Unloosen

Pancakes was the first story posted on Pork Pony in its debut December 24, 2001 issue. Weaver, a friend of mine from high school, quickly became an integral part of Pork Pony, writing many of the site's best stories. He's since penned numerous movie scripts, the kind of stuff that makes Hollywood quiver. -CL

In our college days at Penn State, Ed Darrin and I shared a taste for bizarre, post-modern literature. I think he's always been able to better articulate the form than I have. 12 and 1 is a great example of what came into our heads in the wake of McSweeney's. -CL

David Kendall was an ever-enthusiastic contributor to Pork Pony. He endured a lengendary in-house standoff with our brash elder statesman Stuart Gimble, sang the Pork Pony theme song, and provided us with his serial story, My Name Is Not William, the story of a man who wonders why people seem to suddenly "know" him. A few years ago, Kendall mentioned to me that he had finished the run of the story, but I never saw the last episodes. Hopefully, the birth of Unloosen will bring about the final chapters. -CL

Biscuit appeared in the third issue of Pork Pony. I'd consider it the best of my stories from the early PP days and one of my favorite stories I've written. It's the story of a sentient plastic donkey head trying to fit in among humans. -CL

Drinking Buddy ranks among my five favorite Pork Pony stories. Weaver's tale of two ancient warriors venting had me laughing out loud in the true sense, not that cheesy, LOL-type (God, I hate those abbreviations, but that's another story for another time). Enjoy. -CL

That Pen takes the idea of borrowing/stealing a pen at the office to an extreme. I wrote this story for the sixth issue of Pork Pony under the pen name Eli Lindy. I didn't want people to think the site was just a bunch of crap by me, so I hid behind this and a few other psuedonyms until we recruited a few more writers. A bunch of people seemed to like this story, told from the point of view of a good ol' boy. (CL)

Everyone has something to hide. A past trouble or a current involvement, it doesn't matter. The illegal or criminal mysteries don't interest me. Save that for your TV movie of the week. Speaking of movies, I'd better return my rented copy of "They Still Call Me Bruce". What intrigues me are the small things, harmless and for the most part accepted and tolerated by the law of the pack. The fact that these secrets are never to be found out and kept hidden by their performers is what strikes my fancy like no other.

David Kendall's tale of man mistaken for another man continues. In this episode, the guy who is not William finds out more about the guy who is William. (CL)

Part 3 of MNINW finds the man who bears not the name William on the phone and then on the toilet. Comedy and soul-searching ensue. (CL)

In this episode, William is surprised at work. American cheese is mentioned. (CL)

This is another story I initially published under the pen name Eli Lindy. The characters in the story are very closely related to people I knew growing up. There actually was a guy called Chocolate Face who went to the same church as I did and the Wayner is based on a crazy friend Weaver and I graduated with. (CL)

I came up with the concept for Time Canyon during a period in which ridiculous forms of time travel fascinated me. It was pretty hard to write within the constraints I set up for the Canyon and I don't consider this one of my best Pork Pony stories, but it's still somewhat entertaining. My friends liked it, so I'm putting it up. (CL)

Among the Nuts is another one of my favorite stories in the Pork Pony canon. I realize Kornblatt will probably hate me for writing this, but he's among the most comedically-gifted people I know. This is his telling of a nut salesman's story. (CL)

Weaver wrote two Time Canyons, this one and another that involves nunchucks. I honestly forgot how good this one was. Weaver and I talked seriously for a while about pitching Time Canyon as a TV show, but soon realized just how hard it was to write a good story about the Canyon. One episode idea Weaver imagined didn't even deal with time travel; instead, it covered an Evil Knievel-type stunt man jupming the Canyon on his motorcycle. If only TV could be so entertaining. (CL)

This is yet another of my Eli Lindy stories. My original idea was to use Eli Lindy as a psuedonym not only to expand the number of Pork Pony writers, but to write in a voice that sounded different from my own. I think that concept ended here. By the time I wrote this story, Eli Lindy and Chris Leavens became one again. I like this one quite a bit, actually. It's about the local eccentric and, the realitization that life's pretty boring without him. (CL)

I've always loved garbled translations and self-help or advice given in English by people who just recently learned English. This piece is my attempt at a pamphlet written by a "wise man" who's new to either America or English. (CL)

I met Craig J. Clark when the documentary I directed, I Don't Know Jack, played at the Philadelphia International Film Festival in 2002. He seemed interested in Pork Pony and began to submit stories. Craig's shared the same absurdist humor that PP was founded on, so he fit in perfectly. PP was barely a fraction of Craig's web presence; he's been creating Dada, a daily, web-based comic strip for years and it's remained consistently smart and funny. In this story, Craig mixes mushrooms, community theater, and organ-transplant humor to great effect. (CL)

This is the last installment of William that appeared in the Pony. Kendall's an elusive rascal, so I'm not sure if we'll ever see the final chapters of the story. Hopefully, they'll materialize here someday. In the meantime, enjoy part 5, featuring non-William's showdown with his boss. (CL)

The word pants holds up as one of the most entertaining and fun pieces of verbage in all of English. Joe Blevins capitalizes on the power of pants in this very story. Back in the Pork Pony days, Joe came to us via Craig J. Clark, a PP regular and author of the web comic Dada. I lost contact with Mr. Blevins, but would love to see more of his stories here. (CL)

UPDATE 5-4-05: Joe's now in touch with me again and he's going to post new material on Unloosen. Everyone, down a glass of Ovaltine to celebrate. (CL)

Yes, another story by me, but originally credited to Eli Lindy. I didn't remember this as one of my favorites, but upon rereading it, it's not so bad. It's a bit improbable, an element that seems to be lacking in a lot of fiction (mostly because so many people lack imagination). (CL)

Much like the character in this story, I obsess over contact with Paul. It's like Craig read my mind... or maybe he called my answering machine. Read this and check out Craig's web comic, Dada. (CL)

I felt like I had hit full-stride when I wrote this story about a guy who wanted to by a mall with a bag full of gold. It encapsulates the elements I always strived for: absurdity, humor, and self-reference. This one makes me feel pretty good about what I accomplished in the Pork Pony days.(CL)

For God's sake I wish Weaver wrote for TV and movies. Here, he parody's The Wizard of Oz by casting an ebony lizard in the role of the left-behind comrade. Both incredibly funny and poignant, this stands as one of Weaver's greatest hits. READ IT! (CL)

Pork Pony only saw a writer's ideas and enthusiasm. It was blind to age, race, and cool-factor. The latter worked well for me as I'm chronically uncool. The former worked for Chris Woodward, who was in high school at the time he wrote and we published this story. He's got great sensibilities, so we're really glad he decided to rejoin us here at Unloosen. This was his first story for Pork Pony. (CL)

Ed Darrin: author, cannery owner, fabled speech writer. All known records of Ed's most famous speech, I Have This Dream, dissappeared for a few years. This is it's triumphant return to public circles. - CL

One man, 100 monkeys, 100 chainsaws. I'd put "monkeys" up there with "pants" as one of the most effective comedic words in the English language. Joe Blevins knows his effective comedic words and here, he assembles them once again for your entertainment. (CL)

I toyed with the idea of putting this Pork Pony story in the non-fiction section because this may have been a chapter out of Craig's real life. When I met Craig in 2002, he indeed wore a ponytail, a goatee, and glasses. Does the underground society he speaks about here exist? Only Craig's dopplegangers know for sure. (CL)

Nunchucks. Yes, nunchucks. This, the final episode of Time Canyon, not only features everyone's favorite martial-arts weapon, it also tells the tale of a man who uses the Canyon and wins. Weaver's in prime form once again. (CL)

Jason Kornblatt's final Pork Pony stint before the fabled mare rode off into the cyber-sunset. Told in the style of an old-time fable, this story of a young man and a peach tree teaches all of us (especially guilt-ridden Catholics and Jews) a valuable life lesson. This is another of my favorites from the days of the Pony. (CL)

After reading this story, I cannot understand my reasoning for shelving Pork Pony. It was a ton of work for me, sure, but the last five issues (excluding the second-to-last which included some of my least favorite material and may have been one of the major reasons I let the site slip into permanent hiatus, come to think of it) were packed solid with excellent stories.

Karl and Me is without a doubt one of the best stories to grace the pages of PP. It tells the tale of a young man's summer fling with Karl Marx. You've got to read it to believe it. HIGHLY RECOMMENDED. An absolute must-read. I laughed so hard I snorted. (CL)

This is the last story I published under my own name on Pork Pony. It's the legend of a vortexical boy who belongs to a family of exploding people and the consequences of life as an exploding person. (CL)

Craig envisions what might be causing the noises in his kitchen. This story employs no references to Spam. A kitchen story sans Spam? How can it be good? Read and find out. (CL)

Don't you wish a magical Scott Baio poster would sweep into your bedroom on occasion and wipe away your stress and sorrows? (CL)

Kendall's last stop on the Pork Pony express is the story of demons possessing a waste-management issue recyling bin. A guest appearance by Rick Fox is included if your imagination allows. (CL)

This is truly the final story I wrote for Pork Pony, but it was published under an alias. Mother Nature oversees a staff of obese people who do cannonballs to create catastrophic waves in the ocean. (CL)

This was the last piece of fiction published in Pork Pony before it slipped into a coma. It actually made me pretty sad to look at this and realize PP ended here. It's a very, very funny and well-written slab of story. People really wanted the site to keep going, but I just couldn't do it anymore. I feel like I let a lot of people down by disappearing for a while, but now we're back and all is well. If I had to end on any story, I'm glad it was one by Craig, one of the most consistently funny, enthusiastic, and grammatically-capable writers for PP. In this story, Adrian Zmed visits a college campus and hilarity ensues. (CL)

The night I lured every celebrity in the world into a dank and dark basement and then killed them was indeed a great night.

This fat guy, wearing mauve Capri pants and a sombrero was chasing me on roller skates. I was on foot; he had the roller skates, just to clear things up. What made this weird, if not the idea of me being hunted by such a person was strange enough, was that we were traversing through patches of grass and up cement steps in an unfamiliar college campus-like setting. The fact that he was shirtless didn’t bother me, somehow.

Warm and golden sunlight streamed into Morningwood Planned Retirement Community as cheers and loud smacking noises emanated from the recreation room. A large orderly who smelt of bologna took long strides into the source of those noises. In his hands he held a small plastic tray, on which various pills in a plethora of colors were lined up all nice and tidy. Carefully, the orderly placed the tray on a table and stood up. He looked around the gray room filled with small puddles of droopy skin and bent bones covered in macramé and polyester. The orderly sighed.

To say Steve never knew what hit him would be incorrect because Steve did, in fact, know what hit him. What hit him was a dart. Steve knew this because he plucked it from the back of his neck and looked squarely at it before he fell unconscious. What Steve didn't know was what he hit when he fell unconscious. It turned out to be a wheelbarrow full of peat moss, which he actually upended, but he didn't find this out for some time.

Genius. Genius occupied every sentence, no every word in those letters, but now those letters were gone, torn to shreds, sitting in front of Adam in a box. Adam cried for days after he opened that package. Michelle wanted no more of Adam’s company nor did she want the company of his letters, the letters he wrote, the letters soaked in genius. She wanted to spend more time with Pierre, her new man, that guy who took her salsa dancing. Adam would have gone salsa dancing. Why didn’t she ask him? Why did she push him away as if every physical advance was an illegal assault? After all, he could reconsider; the "give-me-some-room-let’s-be-friends-for-a-while" thing might work.

Adam asked his talking dog to explain it, but the talking dog could not explain it. The talking dog just paced around the couch waxing poetic about the pants he had just bought.

I was driving to work the other day and realized that I was lonely. I am 23 years old and I have little in the way of any enjoyment in my life. I get up. I go to work. I come home. I watch TV shows pre-selected for me by the American Family Association. I go to sleep. Adding church on Sundays and deleting the work part on the weekends, and sometimes the getting up part as well, my life is like the conveyer belt at the supermarket -- always going in circles with some sticky substance occasionally getting spilled on it.

Then my life changed. I saw it. It was right there, written along the barren stretch of highway that I have driven a million times before.

It was a sign! Adopt-a-Highway!

Glistening spurts of water sprayed into the air out of sprinklers. The water fell down and dampened the already dew covered lawns. Simultaneously, all the sprinklers shut off as every door in the cookie cutter suburban paradise opened.

It's not necessary, but it might help if you read part 1.

Sick with children, the colossal red-brick building sneezed and the entire fourth grade shot out of its doors. 122 ten-year olds exploded onto the green hillside, kicking dust and mud onto the beastly edifice. They were like a happy load of buckshot, a swarm of jubilant disorder, all of them running, tripping, jumping for freedom. All of them except for one; a really little, skinny one called Adam. This one shuffled from the building, his frail, brainy body moving in slow motion while the other children blurred past. He stared at the grass as shoe-drawn currents ripped through it, fatefully tearing and snapping select blades, leaving others to stand the test of life for at least a few more moments.

Adam shrank into the grass, got small like the ants and climbed aboard a prime leaf, the perfect launchpad. He waited and watched, ready to surf the next hapless wave that followed in the wake of his new classmates.

"Heads up! Heads up! Heads up, uh, Adam? Heads up ADAM?" He looked up, but it was too late. Whack! A kickball to the side of the face and Adam dropped to the ground. Tommy Keeler, a miniature lumberjack with hair the color of vacuum-cleaner dust, ran over and grabbed the ball. Adam held his burning right cheek and hid his pain, keeping Tommy Keeler in his periphery, afraid to look him in the eye. Third-grade legend taught Adam that to look Tommy Keeler in the eyes in a time of weakness meant certain death, or at least a wedgie.

Here are 3 short stories for your perusal. The first and third ones were lucky enough to make it onto Pork Pony, though they are somewhat disturbing, so viewer discretion advised for them. The middle one was written sometime between the death of PP and the birth of Unloosen. Ever notice how short my short stories are? I simultaneously rule and suck. Enjoy!

William Shakespeare once said, "A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!" Now, two things strike me about this statement:

1) I never knew Shakespeare was a king, but I guess he must have been, otherwise why would he say such a thing? I was never schooled in the succession of the English monarchy, but he must be in there somewhere. I know he's not William the Conqueror because he looks too fruity to conquer anything, but I'm sure they've had dozens of Williams on the throne over the centuries.

2) I never really understood what he meant by that -- that is, until just now.

Reading Part 1 and Part 2 might be useful.

The filthy gang of boys led by Tommy Keeler rumbled down the hillside toward Adam, their yelping mouths smiling wickedly underneath dull, close-set eyes. Adam watched them descend, a sweaty, heedless avalanche of hooligans, and the shock of impending humiliation and pain turned the frail boy to stone. He stood still, a statue waiting to be desecrated, the talking dog cowering behind him.

The slope gave way to flat land and Tommy Keeler slowed to cocky walk, the other boys following him in a 'V' formation, lending him their mobbish energy. "This is a dumb place, to hide, A-dumb." Keeler's cohorts praised his vapid wit with their chuckles. "That's yer new name, A-dumb. Like 'd-u-m' dumb."

The talking dog couldn't resist. "Learn to spell, moron," he barked from behind Adam's legs. The talking dog regretted it immediately.

Behold, the return of MNINW with part 6. Not to be confused with Leonard Part 6. It would be really helpful if you read parts 1, 2, 3, 4, and 5. Or read it by itself. You'll probably get the gist without the other parts. NOTE: This one is rated XXX because it is celebrating its thirtieth birthday in Rome. The words 'boob,' 'cooch,' and 'bass music' are used so tread lightly.

The full moon illuminated the night and cast a pale glow across the expansive desert. A lone figure could be seen trudging up the mountainside, his long robes flowing out behind him. At the top of the mountain another light source grew brighter as the figure approached. Moses stepped forth and bowed before the light source, the burning bush. The disembodied voice of God bellowed from the bush.

Reading parts 1, 2, and 3 might be mildy beneficial.

Adam sat in a sterile, vacant limbo, the walls unsettlingly white and empty. The loneliness and despair of the place peeled sound from the air, leaving only the ringing in his ears, a field of crickets chirping accusations, reminding him of Tommy Keeler's bloody fate. Adam saw his tiny fists charging into the air, cutting molecules to bits as they flew toward their target and freezing for a moment, contemplating the late Keeler's face, searching for a reason to blast it, explode it into a juicy red mushroom cloud. What if he could have talked his hands out of it, stepped away from the fight, walked away peacefully with the talking dog, the world a motionless picture behind them? He and his new friend would escape, exploring, looking for a new photo to step into, a new world without bullies or anger or deadly fists. Fate dangled magical possibilities in front of him, but only offered him the cold reality of punishment.

The saga continues. Please refer to 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, and 6.

Billy Churin sat at the dinner table looking at his parents with scorn. He thought, "How can they just sit there eating their Hamburger Helper and not realize that their son is being oppressed by society." The smiling faces of his mother and father just made his stomach turn. Supper was now ruined.

"Parents just don't understand," thought Billy. He poked at his food and then, without knowing he was even doing it, he began tapping his foot and humming D.J. Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince's "Parents Just Don't Understand." Right at the line "her hand was gently moving up my thigh," Billy realized what he was doing. Slamming down his fork, he stormed away from the table. Look what his parents had done to him again.

Chad sat at the table in the coffee shop. He wasn't particularly fond of coffee, but he liked its shops and could always count on them to provide a satisfactory cup of hot chocolate -- even on the cusp of summer. He also partook of their cookies and brownies from time to time, but this wasn't one of those times.

Drumming his fingers on the tabletop, he looked up as his near-mirror image sat down across from him. Brad had two large cups in his hands. He handed the left one to Chad, who took it and handed him two dollars.

"Thanks," he said.

"No problem."

"So, you were saying?"

Coal Falls, Pennsylvania, U. S. of A stank of weeks old bologna and body odor. It was wretched and dirty. Coal Falls was (is, always will be) the worst town in the entire world. Well, actually, Coal Falls wasn’t a town per se due to the fact that there was only one official town in the entire state of Pennsylvania. And in the sense of full disclosure, Pennsylvania really wasn’t a state either, it’s a commonwealth…but I digress.

I stand before the congregation condemned, though eager for forgiveness. Humility is nonexistent, though I am shirtless in the presence of so many. I am not thirsty, though the sun screams into my wan complexion as it tends to do so close to the buckle of the Bible Belt this time of year.

In regards to the sudden onslaught of Dio-related postings, I bring to you a script that I co-wrote about 2 years ago. It took me 6 days to write the first draft, and the draft that we were content with was finished in about another week. I did write about 95% of the script, so if you can find the 5% that is not Weaver, pat yourself on the back and treat yourself to a hoagie. Who knows what formatting blunders wills occur...

I'll post it in parts, just for the sake of the reader's time. I know that it is full of errors that I no longer do whilst writing, but enjoy it nonetheless. There are many moments in here that I'm sure that you'll appreciate. Dig in!

Okay, this is a pretty big slab of script, but where I cut it off makes sense, and you get some more Ronnie James at the end, which is always good. A bunch of new characters are introduced, and it may seem a bit chaotic at this point, but believe me, it all comes together quite well. Patience.

The pudding character thing is wrong, I admit that already, and we get an appearance from another "immigrant". Truth be told, most of the ice cream scenes happened for real to/including the co-author of this piece. And a few others I have witnessed or been told about by very reliable sources.

And now, more Soda Jerks...

Okay, third installment, and this part is getting a more adult rating, so kids, get your parents' permission on this one.

I didn't write the bar scene, and was REALLY opposed to what went down because the circumstance was way overdone, but the dialogue around it didn't bother me, so I reluctantly put up no fight. The basement scene and beyond is my "work", so blame me for that stuff if you hate it.

And things are now starting to come together with the characters.

Their bodies succumbed to the blind horrors of biology. He could not feel his legs, but his heart had a pulsating warmth within it each time he thought about his wife. Although her time was set, she still found herself smirking each time she looked in the mirror and noticed that her wig was askew. Their eyes looked younger as each day passed, in spite of their unwilling stubbornness to seek pity. Nature’s wrath and financial circumstance kept them from bearing children, but they were given each other, and that was more than enough.

This is a very fun portion of the script, with Ronnie James in prime form. Many of the characters combine here for an interesting cohesion. The broom, puddle and hole in the wall scenes have actually occurred in real life; the first two are written as I was told they happened, and the third one I tweaked a bit due to architectural limitations. I believe the mighty Frog has witnessed this one in person.

Grab a drink, or perhaps a severed limb, and read on!

A small section here in comparison to the previous posts. The day after the stag and prior to the bad-ass conclusion that awaits. The final "Immigrant" appears here, along with a few secondary characters, like Clarissa. The co-writer did all of her dialogue throughout the script, by the way. I also noticed how many CUT TO's were misused while reading this again. The entire script, not just this section. This part shouldn't take too long to read. Don't worry, it is almost over...

Here it is, the conclusion of Soda Jerks. I think that everything comes together here at the obvious wedding climax that we were leading up to to end this trainwreck. IF YOU DO NOT KNOW THE SONG, "HOLY DIVER", BY DIO, LISTEN TO IT IF POSSIBLE BEFORE READING THIS SECTION. Knowing the song just amplifies the one joke quite a bit. Anyway, without further interruption...

Here is another older script of mine, and as far as a departure from "Soda Jerks" as you can get. I was reading some Kafka, and decided to write a script in his style, just for the hell of it, really. Most of his themes are present, and the absurdity knob was turned pretty high, as well. Take it for what it is worth, just a different way to tell a story, nothing more. The exposition needs work, I know that already, but I think the actions are pretty clear to the reader (crosses fingers). And if I really get the urge, I have two follow-ups to this, not story-wise, but in this style. The Doctor (10 pages into it) and The Chemist (just in my head) may see the light of day by 2010, because I'm bound to get distracted by a shiny object or something equally amazing.

Jeb, the existential puddle of shampoo, bubbled and gurgled in your shower. At this particular time of the day, around noon-ish, Jeb liked to lounge around on the cool ceramic tiles amorphously and think. Jeb thought about everything in this expansive universe. He thought about whether it was moral for human beings to take the life of other human beings for punishment. He pondered the question of whether or not the bar of soap you use was gay with the washcloth (Jeb didn’t have any objections but was just merely wondering because they sure did dress nicely).

Here is the next installment to either enjoy or loathe. Here, Thomas meets up with a travel buddy on his way into the city, where his punishment awaits for the whole bribe incident. Things get a bit weird towards the end of this piece, but what else would you expect?

Mother always loved her horses. And as with her sons, she always had a clear favorite among them. Having a favorite, however, didn’t preclude her from buying new horses whenever the mood struck her, as it often did.

An acquisitive person by nature, Mother was fortunate in that she had married early to a man of considerable wealth. That he met his end while out riding in the country one day didn’t hinder her horse-purchasing habit one bit. It did put a crimp in her son-siring habit, though.

Jean-Luc woke up smiling, as he often did. Life was good and there was no reason why it wouldn’t stay that way indefinitely. Even the need to empty his bladder didn’t put a damper on his sunny attitude.

He stood as he did his business, humming a happy tune to match the ring of his urine striking the porcelain. The job done, he washed his hands at the sink, combed his beard and admired his reflection in the mirror. He looked as tan and healthy as ever.

Sweat beaded on Phoenix Waterfall's forehead. His hazel eyes darted back and forth. Phoenix tried to keep his heavy breathing inaudible and so it came in short in and out breaths. Phoenix felt the coolness of the thick leather seat through his cut off hemp pants. The air was crisp and cool and blew breezily through Phoenix's tank top. He was glad he put the bright orange hat on. Not only did it keep his head warm in the cool room (in addition to the thick gnarly beard), but it gave him comfort and self-confidence. Confidence enough to do his mission.

Even before my younger brother was born, I knew I was going to be a middle child. Not that I felt like I ever had the full attention of either of my parents. My father was always preoccupied with his business -- until he met his end at the hands of an angry mob, that is -- and my mother had her own interests. The rearing of children was clearly not among them.

My older brother Charles dealt with this by doing mean things to her prized possession, a stallion of Arabian descent that also happened to be his namesake. I thought he was being petty and juvenile, but didn’t say so for fear of incurring his considerable wrath. As long as Charles was directing his pent-up aggression elsewhere, I knew that I would be safe from the tortures that older brothers usually inflict on their siblings.

My entire family’s messed up. I’m probably the least messed up out of all of us, but I’m also the youngest. I’m sure this stuff builds up over time, like plaque. The difference is you can brush teeth. Minds are a lot harder to clean efficiently, especially in those hard-to-reach places.

If one were to classify my family’s abnormalities dentally, then Mom has severe gingivitis, Charles has some impacted molars, Henry has bleeding gums from brushing too much and I have a mild build-up of tartar. I didn’t know my Dad too well, so I guess he could have flossed more. We all should.

Hello there. Want to know something? Those sparing few who get close enough to know the truth of my upbringing often have many questions. All of them about cotton candy. That's the way it is when you were raised in an amusement park.

Muffled conversations stopped as it became apparent that the short woman at the front of the lecture hall was ready to begin. The Dean stepped up next to her and said, "Today's speaker is Cynthia King and she's going to be talking about her experience working as a pharmacist in a hospice." The Dean sat down in the front row. The woman, Cynthia, straightened the jacket of her sensible pants suit that was in a light shade of puke green. She looked up seriously and surveyed the small crowd through her trendy thick red framed glasses; the crowd was barely one quarter of the capacity that the hall could hold.

Lately I’ve been having difficulty completing some of the stories I’ve been working on. This is not to say that they’re excessively long, I just haven’t been inspired enough to see them through to their endpoints. To counteract this, I’ve started formulating much shorter story fragments and accumulating them in one file. This is the first batch. There are more to come.

Accumulate #1: Getting to Here

Jordan took a deep breath. He knew he was going to need it. He wondered how he had gotten into this. Surely this was the sort of thing his manager would dismiss out of hand, but he didn’t, so here he was, seated on a stool in a photographer’s studio, waiting to have a bucket of green slime dumped on him.

State Senator Gus Vibreaux hated hot. Dry hot, humid hot, spicy hot. He hated all hot. When the thirty-ton Addison cooling unit finally kicked the bucket after the power surge on that steamy July 17th in the office on the corner of Tennessee and Dutton, the security guards, aides, and intern threw open the windows and the hot air came in and sidled up next to Vibreaux like a fat man sitting next to him in the coach section of an airplane. Mr. Senator usually flew first class, so this upset him.

Vibreaux said this: "Milliken." Milliken was the intern. "Milliken, for God's sake, find a fan."

Realize the office on Tennessee and Dutton was old, the kind of building with ornate wood trim bordering doors, floors, and windows. But that very woodwork was painted over with cheap, white latex paint, slopped on by the historically-insensitive owners. It was a whitewashed version of the past with unsubstantial present-day conveniences bolted to its sides. Nestled amongst these modern amenities were the galvanized steel plumbing (only slightly more clogged and narrow than the kind Senator's arteries), the phone-activated entry system, and, of course that 30-ton Addison. Dig as Milliken may, no fans were included in the list of the aforementioned modernity.

Another item of realization for you, dear reader: "modern" and "modernity" are being employed liberally and with with much exaggeration and sarcasm. Housing these words in quotes a few lines earlier may have been considered "helpful," but do you notice how annoying this kind of "help" can be? Inferring sarcasm in multiple regions of this text is encouraged.

Inspired by the recent accumulates post, and awaiting my next burst of literary chi flow, I have decided to post the yet-to-be-released short stories that I have finished.....in blurbs that really make no sense. Each paragraph is a different story, so take it for what it is worth, and that is very little. As an update of sorts, I have a few more stories to finish, but may opt to hit the main portion of the book very soon. I seem to add to the miscellaneous section every few days. I'll have to re-read SAS, because I tried to post something during the Great Firewall Scandal of 2006.

Time for installment #2. Enjoy the new

Accumulate #6: Wound Up

Two days later and the cut still hadn’t healed. Steve had nicked himself on the lid of a can of soup, which was an incredibly stupid thing to do because the can had a warning about that very thing right on the label. He could read, he knew of the danger, and still he had cut himself.

His eyes opened in a flash to the morning light streaming in through the Venetian blinds. He closed his eyes again and rolled over to go back to sleep but then snapped back awake and alert. As if suspended by wires, Henry Black floated out of bed and softly onto the bedroom floor.

Author's Note: When brothers Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm traveled throughout Germany collecting oral-history folktales during the early 1800s, they actually did their job too well and accumulated many more stories than they could possibly hope to publish. The following is one of the tales the Grimms left on the "cutting room floor," so to speak. This story has been traced to the small German village of Kudgel, which the brothers Grimm visited in 1812. Recently discovered among Wilhelm's private papers in a folder marked "Unpromising Miscellanea," it is published here for the first time.

There once lived a humble woodcutter and his enormous wife in a small cottage in the forest. Their lives were empty and desolate, for they had no children to call their own. As a youth, the near-sighted woodsman had mistaken a witch's leg for an elm and had used it for kindling. Enraged, the witch put a curse upon the woodsman, telling him he would never father a child by natural means and would have "plenty of problems" if he tried to adopt. The woodsman tried to reason with the witch, even offering to pay half the cost of a replacement leg, but the witch would not listen.

And so, all these years later, the witch's curse still held, and the woodsman and his wife were without children. Each night, the wife would kneel at the foot of the bed and pray aloud.

"Oh! How wonderful it would be to have a child! It would give me something to occupy my waking hours until television is invented!"

Pauline stared out of the window of the bus, primed for a new experience, but wonderfully bored at the moment. The road was without curves, without pitch, as even a pothole would be a blessed turn of events. At a point in her life where the world was hers, she randomly picked a town and decided to investigate it firsthand. The uncertainty of the situation was uplifting. The hope that one day she would feel as if she belonged somewhere gave her tiresome life meaning. She longed to grow roots but had yet to find suitable soil.

The only thing that caught her eye along the way was an abandoned car. It did not seem particularly interesting to her, as it was unattended, though a bit of smoke still emanated from the interior, slowly creeping out of the driver’s open window. Pauline decided to turn her attention to the back of the seat directly in front of her, as anything would be just as entertaining as what is happening outside. She studied the cracks in the portions of the seat that housed old, sun-baked vinyl, making objects come to life in her mind. A frowning face, a crooked star, a guitar and so forth and so on.

Gary pulled up to his normal spot in front of the store. He was opening supervisor, so he could have the pick of any spot in the lot, but he always took one some distance from the door. “Because the good spots are for the paying customers,” he would tell any employee who parked closer than he did. Besides, a nice walk never hurt anybody.

As he got out of the car, he noticed he was not alone. Some early birds were stumbling around in front of the store. Strangely enough, none of them appeared to have driven there. Well, too bad for them, Gary thought, because they didn’t open for another hour.

“Hey, you know we open at ten, right?” he asked as he passed one of them. He didn’t see it turn and make a grab for him with a gnarled hand.

It was a few minutes after one o'clock on a Sunday afternoon in November when K. noticed (and how could he not?) that his left arm had fallen off.

The purpose of this day's visit to the mall had been to do some early Christmas shopping. It was K.'s practice to buy generic, practical presents -- pens, calendars, refrigerator magnets, oven mitts -- just before the "peak" holiday shopping season and store them in his closet until just before Christmas, at which time he would wrap them and assign them to random people on his gift list. This tradition had served him well in the past, and he had no intention of deviating from it this year.

K. had not yet begun his shopping at the time the incident occurred. Unburdened by packages and yet unaccountably weary, he was walking aimlessly and distractedly through the massive, clogged corridors of the shopping center when he stopped in front of a Spencer Gifts -- not to window shop (K. never did this) but rather because his body was telling him to pause. Finding no nearby bench, K. simply stopped dead in his tracks in the middle of the hallway. That was when his left arm -- of its own accord -- became detached from his body and fell with a thud to the cool, shiny floor, taking K.'s shirtsleeve and wristwatch with it.

(sung to the tune of Born to Run)

In the day we hide from alien viruses and murderous skateboard teens,
At night we run from reptile hookers and vampire Charlie Sheens.

Sprung from fumes on the 405,
Undead Nicky Hilton wants to eat your face alive--Oh,
Maybe this town rips the bones from your back;
It's a death trap,
It's a suicide pact.
Better get out with our brains,
Or kids like us, baby we'll be torn in twain!