On meeting Miller

I was on my way to get some chap stick and orange juice when I came upon a man who had been severely burned, asking for donations off the walkway. He wore a face of contorted misshapenness. His hands congealed flesh without fingers; more like hooves. I stopped to talk with the man to understand what his story was.

He had a cardboard display that showed he was trying to get to a conference in Vancouver, British Columbia by October 3rd. He said he tries to go every year to these conferences where he can meet other burn victims and talk with doctors and counselors. He showed me some pictures of the friends he made from his last trip to California. When I asked him what had happened to him he said his cousin was taking out the gas in his house and there was an explosion. His cousin died in the accident. He said he now has screws in his spine and knee's and when I couldn't grapple with how mere burns could cause one to need screws in their bones he gave me a look that said it all. I felt completely insensitive to his position, I quickly withdrew this line of inquiry. He was going to get emotional over the recollection had I pushed here. I meandered into a segue, 'you don't have to go into it'.

'So these are some of your friends you met during a convention?'

I knew I only had a ten dollar bill on me, but while I was feeling what I've heard referred to as a sense of empathy or 'good will toward man' for his circumstance, I wasn't feeling that philanthropic. A contribution of five dollars compared to ten wasn't going to make or break his trip out to B.C. Wanting to help, I told him I would come back.

Looking through the chap stick selections in the grocery aisle I couldn't help but notice the air of meaningless vanity lingering in my decision between the 'medicated' or 'cherry' daily; flashes of the face I had just witnessed still fresh. Yet, my mind couldn't pass up the dark humor underlying the situation. He's been like this for close to twenty years. The incident happened in 1987. Because I feel the first tinge of bitter cold approaching, I hurry to protect my lips.

I talked with him some more when I came back. It was an attempt on my part to familiarize myself to a random stranger on the streets, something I initially do not do for obvious health hazard reason's, but this one was different; he wore his evidence on his very skin. I almost felt drawn to him, that it would be wrong if I didn't talk with him, like walking by someone you know without acknowledging their presence. There came a time in the conversation where I even felt ease to share a smile with him. For the majority of the exchange I was projecting some ludicrous feeling of being sorry, but what I started to realize was that this man did not want that from me; it would be pointless. I noticed he was smiling and I was grimacing. I began to relax and look at him as a person who could really use someone looking at him as such and not as some monstrosity.

I was going to the grocery to get some chap stick.

I had the opportunity to meet Brom but chose not to.

I arrived at Robin's Bookstore early. Brom was to read from his latest illustrated novel called, 'The Devil's Rose'. Before the talk I flipped through some great McKean/Gaiman collaborations and some Roald Dahl collections I want to read sooner than later. I noticed that not many people were in the building. I overheard some lady say, 'it's quite in here', after I had thought the same thing ten minutes prior. I began feeling sorry for Brom at this point. He's a well established sci-fi illustrator creating a career out of painting skin tight latex vixens with blood soaked swords and dark winged beasts in ashen landscapes, but on this day he was nobody in particular. Nobody showed up to hear him talk about his new book which he spent long hours making.
The talk was supposed to start at six, upstairs. I flipped through a book on minotaurs while several people approached him for signatures in their new purchased book; one a fan, another an employee, and another who said ,'you're like my favorite artist of all time!' Brom responded with pause then, 'Wow!' I almost felt embarrassed for him. I thought of what I would ask him, I thought about asking him about his early career: how he got started in illustrative work, how things got rolling for him, but then I quickly began to think that anything he were to tell me about that would be relative to his experience. That I really didn't need or care to know that anyway. He probably did what had to be done at the time for him. I walked out of there at six thirty two and not a person was sitting down in the provided chairs to hear him read from his book. Only three people came up to him to get signatures. He told the same joke about getting 'in line' to all three fans. I over heard him saying to one of the fans in response to the turn out that, 'you never know what to expect. Sometimes it's a hundred people and sometimes you only get four or five.'
I left not talking with Brom because I didn't want him to tell me what I already told myself; that you have to 'get the work out there' any way you can, everywhere you can. People will take notice if it's good. Also, that twenty years down the road I could be in this same scenario as Brom, with noone to read my work to, and I laughed because it didn't bother me. I don't think it bothered Brom either really.

My Mind is Mine

Get gone you inhuman inquisitors
Before I incarcerate you
With my incinerating insight
And put you in your place,
The crematorium for creepy sheep.

It takes more for some

His fingers reeked of garlic from chopping and stuffing it into chicken carcasses for people to eat. He's used to it though, he's been working in Michel's kitchen for the past six year's. He'd used to like prepping veggies and marinades for Michel, padding fish and poultry with egg and flour; he used to like the handling of it all. Mostly he just enjoys riding his hog all night now with the air punching him in the face like needles and fists.

Record holder in pole volt until two weeks ago, Jim Holtzer was determined to gain back the title this last year of his high school career. He knew he could do it if he could just get a strong run and snug placement of the pole into the ground stop. He focused on getting the maximum amount of leverage and bend from the pole then began running down the stretch. Intention on high, focus steaming from his pores, tightness compounding in his body till he reaches the stop and slips in the pole, air>up>lite>flex back>farther>release up and bend more>over. Jim realizes he's successfully leaped over the bar after looking up, breaking the record placing him back in the books as the most able.
In college on scholarship Jim took up high diving starting it as a curiosity, originally enjoying the spring from the lower boards. He'd like to see how high he could jump up and then angularly twist his body back down into the deep crystalline water. After a little while Jim wanted to try the higher boards and asked the diving coach if he could use them when his team was through that night, the coach obliged and watched him dive into the pool with amazing accuracy and form, hardly causing a splash in the water. The coach invited him to join the team that night for practice the next day and surpassed the best, most accomplished diver they had. Jim took first position on the team the following week and lead them to first place that year in nationals. Jim dives out of planes now as a spotter for first time thrill seeking jumper's and sometimes performs elaborate air shows with twenty other sky divers using colorful exploding smoke bars and strings they swirl and spiral and draw in the air with while descending. They call themselves the 'Drop Outs'.

I can't believe it's not fake.

Heather Harlowe prostitute singer night cabaret harlequin dancer for loose tie soft men with extra cash. Loves canoeing and hot hot tabasco, on everything, especially her chillies. Never did a man enter her show and leave without pathetically imagining being her submissive slave. She always danced as a dominatrix. Unfortunately those men did nothing for her but she'd take their money anyway. She knew the type of man she wanted she wouldn't find in strip club but she wasn't willing to give up the inflow of expendable cash. She knew she was working for the day when she didn't have to work in a strip club and could met the type of man she wanted, maybe a stunt double for movies or a guy who jumped out of planes. She had a dropping out of the sky while having sex fantasy she wanted to try.


Misha Margeaux crooked teeth, red hair, Christian scientist. Wore robes to the grocery store, spoke with a high shrilly voice, and sometimes drove with her eyes closed trusting Jesus would tell her when to stop or turn. Luckily he didn't one day and her car, pedal to metal, rammed right into a brick wall.


U.S. Attorney Patrick Meehan filed a civil action to prevent John Dunkle from posting threats against reproductive health clinc physicians on his Internet web page. Meehan said Dunkle specifically advised his readers to kill a woman clinic physician by shooting her in the head. He also advised how to do it and how to escape, Meehan said.

Norris Galle, theater actor, frantic for part of Rosencrantz in Hamlet loses his voice the morning of audition. With such tragic irony overwhelming him he decides if he can't get the part he was destined to play then the play would not go on. He decides to set fire to the performance hall. He was never caught and fortunately the theater was not entirely burned down, but it did delay the audition two days. Enough time for Norris to recover from his sore throat and successfully gain the part of Rosencrantz.



The third paragraph was cut out of a newspaper. Fact.