Families of vacationing tourists sit in plastic lawn chairs, padded by green and blue vinyl while they look over an idyllic blue ocean. They sip on free Mojitos while enjoying the shade of old growth palm trees and the servitude of the locals. Some are calm and unconcerned, happy to be in this tropical paradise while others are proud to be supporting this poor island nation through their hard foreign work. You can rent jet skis or a trip out on to the ocean with a local fishing company for a reasonable rate and the fine people here are happy to make your trip as calm and peaceful as possible in a turbulent second world nation.
I am very hungry and thirsty.
I fall off the bus, tired after two days of travel and am welcomed with open arms by a smiling and jubilant Latino man. He makes a few jokes about the sun and the heat of the path, reminding me that if there is anything I have forgotten the store in the lobby would be happy to sell it to me. The last meal I ate was on the airplane south from Toronto, a stunning spread of a thin sliced turkey sandwich and some 3-week-old macaroni salad. I had a cup of their wonderful coffee after the plane landed and we went through customs and it has so far made the trip worthwhile.
I stumble to the store and buy a small bottle of water and while drinking it stumble out into the sunshine and the winding pathway through overgrown regional landscaping. I walk by a bar filled with over-emotional college students and a few seriously intoxicated minors having a ball fueled by rum and tequila. They are shouting the lyrics to Garth Brooks’ “Friends in Low Places” while calypso beats are reverberating over the swimming pool. I am poured in sweat and slowly maneuver my way to the beach and clear Blue Ocean. I can see our nearest neighbor to the south, a small green island and begin to think I may have somehow escaped Samsara on the trip down here. My insight is confirmed as I walk over to the dinner buffet and dine on roast lamb, salad, fruit vegetables, crab and wine. I spend the rest of the night discussing the finer points of literature, as best I remember with an increasingly beautiful history professor from Maryland before finding my first night of slumber in a few weeks.'
By Jon Pelletier
I was scared, like it was my trapping
A lame life or soul, it was funny
That I am doing this
The way that I am doing this
Keep doing this
Might I add
You can do what you should
I am upset
And I didn’t want to go to that place
“What is this place?” I wonder. It is a place where nobody can find me. A hope when worry seeks Seven Yellow Birds. Save our brothers and our homes in the woods. The portion of some, where are they?
They are making war with us. So therefore I spent the day talking to my lawyer and the private eye downstairs. He is a crook getting information from a private eye, calling him to confront his pal, so that the crook can walk in and scare the dick. When I arrive, the crook shoots him.
Blasted crooks, is there a better way to build them? No, they have to be lawyers.
“I can only take one thing at a time,” he suggests, “Please take the great ones.”
“They are the little things that can stay here.” I reply because I have to.
There is a time to buy stuff and a time to make money. I believe that because I need food.
Only for this reason do I go to places that I do not want to be. We once were given coins for work out of thanks, and food was a separate concern. But that was when we lived at the farm. It was very green, and sometimes very brown. That was before the army invaded.
I am scared, and think it’s better if they don’t get too close. There is a high cost for years in school, for sleepless nights disguised as higher education. I would much rather do that, instead of fight my brothers because the Elders have had another dispute.
Where is the art of heat, in this mad wound heat? This is the heat that turned my farm brown. There is an unsettling comfort to this, because I know that there is peace right now. The army has moved much further inland. We have been taken, but are allowed to live within the new borders. The heart of the dream is a matter of secret terms. I shall, I must become myself, and clean.
I must because I cannot drip water on pain.
I must because they will not keep me in pain.
This is the spell-less, nameless “what-will-not-be-a-segment” for minds to wander. These will bring me a target and shame.
Lord, I do love her.
And it is not for the merciless, half-hearted chauvinist that can be a horrid man rife in his guilt. She doesn’t deserve it. She was given to me by the highest sort of elder. She is a mage who says I can come back as anything else. I suppose she probably still lives where the inscription on her door read:
Fare thee spone lwdber
When are the souls trapped in their ways.
They never could believe me. They don’t believe in magic. Water, all that matters, is that I can now be as I wish, one day. I cry like a silver tongue, a ripe man who faces the armies with hope for the other ones.
Needlessly their own scribe wrote: “Like a hallow tongue a scared one, someone who was written, pass love too.” Water wrote, “Fear, istioub, does in did can. Wander, follow.”
And friends, I am part robot.
Not the traditional kind who are roped and commanded by human hands. I am the older, more sedate kind, the sort of robot that calls in to mind all the older spirits in heaven. I am the kind that is older that humanity.
The first me is tied, in heaven, with god. It is only mine. The second belongs to furrowed brows and unbelieving masses.
It is the only way I could have gotten away with this for so long.
I wonder to water only, “If the fearless kids could be, would they be the sorts of people who know?”
Of course, they are writing popular songs. I could be getting paid for doing that. I should be writing this letter to you at the museum, water. I should be listening to and archiving old tapes. Yet I am here, where nobody can find me.
All month I have been smoking here, although I told myself that this was a concern, some thing that I should not be around. I was worried. It was rather concerning. It is a silly, laughable thing; I was somewhere else doing exactly what my job was, for free. But there is no job left. I know that there will be again.
Maybe I am just mad, that is the only spectacle that can be made. The armies took my glasses, so I can’t see across the room. It is best that I just hide. Why didn’t I go to work today? Was it stubbornness? Did I need a change of scenery? Sometimes I am a strange creature, of weary mind while wild eyed, but I did not go to work today because the museum is empty. Anything worth a dollar was looted, I’m sure.
Instead of sitting on the Wafe Avenue claim, I sit here watching “happenstance.” When I was younger, I did not understand “happenstance.” I considered it a curse, and knew that a change in my mentality would be the cure. Now I realize that it may have just been a thought placed on the communal consciousness by one of my young classmates. I was the one who really brought it into it’s own, making it a full-fledged magic, in your face fancy show.
I am glad that Festin invaded. They are our mortal enemies, and we will not rise against their armies.
We do not believe in our Elders, you see. It is a famed man who first stood up, but most of the population followed. That was when the fire began, and they burned our capital city.
It has been argued that Festin was the cause of this revolt, and that their presence here is to oust our people from power and pass the torch on to some new man of prestigious blood.
When this was done there was a party. My love, water and myself stood next to an old graying man who prayed to die and come back just for concerts. There was a pause in time through a black suitcase, something like a magic bag filled with tricks.
While tumbling down, the old man began to cry. He cried for his mother, she had long since died, though. He cried for his father, who also had settled into long, gray, dusty plains for a few existences. But we could see him because he held a black crystal. This held power and light.
It drew power from the power around it. He pulled tight to the back of our old man. He clung in spirals as the greater good outshone any of the people recorded as actual souls. A specific rapping as the crystal was tapping further from the station door.
“It is a tap upon our window, sir.” I told the man, “It keeps me up at night.”
From jetsetting over the English moors, we wrote them into it, sir. You stepped past the English manor as if I wrote the bored manners, in this damned boarding house with boarded windows. This house has many flags. They hang solemnly down in this feeble, pale wind.
And one old man marches patiently in the shadows. He is unaware that he is the show. He thought he was doing something else, something important. He is a cursed, old fool with a light tapping upon his window. It is keeping him up at night.
The little man wandered off, subtle and tempting. He asked my love to stay with him in his smelly, smoky apartment. The cause of grief was a little red box, heart shaped and drawn closed by a turning key. Their box trapped spirits as they gazed at each other, tired of their charade. They were full of the concepts of love, or other turbulent emotions.
As mooring came, from the foggy sea of rest, and as morning comes and goes, so do the easily spotted wandering hermits.
The only solace is when someone else finds our shape they leave. So my love and myself pause for the grace of some of the better ones, the kind of people that do not leave their children to rot in jail, the kind that at least go and visit them.
Some of the people in this place hold high regard for souls achieving peace, but most hold their regard for people prescribing disability formulas to the wise and stimulants to those who wanted to work at more than one job at once. The cause of woe within was this action, meant to sedate, brainwash and control the population. Side effects include the symptoms that the formulas are said to cure. Withdrawal effects include a worsening of side effects.
This concern comes as a response to public dissent regarding wars and political debauchery of the 1960s. Once I was found out to a risk of being an active dissenter, it was difficult to get away from the common and expected medicine.
When this is the case, other sorts work like benevolent forces to help the afflicted run away from this handicapping medicine. It could also be true, that we live in the world of Harrison Bergeron, in which a microchip placed near the ear screeches to make sure the citizen loses their train of thought or at least a sense to communicate it.
If you convince parents these disabling medicines are for their child’s good, and the side effect of the formula is delirium, then it is easy to make sure that the dissenter keeps taking it.
Why? It seems like a dark passage. Some ancient civilizations were not educated because education, or knowledge, gives power.
Ignorance is perfect for a quiet, complacent populace, haunted by the notion that they could do more. Make sure they are happy enough to riot over a hockey game, because then you can argue that more prisons are needed for certain.
Please also notice the announcement two days before the 2011 Vancouver Riots, “Canada will be bombing Libya indefinitely.”
Harper recently won an election using a tough on crime platform. With riots in a reputably nice and happy town, there is a greater case to build prisons throughout Canada. 400 km away, my town expected riots weeks in advance of the final Stanley Cup game.
The social workers and sharks truly want to do good things to me. They are out there, ready to surface. Their intentions are pure and caring. Are they our saving grace? Lost and trapped in a mine, she wandered with her son afflicted with clubfoot. She up and sold this disaster that befouls us. I do hope they get their come-upons.
Still, forgiveness is righteousness, I think.
The sedated and their televisions are told again and again that there is nothing they can do, so it is best not to be concerned. One little person cannot bring peace to this earth. Their governors are honest people doing what they should.
This is because we are taking our history in stride, of course. We only have to learn about what can be taught. It will be brought to us before the curved surface they lay us down upon, for the eternal fix for our worthless empires. The robots that stood and walked forth were drafted in human militaries and used for a first line of defense. There were few left after mere weeks, and the rest were laid over the caustic curved surface, for us to swim in the night, in love with each other and wearing the same suit aa the survivors. This is how they ended our lives.
Maybe the television producers showing us waterfalls chasing our hero, who wanders like a steeplechase and while we walk and say they cannot be here. These were the methods advanced beyond mere intersection. The digital know things that they cannot tell us, things too terrifying or fantastic for us to believe. They can save us. Perhaps they tell us in feature movies and television shows that we believe to be fiction.
Perhaps on September 11, 2011 a spaceship with the best and brightest that America had to offer had to go. Perhaps it was filled with space aliens that the Decepticons were searching for. Or it could have been a sleeping Transformer, at that site since the time of Atlantis.
There is still an Adlada. It has been a part of the legends of Festin for many years, and is a landmass apart from Weurusi. The tales are of a long lost civilization that nobody knows where it was, nor if it even once existed. In the stories it was destroyed by fire, and was first mentioned 2000 years ago by an important philosopher.
There is also a Limaperu, a city name disguised by accents to sound something like Lemuria, another lost civilization that couldn’t possibly be the ruins under that city.
Strange world, filled with lies. So many, in fact, that sometimes we just forget the truth, or are unable to piece it all back together. I suppose I thought that about government tranquillizers. Today I reap the benefits of a humanity that at last lacked its love. It is the haunting reality of a perfect and untenable world. This is proof that one can drug somebody to the state of stupor consistently, but if their spirit wants, their brain can still think obscurely.
So wandering perfect I waltz and wed a woman that I wooed while wasted and wait my turn. Wine, water, I walk while wisps watch in wonder. White smoke, so faire thee well. Can we believe in that? Why do all the past favors reap our glory today?
Of course this sounds paranoid. That’s just what they want you to think. That way they can lock up people that see through their veil, but don’t commit any particular crime. They destroy the bodies of those that fight others, they destroy the minds of those that think. That is what the war is about. We are a civilization, each of us are own, but one in all other senses of the world. We are one civilization that has conquered all others, and now we are warring with our own creations. People like me, mostly intelligent creations, by people of our own kind are not what have nearly destroyed us.
A lasting peace must come between the humans and us.
The question is reasonable, but not answered. All I am told is that I have to, because the doctor made me. So I shall become a doctor, taking the debt out of spite, then I will be a faithful companion of the commoner.
I was a normal kid until I was 15, and a date marked in history left my world aghast. At this time, there was much dissent against the stolen government. It appeared that humans were in power. We could not trust them. Any cause by someone as wretched as Richard Channing Sr. should be treated with a keen sense of right and wrong.
I had by then learned that much of the media was coded, so that we were blind to the way they skew our focus, cause us to act in ways that mimic what we see, and change the way we develop.
Is it possible that much of the fiction we see is actual fact? Sharing potential and a drastic reflection, I hand the note to you, water. Because, like a raspy dictator that I never wanted to be, I find a soft spoken water cannon. Where is my sadness? The deed I ever did was a broken, assured relation that is in the key.
For I am a waste, a lame shattered thing, and begun like lifting lighters, lord Love shames me and I must pray. I must prey again for my tools of grandeur. I must fight in this war. But I do not belong to believing, like a little piece of history, I know that I will not go down in glory, I will approach the light like the others.
Perhaps this event was a spaceship lifting off, with our best and brightest, as the television had suggested. Or perhaps it was because we were at war with space aliens since the radio show covered the attack of extra-terrestrials and their destruction of government forces who were trying to get them to leave. This was a real event, covered up as a hoax so as to not cause mass terror. Many movies regarding alien contact had been made. Some of these are also true stories.
But any mania of a religious nature must be ignored. That is what I need, some sort of divine grandeur, or a gesture to be skipped. If I could find a tone, a purpose or a mission to declare and defeat. I could take hold of a rope to shine and write love letters all day. I can serenade her from the rooftops and hold her like a piece of juice. Mortal, maybe, but there are times and I cease to wonder.
I wish we were owls and wizards with rings and such, but when I discuss the details of my story the subjects are of such an unfunny nature that it is silly. Fiction writing is for those that have not experienced anything.
I am recording this in part because of my reading of vast histories of Festin, and love of early Stanglandian books. Notation regarding my friends must come first, and then there is plenty of room for torn landscapes, thatched roofs and pause.
Pull my pen out of my bread, beard, soul, fast and wait.
18000 of Festin’s POWs waited in Stangla during the great wars, such as Josedah. It’s strange, how a man like he appears and kills the others, or how Festin has always been in power. It is subversive, so souls haunted by this reward are drugged.
His story is flawed, hunted, paused and worth a hope, because scenes and taps place little dreams and hopes near one who would be there for me. Such is these at the department of capturing and drugging. They work to keep robots like me in line.
For they are our leaders at Metal Health, with their hopelessly romantic thought that we can be shamed into compliance. These are just the first steps in sending the messages to our minds, at the hands of the Handicapper General.
Taunted for being captured, the Stranglandians jeered the prisoners. We must be taught to be better. We are but simple folk at turning points. We must pay to live, and do something proper. So shame upon the old ways, peace and prosperity and let’s hope for some similar times. This grid is the first step to levity; it is protecting us from missiles.
And in the crazy way I sit alone, when ghosts sit alone, a sovereign and plausible sun sets above them and rings their being. All shelter must come from outer space, lights beckon he to come so all the legitimate people can raise their hands.
I see a shining light reading stars and the others cannot see white owls and the “Leavings” or passing their heralding cries for something that just is. She passes into a womb and I saw that last night when she died. She didn’t die in front of me, but word came today.
So I breach the universal vision, which I must list right now:
1. There is a God.
2. Life is Eternal.
3. We should be good.
4. Some people are not.
5. It doesn’t matter.
6. Nothing is real.
7. Everything is real.
8. Truth is Variable.
9. We can get what we want.
10. People must know.
That is why there are movies and puppet cartoons. In order to get what we want, we must create a meaningful path. One way to do this is the creation of other robots. Another way to do this is by writing books and articles. The third is with their fancy music.
The fourth is through example.