STAND UP EGG

Eggbert was a very normal egg. Sure, he was smooth and white and shined a little bit in the morning sun, but mostly he was incredibly normal.

Eggbert’s one true wish was to be something special. He watched all the other folks going about their days, happy and content and he told himself that he should be happier too. But he wasn’t.

One day, out of a desperate need to do something, he decided to place a large red dot on the top of his shell. This, he knew, would mark him as someone special, someone important.

All day long Eggbert waited for someone to notice his special red dot. But, no one did.

Finally, tired and frustrated he went to see his mother Eggdwina and when she saw him she opened her arms to give him a big hug, but before Eggbert could reach his mother’s comforting shell, she flicked the red dot from his head and said, “Oh, Eggbert. You’ve got some schmutz.”

Eggbert endured the hug and quickly left for home. On his long unhappy walk he saw a flyer on a telephone poll, it read, “Open Mike Night at Ye Olde Muffin bar and stand up club, tomorrow night.”

Eggbert felt his insides churn, this was it. He was going to be a stand up comedian and everyone would see how special he was. Running at full speed, he stopped at the book store, bought a joke book and ran home.

Eggbert stayed up all night reading the jokes and all day memorizing them for the show.

When the time came to go to the club, Eggbert was bleary eyed, but excited. This was going to be the big day!

After the first two acts finished, Eggbert took the stage. In a small and almost whiny voice he recited the first joke from his book. “Why didn’t the skeleton cross the road?” he asked the audience.

He was met with utter quiet. No one in the audience responded. “Um, because he didn’t have the guts!” Eggbert said all at once. Again, no reaction from the audience.

Eggbert continued, unable to bare the silence, “You see, skeletons have no body, and so they literally have no guts and guts also means bravery, like being brave enough to cross the road…”

Someone in the back of the crowd let out a huge, “Boo!!! Get off the stage! You stink!”

Eggbert tried to continue, stammering, his hands shaking he began again, “What goes stomp, stomp, stomp, squish?” He looked out into the crowd for a friendly face.

“You do!” a woman shouted from the left side of the audience. Then the first spit wad sailed up on to the stage and splattered against Eggbert’s side.

His confidence failing, Eggbert slunk off stage to a nearby bar stool.

****

After his first drink he heard a warm and mellow voice at his side, “Hey there, Mate. Hang in there.”

“The name’s Toasters. I am the English Muffin who owns this comedy club.”

Eggbert looked over at the source of the voice, and sure enough, a distinguished looking English Muffin sat perched upon the bar stool to his left.

“Hello, Toasters,” Eggbert mentioned without any enthusiasm.

“Open microphone night not up to snuff for you, eh?” Toaster asked, his buttery shine glimmering with mischief.

“I was horrible,” Eggbert said, his tone indicating that his state of horribleness was what always was and what always will be.

“Chin up, Mate. All you did was get it wrong the first try, who doesn’t? You got to see it as one step in the overall process, not as failure.”

“You think I’m a failure?” Eggbert whined.

“Not unless you sit on the stool for the rest of your life whining about how you stink. See here. The trick with the comedy is to talk about stuff which is very much about you. Not just reading jokes out of a book. What works for me might now work for you.”

Dragging the words out of some deep place in his soul Eggbert asked, “What works for you?”

“What works for me, is being me! Think about it. What kind of jokes do you think I did when I was doing stand up?”

“Knock-knock jokes,” Eggbert asked cautiously.

“No, of course not! I’m an English muffin, so I come out on stage and tell them that it’s easy to be a comic, there’s muffin to it.”

Eggbert smiled a bit. “I get it, Muffin to it and you are a muffin.”

“That’s right.”

“And your name is Toasters!”

“Because I am a muffin and because I own a bar.”

Eggbert’s voice gained a note of excitement, “Two jokes!”

“Yes, but sadly being an English muffin does not provide as much material as I would have hoped.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be, I own the bar and am very happy, but you my friend, are an egg!”

Eggbert stared at Toasters without comprehension. “You mean I have to be a muffin to be funny?”

“No, you are an egg and when you find the humor in being an egg…”

“I’ll really be funny!”

“That’s right. Will you come back and try next week?”

“But I don’t know what I will say; I don’t know what the jokes will be.”

Toaster slid off the bar stool and began to walk away, “You’ll think of it. See you next week, kid.”

Eggbert felt the beginnings of excitement as he raced home to discover the jokes that came with being an egg.

****

And Eggbert thought about it until he thought he would explode. He thought about jokes which would be right for him in the morning when he showered. He thought about jokes during lunch. He thought about jokes when he drove around to get his shell polished and he thought about jokes all night long in his dreams.

Every time he thought he had the right kind of joke he would decide that it wasn’t exactly what he wanted.

****

Finally the day of the show arrived and Eggbert nervously got himself to the club, he wanted his jokes to be exactly the right kind. Even his mother Eggdwina was in the audience this time. He could not have possible been more nervous.

The act before him was a real ham and the audience looked angry. Carefully, with slow and deliberate movement Eggbert approached the microphone. The sharp whine of amplified feedback nearly caused him to run from the stage, but he held his ground.

Nervously he began, “Hello, folks. My name is Eggbert.”

The audience quieted with expectation and Eggbert was sure he remembered a few people from the week before. No one smiled.

“My name is Eggbert, and I am here to CRACK you up!” Eggbert yelled into the microphone. His last word echoed into the silence as the audience stared at him without expression.

Eggbert felt his heart drop to the floor and was about to continue when he heard someone in the audience yell out, “Oh, I get it. You are an egg and you are going to crack us up!”

Someone else in the audience laughed. “It’s a joke.”

Eggbert wasn’t sure if this was working, so he decided to charge on ahead.

“Anyway, I am so EGG-cited to be here tonight!”

Again, it was quiet for a moment and then a small group of folks in the audience laughed. “He’s an egg and he’s egg-cited!” one of them said through his chuckles.

“You guessed it,” Eggbert replied, “I guess the YOLK is on me!”

At this half of the audience began to laugh.

“Hmm,” Eggbert said, pretended to not know what to say, “What SHELL I say next?”

Now the other half of the audience began to laugh.

“Seriously,” Eggbert continued, getting exited, “I am SCRAMBLING for another joke!”

Now the audience was howling with laughter. They were falling out of their chairs and slapping each other on the back with delight.

Eggbert yelled to the audience’s delight. “Hey you guys are great, I wasn’t sure that I would like you, but you won me OVER EASY!”

The audience was in a frenzy now, chanting, “Eggbert! Eggbert! Eggbert!”

Toaster joined Eggbert on the stage and took the microphone, “Brilliant. How about a big hand for Eggbert everybody!” and the applause was deafening.

As Eggbert made his way off the stage, Toaster called to him, “You did it kid, you looked deep inside and you found your very own voice!”

Eggbert smiled and called over his shoulder, “EGG-zactly.”

The Big Wrinkle

Tim was small for his age. He was skinny with bumpy knees and sharp elbows. His eyes were like two big pools of milk with bright round plums in the middle. Tim liked to have fun. He loved to run around a lot and play games and pull on pigtails and trip smaller kids in the hall and splash water all over the place from the water fountain.

Tim had a smile on his face most of the day and half of the night. He would stay up late to read books about good guys and bad guys and dragons and pirates and hunters. Tim loved to imagine that he was a hero from one of the books he read late at night, deep under the bed covers.

If Tim had the idea to ask one of the other kids at school which character they though he was like they would have said the annoying side kick or the villain. This would have been true, but hurt Tim’s feelings - so it was best that he never asked. Tim was loud, Tim was fast and Tim made every day about Tim. Tim was the king of Mondays to Saturdays.

But Sunday was another story. On Sundays Tim spent time with “The Wrinkle!” Four whole hours every single Sunday was unfair, Tim knew this was true from the bottom of his toes to the top of his sandy blonde hair. He felt like he was being punished for something he never did. The Wrinkle was the worst! The wrinkle was all about the “creepy smell” and the “quiet”. If Tim could just watch cartoons or bring his video games or listen to the radio or throw a ball around the room or just not go at all things would be better. Being at school would have been better. But Sundays were Wrinkle days. Mom would drop him off at the Old People Home for the Aging to spend time with Uncle Oliver. Oliver the Wrinkle! Tim knew that Uncle Oliver not his real uncle, Uncle Oliver was some kind of great uncle or cousin or something.

If his mom had asked, Tim would have told her that he was sure that Uncle Oliver was part elephant. His ears were huge! They hung off the sides of his head like a pair of melted candles. And the hair that came out of them! The Wrinkle had no hair on his head, but there was enough hair spraying out of his elephant ears to cover a large rat!

Sunday was always about being bored and stinky and gross. Sunday felt like it lasted a whole week!

* * *

Tim watched the cartoon cat get pulled from a chair and out the window, screaming down the street. He was pretty sure real cats would not do that, but he would check next time he saw one.

Mom called him from the other room, “Timmy!”

Tim pretended not to hear her. He could probably watch another cartoon if he just ignored her for a few more minutes.

“Timmy, time to go. Uncle Oliver is waiting!”

No he isn’t, thought Timmy. Uncle Oliver doesn’t even know when I am there in the room with him. Uncle Oliver does not care if I come or not. The Big Wrinkle is just getting extra stinky so that he smells extra weird when I get there. Maybe his ears will block the door to his room so we can’t get in.

“Timmy!”

“I’m doing it!” Timmy called back, sliding off the sofa and clicking the TV off. He felt like all of his energy clicked off with the TV. Today was going to take forever.

…to be continued

-Brihack

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.

GOLLY

GOLLY

CHAPTER 1

Once upon a time – when we say once upon a time we are normally telling the reader that they are about to experience a fairy tale. That is misleading here because this is not a fairy tale, but the tale of a fairy. Um, it’s complicated by you’ll see. Where was I? Oh, yes. Once upon a time there was a little girl named Golly. Golly wasn’t exactly like other little girls her age. The difference between her and the others was always the source of her greatest happiness and her deepest disappointments.

In truth, her real name wasn’t Golly. Golly was just her nickname. In the place where she was born - and had lived up until yesterday - her full name was Galadreilea-bella-drucilla-bodilla-pickle-tumbler-bright-infinity- star, but both her mom and her dad had known that the kind of people she would meet in her new neighborhood would prefer calling her Golly.
Despite the vague fear all things new, Golly was excited to move into her new home. This was because of what she hoped to find in a new place and what she hoped to escape from the old. Despite being a happy and outgoing child, Golly had not fit in so well in her old neighborhood, but she had high hopes of fitting in better in her new one. That’s just how Golly was, always full of hope that things would turn out for the best. Golly managed to hope for the best, no matter what.

At least once a week Golly’s mother Goldie would say in her in a high melodious voice, “Galadreilea-bella-drucilla-bodilla-pickle-tumbler-bright-infinity- star you would honestly hope for a sun tan in a snow storm.” To which Golly would reply, “You never know!”

Golly’s father, Gordon who -at the best of times - only slightly distracted by his work would smile and pat Golly on the head saying, “That’s my girl.”

Golly made a big show of protesting when her father patted her on the head, “How rude!” She would mutter under her breath. But secretly Golly would imagine that she was a sleek black cat and enjoyed the pat on the head.

Wait a moment you might say at this point. Being the shrewd and thoughtful reader that you doubtlessly are, are Golly’s Mom and Dad really named Goldie and Gordon? Do they have longer real names too? Well done! Children are so smart these days. You are quite correct to be suspicious. In fact Goldie and Gordon are not their real names; however for the purpose of conserving paper and getting to sleep some time tonight, we will not spell them out here. Let’s just say that when Gordon proposed to Goldie using both their formal names it took three full days. Gordon squawked for over a week afterward his throat was so dry, but they were blissfully happy squawks for Goldie has agreed to marry him.

Soon after their marriage Gordon had thrown himself into his work, hoping to provide a good home for his new bride and before too long, his daughter. His job was a unique mix of sociologist, research scientist and explorer. His work often took him away from home and this pained Gordon in the extreme. He loved his family more than anything in the world, yet in order to provide for them he was constantly away. What was he to do?

It was Goldie who first suggested the wild idea. What if the family moved to where he worked? What if they came with him, then they would always be together. Gordon was stunned. It was audacious, preposterous, and ridiculous! It was dangerous, reckless and senseless. It was… perfect. They would move together.

That pretty much brings us up to now. The point where Golly, hopeful about her new neighborhood and anxious to begin her new life sits patiently on her family’s magic carpet as it speeds over the boundaries between worlds and circles lazily toward the track houses of South Urbaton. Oh, did I mention that Golly and her parents were pixies moving to a human community? Then I must not have told you that they were giant pixies! Goodness, how thoughtless of me. My sincere apologies. I shall fill in the gaps as we progress, but the carpet is coming in for a landing now and we need to move on to the next chapter.

-BRIHACK

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.

Why, Teela?

By Marcy

(I will warn our fearless Hack readers right now – this post is riddled with geekdom. Read at your own risk!)

When I was a kid, I was the only girl in my class who liked He-Man and Star Wars. At recess, I always got to be either Princess Leia or Teela, depending on what the boys wanted to play that day. All of the other girls hung out at the swing sets - not me. The jungle gym was the Millennium Falcon, or Castle Greyskull. And I was the token female. It was the good life.

Princess Leia was my absolute idol. She was feisty, fearless, and a cosmic beauty. I still want to be her every time I watch the Star Wars Trilogy. (There’s only one trilogy in my book. And there’s no such thing as Midichlorians, and Greedo most CERTAINLY did not shoot first. But I digress…) And Teela was the coolest too - she fought along side He-man and Man-At-Arms. She kicked butt with a staff, and a sword, and a blaster. She was the red-head captain of the guard in underoos and a tiara, who never backed down to Skeletor and his goons.

Or so I thought.

Fast-forward to this weekend, with birthday money well spent on the whole first season of He-Man on DVD. I’m re-living my childhood as I’m sketching out my own graphic novel from the comfort of my couch. And as the shows progress, it comes to my attention that Teela – the ass-kicking chick of my memory – is a complete fraud!!

Yes, she’s strong-willed. She trash talks Skeletor and Beast Man. She never obeys when Man-At-Arms or He-man tell her to stay put. But when there’s a fight – she does nothing!! My childhood self remembers her being more like Xena, or Leia – fierce with a weapon. In the frey of every battle. But having watched the first two discs (there are twelve total – 68 episodes!!) of this first season collection, I’m feeling like Teela has let me down. Every fight she’s been in so far, she’s been disarmed, and she spends the rest of the fight on the fringes with a worried look on her face, yelling “He-Man – look out!”

Granted, this is early ‘80’s animation. The backgrounds are looped, and lets get real for a second: He-Man wears fur underwear and rides a cat with a saddle. I am fully aware that the show is dated and doofy. But it holds up for me in entertainment value, if sentimentally. I still can’t help but feel, however, that Teela has let me down after all these years. Hopefully I will be proven wrong in the next few discs.

Maybe this letdown is because I started reading Tamora Pierce’s “Protector of the Small” books, in which the heroine is a ten-year-old girl who stands her own ground in training to be a knight. I can’t help think what Teela would do in Kel’s situation…stand on the sidelines and cry for He-man? Food for thought, as I continue to watch the DVD’s and read book two of the “Protector of the Small series.”

Which leads me to ask this question of our Hack fans (if any) – as female readers, what is it you look for in a heroine? And what heroines from your childhood still hold up for you today? Let me know in comments on this blog.

Over and out.
Marcy

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.

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.

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.

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

Honoring the voice, celebrating the sacred space

By Allison


Saturday morning and the sky is crying, sheets of icy rain are bursting out of the gray. I sit snug in front of the fire, contemplating Marcy’s post, missing Don and thinking about voice and expression, art and literature. Don, by the way, (the hack without a picture – my bad) is working in the rain to create the sacred space for us to honor the voice.

When he leaves, he says, “write.”

There is so much I must not do: Worry about what must be done, stress over piles of work sitting on my desk in the newsroom or censor the wild voice that informs the writing. Censor her and she’ll rear her ugly head and roar, leaving fragments of drivel on the page.

Where does she come from, that voice? She is the one who says things I would never say out loud. She frightens others – she frightens me sometimes with the things she says. That’s what I like about her.
She’s the mystical, magical unconscious and she’s like driving from one place to another and wondering how you got there. She’s like mining for gold.

I will spend much of the day immersed in the letters of Virginia Woolf. The Bloomsbury group – Leonard and Virginia Woolf, T.S. Eliot, Lytton Strachey, Virginia and Clive Bell – they honored the art and the voice. They communed in their sacred space and made their passion, their art, the focal point of their lives. Minds, bodies, souls. They said, “This expression matters.” They said, “This is what we are called to do.”

The studied and critiqued literature, wrote and reviewed and celebrated. Through the madness and the pennilessness, they persevered for the art – for the voice. Don and I envision our sacred space much the same – our hack group, though lighthearted, honors our expression by honoring the voice.

Dishonor her and she falls silent.

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.