistoric appearance, saltwater crocs are quite skilled in the building trades. Why some of the world's finest stonemasons are actually crocodiles.

And the cuddly part? Well, who doesn't find a 15-foot, scaly predator with razor-sharp teeth, cute? Now go have some more of that wacky weed. Maybe you'll hallucinate about Jimmy Hoffa next. Maybe there'll be some teenagers.

Flight 827 - Part 3

Here's the final part of the story - enjoy.

By Matt

Now silver wings carried the glimmer of hope. He was back, if only for a while. He’d vowed to return when the Mariners opened their new stadium. Following that magical year had been one of his greatest joys. The miracle comeback, Randy reaching for the heavens, Dave Niehaus’s “grand salami” call on an Edgar Martinez home run and Junior’s exuberant dive across home to beat the Yankees.

The houses grew more numerous, the green landscape giving way to yet more shades of grey as concrete replaced evergreens. The plane whirred and thunked as flaps hung out and landing gear came down. The pressure grew on sensitive ears as the plane drew nearer to sea level.

Suddenly a thump and a screech as rubber met runway, the noise increasing as powerful engines reversed their thrust.

12B waited patiently as the other 86 people around him gathered their belongings and exited. He came to his feet and pulled his carryon from the bin. Shuffling along the aisle, he bade the flight crew a friendly farewell and thanked them for the flight. Excitement growing, he picked up the pace down the Jetway and burst into the busy, familiar terminal. It was exactly as he’d remembered, not particularly beautiful, and under a seemingly perpetual state of construction.

A short wait at the baggage claim later, and he had a heavy bag slung over his shoulder and was on his way to the ground transportation area. An airport shuttle bus would be along soon to take him to the hotel downtown, a real deal at $39 a night.

Stepping outside, he took in the sights and sounds of the airport. The air was cool and heavy. It smelled of rain, pine and jet fuel. He found it rather pleasant. The frequent sounds of jets taking off drowned out the cacophony of cars, taxis, and buses swirling around the terminal. Across International Boulevard he could see the twin towers of the Airport Plaza with the familiar 13 Coins restaurant sign. He’d never eaten there. Too expensive on $7.00 an hour, but it was one of the best restaurants in the area.

Around him people headed in all sorts of directions. He wondered where they were going. Did they have families here? Business? Pleasure?

The blue and yellow Dodge van approached. The usual mix of tourists piled in with him. Typically they were the only ones who used the Airporter.

Passengers around him called out their destinations. Soon he was alone with the driver. He gave the name of a hotel on Sixth Avenue, not far from the TV station whose offer he turned down two years earlier. “King’s Inn”, he said. He made no small talk with the driver, not wanting to miss the sights of the familiar city.

The van pulled into the lot of the hotel and the man’s heart sank. There was a reason the place was so cheap. It was a place more for the furtive, furious rendezvous of strangers than tourists.

He went to the grimy desk, to a disinterested clerk and gave his reservation. The clerk seemed surprised anyone wanted to actually stay the entire night, but dutifully gave him a key to a first-floor room.

As rooms went, he had seen better garbage dumps. A tiny lamp with a 45-watt bulb provided the only light. The ancient TV had cable in name only. A twin bed had more lumps than bad gravy. As if to punctuate his miserable situation, the rain outside picked up. Fatigue beginning to set in, he set down his suitcase. The room had an unmistakable chill. A worn-out heater provided no relief, blowing only cold air, and even then with a protest of noise louder than the plane he’d left shortly before.

At least the room had a working phone and phone book. He didn’t have much money, but that didn’t mean he had to stay in this dive any longer than necessary. A scan through the book located a Motel 6 back down by the airport. He made a reservation for the next day. Another call arranged for a van to pick him up and take him to his new hotel. He hadn’t rented a car for this trip, not really believing he’d need one. He’d fix that tomorrow.

Satisfied his living arrangements would only be temporary, the man settled into the bed. A new feeling settled over him, one he hadn’t felt in years. The miserable room did nothing to contain it. He was happy.

The dim surroundings, the lumpy bed, the lack of heat couldn’t diminish the feeling. Here, amongst the trees and mountains, water, concrete and rain was something more. Here was home.

Flight 827 - Part 2

Part 2 of my story Flight 827. There will be one more addition. To my fellow hacks - You've read this story before, but not in this expanded version.

By Matt

Not seeing Annette anymore pained him the most. He longed to see her on a more serious level, but his timidity prevented that. If only he could have brought himself to ask.It was a regret he carried still, one he’d probably always carry.

The downfall was swift. He didn’t qualify for unemployment. “You haven’t worked enough,” the grey-haired woman told him. She seemed truly apologetic. But she couldn’t know what the news meant.

The job market was tight; recession had once again struck the area. A visit to a job fair had been particularly disastrous. He’d gotten lost among the buildings at the Seattle Center and never even made it there.

Once again in tears, he called his parents, told them he was coming come, that he was failure on his own.

Resigned to his fate, he visited the TV station where he’d interned before needing to get a paying job. He said he was leaving town and said his goodbyes. His supervisors had tried to get him hired before, to no avail.

The phone call a few days later had caught him by surprise. Was he interested in a job? The night assignment editor was leaving. Perhaps they could convince the news director he was the right person.

Of course he was interested, this was what he wanted. "We’ll get back to you," they said. When they did, it was the day before he was leaving. He’d made the arrangements to go. The landlord expected him to move out. The utilities were shut off, cable cancelled, train tickets in hand and the airline was coming to pick up his stuff to ship back to New York.

“Too late,” he told them. “If only you’d called yesterday.” He could have said yes, but he was too afraid, again too timid, to change his plans.

He’d still be here if he’d taken a chance, but chances weren’t what he was good at.

Flight 827

This was one of the few stories to survive my computer crash. It began life as one of our assignments. The goal was to think of a story in the time you were stopped at a red light. What came out was this. This is the first installment.

By Matt

Flight 827, a 737 from Pittsburgh with 87 people on board broke through the clouds at 6,000 feet. Below, a lush green landscape unfolded, punctuated by the occasional dot of houses. Ahead, the sky showed the first hints of gathering twilight amongst the leaden grey. Mountains were barely visible amongst the haze. Streaks of liquid formed against Plexiglas.

For the passenger in 12B, these were sights he’d thought he’d not see again. Sights last seen that miserable St. Patrick’s Day when screeching, protesting rails carried him out of King Street Station on a slow journey back to the monotony of a life he thought he’d left behind. The journey then had left him too much time to reflect on missed opportunities. His time in the city had been the happiest of his life. He’d thought he’d spend the rest of his life there. Sure, he had a cheap apartment, and made way too little money. He’d had no need to change his driver’s license since he had been to poor to own a car, even a cheap old beater.

The city had suited him. On days off he take the bus to Discovery Park and walk among the wooded trails, stopping at the occasional clearing to take in the view of the sound. He found he enjoyed the view most when his favorite mountain poked its head out from the frequent mists. Or maybe he’d go to the waterfront and watch the bustle on the sound and the city around him.

He loved the city’s quirks; the troll under the Aurora Bridge; Hammering Man at the SAM. He loved how rain made the city seem alive, one with its surroundings. Espresso stands in dry cleaners, tanning salons and grimy gas stations. He missed good coffee.

His job had been nothing special. Selling computers at store in a suburban strip mall was as far away from TV journalism as he could get. Still it had paid the bills.

It was a shock losing his job. He was the store’s top seller. This couldn’t happen to him. He cried in the manager’s office. The job wasn’t much but it had been everything to him. His co-workers were the closest thing he had to friends. Without them he was alone.

The cup

By Matt

Grown men will cry. Men who wouldn’t cry at the ending of “Old Yeller” will weep uncontrollably. They won’t be tears of pain, but of joy. Young and old alike will join together in celebration. The eyes of a continent will turn to them. And a city and region around them will find out once what it feels like to be on top of the world, if just for a fleeting moment.

A city that has been the butt of jokes and dealing with crushing poverty, lost opportunity, and heartbreak will discover that that hard work and belief in a common goal can take them to the top of the world. Even if the rest of the world says it impossible and so-called experts say it’s a pipe dream, it can happen. Redemption and renaissance ARE possible.

This lesson won’t be taught by any professor in a classroom. It will be taught by a group of men from all over the world holding a trophy. A simple game will be the cause. The city will feel joy once again. That’s something that can never be taken away.

It may just be a silver chalice, purchased for a few dollars in 1893, but it symbolizes the hopes and dreams of everyone touched by its presence. It symbolizes spirit.

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

Creativity

By MATT

It's not easy to find time to write. Whether its because of work, school, volunteering, or hanging out with friends, sometimes the hardest thing to do is to sit down and start typing, writing, dictating, making cuneiform tablets, etching in stone - or whatever method you use to express yourself.

Yet it's important to find the time. I don't do it enough and sometimes I think I'm poorer for it. Whenever I do sit down and start typing, I'm amazed at what happens. I never know what direction my fingers are going to take me. It's always a journey. Sometimes it's deeply personal, expressing some long repressed emotion or reaction to an event. Writing can be quite cathartic. It's helped me over more than one hump in life.

The are times what you write is pretty cut and dried. News stories, for example, can often only go in one direction. Sometimes though you find them going in unexpected tangents. You get the best stories that way.

Often what I write stinks. I go back erase the whole darn thing and start over. Most of the time it's the third or fourth attempt at a story that sets me down the path. But whether your story is good or not is not the point of the exercise. Discovery is.

Sometimes writing's funny. You sit back at the end of a story, laugh, and wonder just exactly what deep recess of your brain it came from.

No matter what type of writing I ultimately end up doing, all stories have one thing in common. I've learned something about myself. And that makes me richer.