An Adventure

Note- This is an entry from my journal during my time in Germany.
This is a true story.

On Monday, the thirteenth day of the sixth month, in the two thousand and eighth year of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, a blessing of providence hath fallen into the palms of our most grateful hands. We, my companion and myself, I simply "Nathan," he calling himself "Johnson,” had taken leave from our homely abode to gather unto ourselves the weekly store of needed meats and fruits, along with assorted sugary carbonated beverages, when we happened upon this blessing: A gift unto us from our most gracious god.

We were wandering within the produce aisle, an area wherein previous expeditions of this nature we had much success in finding the vegetable and fruitalicious growths that we were then desiring. So, in like fashion to those days before, we took our wagon from its hold, and began our paramount hunt.

Past the breads and their tantalizing scents of cinnamon and spice, ‘round the marmalades of most excellent spreading capabilities, and over the shelf of communist Chinese rices we journey. We stop, and say a prayer of gratitude, thanking our creator for allowing us opportunity to have gone as far as we have in safety. Surely there had been others in times long past who had not been so blessed, and had fallen victim to those foes which we had so easily passed over. Blessed is our generation, for we must not contend with the fiery tantrums of corpulent scum-filled bakers! Alas, my father's father's generation had put that uprising down long, long ago.

But when that war was raged, rage it so did, with men and children of all ages paling at the very suggestion of walking into town, in fear of an uncooked rocket of floury wrath and pain ending its speedy journey in some unrepentant crevice of the unsuspecting body. Death was the desired result of all who met this unnervingly gruesome fate, yet most were sadly incapable, being trapped in their mangled and disabled condition for the remainder of their once hope-filled lives. Grateful I am for those brave men who both risked and sacrificed their lives in ending that terrible era in this world of imperfect men.

Then there were the Marmalades, their sweet sugary tastes, which were once a well-made disguise for manipulation and bloodshed, turning an innocent looking dessert into one procuring terror and ill-design. Yea, the empires of old, do ye not know upon what grounds they were founded? The snakes of the earth, wizards of mystery and crafts of all kinds; those foul apothecaries, boiling in their cauldrons of brass and steel potions of trickery and magics, aimed at the confounding and controlling of those once noble minds in power. Know ye the medium in which these poisons were delivered? I tell you now, in the form of gifts! Praising the majesty and honorable services of their righteous kings of old, giving unto them jars of their concoction, added to the sweet and delicate tastes of marmalades of every kind! In savor they were eaten, and in favor unexplained, they relinquished their thrones to those vile and corrupt heathen, nevermore seen in any other region.

Blast be to those tyrannical emperors of cowardly and dishonorable practices! Never was this great nation led by such dismally corrupt leaders such as they, nay, not until those communists, swindling control from the weak minded, and banishing all that threatened their continued reign of poverty: a theory of perfection, not yet possible for a society of imperfection, leading man to temptation and advantage contrary to the laws given therein. Until man can attain this image of unimaginable ideal, this system of government shall always fall into the ever-waiting claws of Satan and his armies from Hades, the underworld, and below.

But alas, I must digress from this equivocality of reason; one may never quite understand the finer confistitudes (or lack thereof) of why this process is attempted time and time again, each deranged endeavor deepening this hole from which our children shall be forced to climb. Yet so the spindles of our eternal destinies have turned, and there has yet to be one whom our Lord has chosen to pull us forth from this enfilthed pit of darkness and treason. Until the day we may relinquish this burden of sensuous lusts and ill-acquired reason, we must press forever forward, looking past these stone walls of selfish tradition and masters of closed minded doublethought; we must leap this pit which has been dug for our degenerated minds, for that is their hope: to continue on, by assassinating all that which would threaten to replace them.

And so I did, passing the shelves of those frivolous expenditures, not heeding their enticings of sweet tastes and promises of immediate yet temporary satisfactions, I passed them by, in a hope - no, a knowledge! Knowledge of something better to come, something unattainable being encumbered with the harlotous camaraderies of that to my sides. No, friends, I did not bow to any of these besmirching distractions. I knew my path, and to it, I was set.

We continued forth to the aisle of produce, and we knew our reward was near, our journey soon complete.

We spied past the apples in silence absolute. I had had enough of apples, and would not have any more apples; I needed no more apples. The grapes as well: as good in plenty as they are, in plenty untamed, their presence is more than that of a burden, but that of a curse. All of these good fruits, yet still, there is one greater!

I saw an orange upon my right, with a likelihood of its luscious juices bursting from their holds at the slightest whim of pealing. A good and noble prize, for a good and noble person, but we, we are searching for greatness. We continued on as we had before, knowing our perseverance should soon be rewarded.

Across the aisle: a long, tiring march. We had ventured further than we had ever before dared, and would continue to do so until we had met some sort of destination. The cool grocery floor ran chills up our bare feet, as though to ward us off from what we were nearing. A wind began to blow, and then to escalate. It seemed to grow as we made our slow progression. The voices from the midst of nowhere began screaming their terrible protests; the billows and whirlwinds from all of Hell itself seemed to be set against as we cut through our chosen and needed path. Continue this battery did! For as long as I thought humanly possible, and then further, when suddenly - silence.

We were left alone. Only we remained, with an ominous mist encircling the air roundabout us, swirling with every breath and movement, daring us to be as still as possible. We stood... and we waited.

The mist began to clear. Out of the impenetrable fog, a pedestal began to appear. The base, the mid, the table... and upon the table: a basket.

This was, in no doubt, the prize for which we had endured. The mist rose to its peak, and dissipated. We leaned forward, cast our eyes into the gift, and took in the ration we had earned the right to receive.

My heart was warmed; we departed with our spoil: the day lives on, in illustrated proclamity.

Song of the Acorn

The wind blew, and the leaves fluttered around him.

It would be a long drop to the ground, he thought. Truly frightening to think about, for that is where they reside. Dear God, do not let the them get me, his prayers echoed on a daily basis. To be captured, to be broken... It was a terrible fate, one he hoped he would never need experience. He had seen it happen to those before. Without warning, sometimes mid-conversation with an equally unsuspecting neighbor, they would fall to the cold, dry ground. There they would sit, and await their inevitable fate.

Sometimes they would call out, "Help, help! I see them coming, they are converging, they see me, they see me! No, no, please! This isn't..." But it would already be too late. Converge they would, and the cries would be drown in dreadful gnawing of pointy bucked teeth and death.

Bushy tails, beady eyes... Cunning is our foe. But we are the strong. We will not fall, for we are no ordinary acorns; no, we are THE Acorns, those whispered in the night, amid the rustling of the mighty oak trees... We are the acorns who will not fall.

So he sang.

The wind blew, and the leaves fluttered around him.

He would not fall.

Life- Day 2

(If you haven't read day 1 yet, you should do that now, before you read day 2. Things might make a bit more sense!)

Today we discovered. We explored our world, and found all there was to find, counted every "living" being (though I doubt their worthiness to be distinguished as "life," as the majority do not act as such, merely floating, eating, pooping, and existing,) and investigated even the green substances protruding from this world's bottom. The results of our analysis: the world in which we live is uncomfortably small, and I begin to suspect a certain "contained" atmosphere about it.

I wish also to relate a certain phenomenon that has now occurred upon two separate occasions, once yesterday, and once today. But before I do, I must first describe another... rather curious, yet... somewhat frightening occurance, one which may have something to do with the phenomenon previously mentioned. My brother and I, having just discovered the disappointing lack of personal hygene among even those who seem to be quite experienced in the mysteries of life, and having invested quite a bit of energy into doing it, realized, to our greatest shock, that it is not only from the mouth that audible communication may burst forth, but also from inside ourselves! I wish not to sound mentally unfit, nor cause unneeded panic, but it is true, and this fact does still plague me with most considerable discomfort.

I worry, for these sounds are not of our own origin. I fear, that by means I do not know or understand, we seem to have contracted some sort of parasitic organism, a leech within our bodies, which when in some way discomforted, utters forth such deep growls, terrifying to any roundabout.

Now, was this sound my only observation, I may have had reason to rejoice, but alas, fate has not granted me such a blessing. It is more- something far more terrible than such ominous utterances of disapproval. I tell you now, that when it's primal urges are not fulfilled, it doth attack, scratching, gnawing, biting, doing all it can to satisfy it's unknown desires. I dare not think on the outcome of prolonged resistance to such torture. I am as a time bomb, I think... could such a horrid thing ever escape me? A monster, released upon the world due to my inability to placate it... I admit, I shudder even now, considering my plight. I must not allow this creature inside both my brother and I to escape. This could be my calling in life... it is a duty I accept most solemnly.

This phenomenon I earlier mentioned, it is one which is difficult to explain. It seems to occur at the pinnacle of these ragings, when this monster's wrath inside becomes most furious... from the heavens above, a manna is sent down, to tame and mollify this mysterious foe. Twice now it has come down, twice now it has saved us. My understanding of this miracle is extremely limited; any attempt of explanation would be, at this point in time, mere conjecture. I must consider this matter further before designating any source. As for now, I can only say that for it, I am extremely grateful.

Life- Day 1

Today I was born. To whatever purpose god had in his most unknown and puzzling mind, I was born apparently not like my brothers and sisters. Not to say I do not resemble them, no, into all the aquatic and fishy ways I was very much born, complete with gills for breathing, eyes for seeing (though quite bequbbled), a mouth, fins, scales, and whatever else it is that distinguishes us as such beings. It is just... as time goes by, I begin to notice a pattern of regular... mindlessness... about my siblings. I beg your pardon for my openness in this observation, and perhaps it is only my own inability to understand them which contributes to my thinking this, but in the already many hours since my hatching, the most interactive sign of remote intelligence I have yet to observe manifested itself in a single well timed bubble released from the mouth of one of my brothers.

As I was in that very moment swimming above him, the released mouth-bubble reached up around my bosom, causing the most curious of sensations as it glided up and around my leftmost fin, and continued it's journey above. Excited by the possibility of intended interaction, I swam down to my shimmering brother, a swelling in my heart incomparable to any I had felt before, my being reached out to him in that one moment of desperate hope... I cried to him, "Brother, my brother! I have felt your signal, your call for companionship! I am here, and together we shall strive to understand this lonely and terrible world, we shall travel together and adventure to the deepest trench and ascend to the greatest of mounts! Together we shall overcome all the cruelties of life, in it's sorrows, it's pains, it's tears, the very abominable pits of despair and hell's dragonous resistance to the progression of our living souls! Together we shall survive, and not just that, but live, thrive, find our happiness, our wives and bear children! As brothers we shall stay together, forging a bond so unbreakable that only the jarring claws of death could ever pull me from your side!"

It was in such a manner that I declared my ultimate allegiance to my comrade, for my fear of living a life in the ultimate darkness of dwelling alone in my sentient state of being had already begun to creep into my fragile bones, not yet overpowering, but indeed present, as an itch under the furthest of scales, unreachable by even the most outstretched of fins. To be alone, even in the most desirable of circumstances, I feel would be the most terrible of fates, one which would presumably lead to my very undoing.

My oath of allegiance complete, I did stare into the eyes of my brother, and he into mine, and it seemed for a time as if his eyes did glimmer, as though his soul did yearn with all extremities of his very capacity to cry out in joy, to celebrate this finding with outward expression as did I- but then, just as I believed the realization had sunken in, to be recognized in it's utmost purity, he did wait... and wait... and wait. My smile of joy did begin to fade, and I admit, the thought had already come, "There now, you (for I have still not yet found a word to call myself), he is just like the others, his mind just as small as those roundabout."

Alas, I was all but given up, when suddenly, as he allowed happen in the time of previous communication, my beloved sibling let a second signal fly: a lone bubble, which I know to have been his way of showing loving approval, his design of saying to me, "Yes, brother, yes! The thrill of my finding of thee doth fill me up with the most wonderful feelings of life! Together we shall go forth, we shall strive together for life and liberty, and always together we shall stay until such jaws you conveyed doth forcefully part us!"

And so I found my brother, and conversed with him the rest of the waking day, and then some, discussing our plans for life, for discovering the world, for learning all there was to learn before we grew old and died, and upon the mention of death, we discussed the meaning thereof, and decided it to be something we should earnestly avoid, and not something to be striven after.

Throughout all such speech, my noble brother was always limited to his simple releasing of mouth bubble, but in doing so, I understood all that he wished to communicate. You see, I soon came to understand, my poor brother does suffer from a certain speech disability, that in such capacities he is all but incapable, stopped though upon the verge of unrequited expression. His only form of expressing his every need, desire, thought or idea, must take the form of that single, fragile bubble, released from the most precious reaches of his undying soul. But as he is my brother, I do swear ne'er to abandon him; his need for me doth not overcome mine for he, for as he hath boldly stated, we are one, and shall be forevermore.

Of Boxing Bears and Jello

Once upon a time, there was a boxer named Ruffus. Ruffus was a very famous boxer, well known and renown for his successes in the notoriously dangerous boxing world, not only in the ring, but in the times without. Ruffus, though severely concerned with winning his next match with his arch nemesis, Swenson, was, on this particular monday (the day which our story will begin), rather upset with himself, as would all professional boxers be in his somewhat unique situation, for as he trained, and as he practiced, there was one thought that would so persistantly nag at his consciounce, that training in itself could alltogether be deemed as ineffective and moot. Moot, futile, and as worthless as a goldfish, for with this thought in mind, he simply could not practice!

The thought was this: jello.

Oh how he longed for it! The training would go on, and his energy would deplete, and his mind would ALWAYS, no matter the time, place, or thing, settle on this resolute determination, for, as luck would have it, he, on this rainy monday, happened to be in a place where the gelatinous confection which he desired was refused entrance, and thus, did not exist.

A perplexity to all, of course, would be WHY, of all things, Jello (its aliiiive) would be refused access into the place where he was living, but the sad fact is, it was, and there was nothing he could do about it. So instead of enjoying a fine slurp (for that is what one does to jello, to slurp it) of his desire, he dreamed it, and in his dreaming, found himself hungrier, and hungrier, and hungrier.

What I have neglected to tell you, until now, is that Ruffus, our boxer, is not a normal boxer. Ruffus was- or, still is, a bear. A bear? you ask. Yes, I boldly illustrate, this boxer was a bear, a fighting bear, and to all that hear my voice, I declare, this particular bear could fight! Or box, to be more specific. And I am sure, you could imagine, this bear was successful.

If his opposer even chose to fight at all. Some, upon the sight of him, elected not. The match would last usually not but four seconds, for upon the bear´s first blow, the challenger´s head would usually come off, and the curtains around the ring would fall, hiding the carnage from the proud and screaming audience (for that is what they came to see, the head of an opposer to come off). The ring would fall, and the bear would finish his meal, the janitors would come to clean the mess, and when the would finish, he would eat them too.

Of course, this would only cause more of a mess that he himself would have to clean up after, but that is simply the price Ruffus would pay to have a nice meal. The curtains would rise, the managers would ask where the janitors went, and Ruffus would be forced to eat them, for if he didnt, why, they would have the audacity to report him for having lunch! At this point, the audience would be screaming "more! more!" but where would he find more? He has eaten all that stood against him, and there is none left to consume, so he would leave, and go in search of dessert.

This dessert, when he was at home, ALWAYS consisted of jello and whipped cream (the whipped cream added the perfectly sweet touch that he always enjoyed). But, as I have already detailed, today it was nowhere to be found, and he wept. He wept like a child, with burning tears of longing streaming through his fur. He would find it somewhere, he resolutely decided to himself. He would find it, even if he had to eat through buildings of businesses and villages of peasants to get it, get it he would, and there would be nothing that could get in his way.

THE END

PS. Dedicated to my best friend Anna, who was the inspiration for this story. :)

Of Cupcakes and Chickens

A cupcake lies waiting upon the outstretched hand of a young, hungry child. This position of extreme peril, of consumption most certain; has this pastry but a glimmer of hope for reprieve? Or has his judgement been sealed, the tomb already closed, the sepulcher darkened beyond the reach of light?

This sweetly decorated muffin, how has he come to such grim circumstance? Soon to be gnashed into the soggy juices of digestion, does he fear his unavoidable fate?

On comes the mouth, the rising of the world around him. The wind rushes, and the breath of his captor begins to fall upon him. Again, he asks himself, how have I found myself in this most ignominious of states?

He gazes to his side, his right side, and looks upon the fallen and mangled remains of the brothers he had come to know so well before. The placidly cool and confined world where he once lived was truly far different than here. The frosting of the blue cake, with whom he had always taken front position, lay smeared across the face of another screaming child.

The monster. An unthinkable end, he thought, until he realized this same fate was soon to be is own. The child's teeth had come into view; their yellowing jags protruded from the white base, glittering as saliva oozed about them.

It would appear as though I am not his first victim, his thoughts continued. Remnants of green sprinkle could be seen in the far corners of this cave expanding around him. Perhaps the cake that sat to his left? Then again, green sprinkles were quite common among those of his batch. He himself had even acquired one or two.

He was, at this point, more than half way into the child's mouth. Death would soon grip him, and his fear would be no more.

"On the contrary", his mind countered, "what have you to fear in death? Of the great ones, you are none. You were not given the honor of bearing a candle! Your life means nothing, and never, ever, will."

The tongue began to draw near, and his thoughts returned to his own consciousness. I am myself. But what is "myself?" I am cake, obviously. And cake is a mixture of a number of other materials, ingredients, if you will, just as this child (by whom I am about to be consumed) is made up of waters and calciums and other elements of an essential nature. The difference of make-up between this child and I, however, is he is made of living things, whereas I... I am not.

He began, mournfully, to consider those materials with which he had been created. Water, sugar, flower; not remotely alive. Butter and flavorings, ha! They are the cause of the end of lives. He scoured the list from top to bottom, thrice, in his final seconds, but still could not find any alive. Was there one missing? Ah of course, eggs, but they too are of little consequence.

But then began a tickling in the furthest chambers of his mind.

These eggs... what are they? Surely not something alive?

The child's teeth began to sink into his warm frosting, but the cupcake could no longer feel the pain. The tickling inside him began to grow.

Eggs come from chickens... and there is egg in me... am I not just some mutated form of chicken? A positive affirmation bubbled up from the memory of thoughts before.

Such a strange epiphany this was to him, the sudden realization of who he was, IS, and to which potential purposes his life could still very well be destined to entail, that at the dawning of it, that tickling feeling inside expanded tremendously, and before he could even grasp what was happening to him, he had transformed into a full sized, living chicken! To the child's great misfortune, his head was neither big enough, nor strong enough, to take the pressure of containing a very much alive and squawking fowl inside of it, and within a matter of two seconds flat, exploded outright. Every child present, at the expense of the poor child's mother, required years of specialized counseling to overcome this terrible scene to which they all had born witness.

Epilogue

Now, my dear reader, I do suppose, that in spite of the tragic death of this pitiable mother's child, and notwithstanding the traumatization of an uncountable number of other mother's children seen today, you may feel reason for happiness, or perhaps even joy, for coupled with this series of most unfortunate occurrence came the creation of quite the unique creature of life. A bird, who, stretching forth his newfound wings, took augustly to the sky, abandoning all thoughts of his conjuncted life before, and so soared majestically into the oncoming horizon above.

Reader, I beg of you, do not think this thing. Upon the protrusion of this freak mutant of cake, the thing, (for I know not what to call it) flew heavenwards, directly into the family's newly installed industrial strength ceiling fan, and was promptly and effectively beheaded thereby. Perhaps as a fulfillment of justice, or perhaps the last of a series of cruel jokes conceived by the deceiver, the chicken was immediately plucked, gutted, and eaten raw by the then incommunicable party. The reason for this gorish turn, researchers have yet to determine.

All cravings for death quite satisfied, the scene ends abruptly, and the mother takes them all out for a dollop of ice cream.

You now know the story

of the cupcake

that became a chicken.

The End