Steel Magnolias at the Midvale Performing Arts Center

I wish more community theaters would do straight plays. I mean, sure, everybody loves a musical (except for this guy), but not everyone can pull off a production of Into the Woods without looking foolish. The tiniest of imperfections - a cracked voice, a faulty microphone, one misstep in the choreography - and the whole thing looks like... well, like a community theater musical.

I'm not going to say that straight plays are easier. In many ways, they're harder. You have to work really hard to keep the audience's attention without breaking out the high-kicking girls every five minutes. It's just that, while I've seen a lot of community theater productions that are "good," I haven't seen many that are "great." And, of that small percentage, a lot of them are straight plays.

Last night I caught a production of Steel Magnolias put on by the Midvale Arts Council (and starring my foxy and fabulous friend). It's been a while since I've been able to make it out to a show (considering I've missed three productions I've got friends in recently), so I was glad to finally make one of them. And I'm pretty glad it was this one.

I'd never seen Steel Magnolias before, which surprised my friend. "Of course I've never seen it!" I said. "It's a bit of a chick flick." And it really is... ish. SM is the story of a group of women who meet up in a hair salon to talk about life and love and all that jazz. However, while it's a very woman-centric play, its characters are never just "women." You've got mothers, daughters, and a crazy lady with a dog. Feisty old sports fanatics and curling-iron monarchs. Each character has feelings and motivations and a whole lot of heart.

The central conflict revolves around Shelby, a young diabetic woman, and her mother, who can be a bit overprotective. Shelby's mother demands that her daughter take care of herself at the cost of missing out on certain experiences. Shelby retorts, "I'd rather have 30 minutes of wonderful than a lifetime of nothing special." Their conflict leads to some of the most inspiring moments of the show, as well as some of the most tragic.

Now, a good story can often be derailed by a so-so cast, but I must say that I couldn't spot a weak link in the show's lineup. Everyone in the cast is stellar. They really get into their roles, and they have a lot of fun with the delivery of their lines. I laughed good and hard that night - and I wasn't the only one.

Steel Magnolias wraps up its run this week. If you get the inclination, it's well worth checking out.

Cooking with Braddy: Creamy Chickpea and Garlic Soup

Another four-ingredient recipe... although I have to say that these "Quick and Easy" recipes are more "easy" than "quick." Maybe I'm just slow. Boiling chickpeas until they soften takes a long bloody time.

I've been a little more interested in vegetarian cuisine recently, not because I'm going vegetarian, but because I just want to eat a bigger variety of stuff. And, frankly, when you're a dyed in the wool carnivore like I am, good vegetable recipes are hard to find. However, since vegetarians tend to eat the stuff more than I do, they know how to put them together in a more delicious fashion. Thus, chickpeas.

I did some experimenting with rosemary recently, and I've been a little disappointed in the results. So I hoped for something a little more... delicious by following an actual recipe. The recipe called for a sprig of rosemary to be added while the soup was boiling, and then removed when it was time to blend everything else together. Once the dish was finished, the instructions said to add a few leaves as a garnish. I suppose it worked, but I still can't shake the feeling whenever I took a spoonful of soup that I was eating pine needles.

Living: You're Doing It Wrong

So happy Friday, everyone!

About two weeks ago, I had this bizarre thought as I walked out to my car at the end of my work shift. I had this huge grin on my face, because the work week was done, and I had no responsibilities to go home to. I was literally giddy, yet, the more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that my elation wouldn't last beyond the half-hour drive home. And, sure enough, it didn't.

It's not that I didn't have anything to look forward to - I'm sure I did. I just didn't have anything worth getting giddy over. It was a pretty uneventful weekend. As most of my weekends are.

I find it a little upsetting that the happiest time of just about every week is the time I spend walking to my car every Friday after work. To me, that says I don't like my job enough to be fulfilled by it, and I don't like my home life enough to be excited by it. I'm pretty sure that's not the case... but, then again, all I did last night was break a video game controller over a particularly frustrating level and Google a bunch of Adventure Time songs.

Oh, and I wrote, for, like, twenty minutes. That was pretty cool.

I remember a day I had a while back where I just felt like crap after work. I was angry, frustrated, and tired. However, instead of drowning myself in ice cream and junk music, I opted instead to go jogging. Afterwards, I felt GREAT!

Another incident, not too long after that: I felt a bit blue, and so I decided to pop in a cartoon to watch. Rather than just lie down while watching T.V., though, I pulled out my sketchbook and doodled a bunch of silly pictures (these ones, to be precise). Again, when I put myself away for the night, I felt, not just fulfilled, but actually happy.

I guess I'm just wondering why I actively put off things I know will make me happy just cuz... well, just cuz.

Anyway, hope your weekends are as fun as the one I'm planning!

Poem of the Week

Heir to All

By Li-Young Lee

What I spill in a dream
runs under my door,
ahead of my arrival
and the year’s wide round,

to meet me in the color of hills
at dawn, or else collected
in a flower’s name
I trace with my finger
in a book. Proving

only this: Listening is the ground
below my sleep,
where decision is born, and

whoever’s heard the title
autumn knows him by
is heir to all those
unfurnished rooms inside the roses.

***

Sometimes I just like my poetry incomprehensible, you know? Seriously, I don't know that I'm smart enough for poetry like this, but I enjoy it anyway. I can grasp at the meaning of this poem: I imagine it has something to do with nighttime inspiration. However, I find at times that it is far more important to FEEL a poem. Li-Young Lee's poems are full of feeling - lots of fear, unease, and apprehension, sure, but also, like here, there are moments of profound serenity.

Braddy Reads The Prizewinner of Defiance, Ohio

Pretty much every time I read a book for book club, I come away thinking about how glad I am that I'm in a book club because it gives me the opportunity to read something I normally wouldn't. Cuz, yeah, this month's selection is a biography. I don't read biographies very often, because I don't like biographies. Reality is boring. Fiction's MUCH more fun.

I'm not sure why I dislike biographies, especially since most biographies I read, I wind up liking. Case in point: Terry Ryan's biography of her mother, recorded in The Prizewinner of Defiance, Ohio. Terry writes about her mother, Evelyn Ryan, and the hardships she went through raising ten children while avoiding the wrath of her alcoholic husband. With so many mouths to feed and not enough money, Evelyn supplements her income by entering as many corporate sponsored contests as she can.

It'd be easy to dismiss this book as just another tale of tough times in the Leave It To Beaver era, and, if that were all there was to Prizewinner, it'd be a pretty bland book. After all, the story isn't really that dark (at least as it's presented here) to qualify as a criticism of Picket Fence, U.S.A. There's too much optimism and lighthearted humor.

However, I get that criticizing the often-idealized 1960s isn't really the point of Prizewinner. Rather, Ryan's book should be seen as more of a family history. It's not meant to be compelling reading in the same way as a lot of novels. It's a celebration of the life of one remarkable woman who battled difficult situations with relentless positivity. Excessively focusing on the negative would undermine that message.

Now, for me, the real joy of Prizewinner is to be found in the examples of Evelyn Ryan's poetry and contest entries. She possesses a wit and knack for clever rhymes that rivals Ogden Nash. I chuckled more than a few times reading Evelyn's verses. She was a talented woman, one of the most remarkable of her ilk (the contesting housewives) and well-worthy of rememberance.

Poem of the Week

"If no one ever marries me"

By Laurence Alma-Tadema

If no one ever marries me,—
And I don't see why they should,
For nurse says I'm not pretty,
And I'm seldom very good—

If no one ever marries me
I shan't mind very much;
I shall buy a squirrel in a cage,
And a little rabbit-hutch:

I shall have a cottage near a wood,
And a pony all my own,
And a little lamb quite clean and tame,
That I can take to town:

And when I'm getting really old,—
At twenty-eight or nine—
I shall buy a little orphan-girl
And bring her up as mine.

***

Happy Post-Valentine's Day, I guess.

Really old? At twenty-eight or nine? Brother.

Project 5: Sweetie Bear

I want to be your Sweetie Bear,
Your lovey-dovey pumpkin,
Your cutie-fruity sugar pear,
Your Mistah Somethin' Somethin'.

Please let me call you Honey Pie
Or Babycakes Delight.
You bring me my sweet sunny sky
When we go out at night.

Let's dance and act quite amorous,
Oh, gee, I say, oh golly!
No one will "haw" or "hem" at us,
If we kiss romantically.

Let me be your "hot and steady,"
My forever Valentine.
You... oh. You've got a date already?
Well, then never mind.

Guys, guys, GUYS! This is seriously my favorite 52 project yet! And I'll tell you why in a bit.

Unlike most of my projects, I actually completed the picture first. And if this were a more revision-centered exercise, I'd probably go back and re-do the illustration, since it doesn't really capture the lighthearted nature of the poem as well as I'd like. I was mainly going for a few bizarre character designs, but, other than some odd skin color choices, I don't think I achieved what I wanted. Heck, I did a better drawing on this theme LAST YEAR.

But the poem, guys... It makes me so happy!

Okay, so the idea for this poem popped into my head last week while I was still sick in bed, and I COULD NOT SLEEP until I wrote the first stanza. I was giggling and sneezing and it was AWESOME! See, I'd been wanting to try my hand again at rhyme-intensive poetry, and right from the beginning of the year I'd wanted to do something along the lines of a Shel Silverstein poem. This poem definitely counts there (heck, I'm pretty sure Silverstein uses the "never mind" punch line somewhere in his oeuvre).

However, I'd also wanted to try something with a lot more internal rhyme. I was inspired after watching this video, which my buddy Aldo sent me through the Facebook. I liked so much what I saw, especially when the guy in the video started exploring Eminem's lyrics and analyzing the use of internal rhyme. I thought I'd try something similar.

So, yeah, Eminem totally inspired this poem. Just saying.

Further Genre Nonsense

A little while back I rambled on a bit here about how silly genre classifications can be. I've had a couple of different conversations on the subject since then, and... well, my mind hasn't been changed at all. Actually, I've found some new evidence in SUPPORT of my view.

Although your mileage may vary on how credible you find evidence from iTunes.

I've never really used iTunes before about two months ago, and so I've been trying to take advantage of this opportunity by using the very limited amount of money I budget towards music purchases (which seriously boils down to about one song per pay check) to maximize the variety of music I have available to me. So I've been trying to buy music from a lot of different genres, as I really do like music from just about all classifications (well, except country, but even there I can find some artists whose existence makes me happy, even if their music doesn't).

Ad what I've found is that the music genre system - at least as set up by iTunes - is ridiculous. I mean, I have a lot of songs from the "alternative" genre, but what does that even mean? Are Oingo Boingo really in the same category as They Might Be Giants? And, if so, does AWOLNATION belong in that category with them?

And then I wound up with a Gotye song in the same genre as Émilie Simon's "Flowers." Now, I can see that those two songs belong together, but how does iTunes classify them? "Electronic"? Really?

Then, of course, there's the "Christian and Gospel" section of my music library, which is just made up of Robert Gardner's Lamb of God oratorio. Now, sure, it's a Christian production, but musically it seems to me that it fits more in with classical-style music like the Messiah than... this.

But where things REALLY fall apart is in the rock genre. It seems like NO ONE knows what's supposed to go on there. See, they've put Sweet's "Little Willy"

...in same category as Incubus and "Dig"

...where it sits next to "Come On Eileen"

...and... Avenged Sevenfold?

Seriously? Do ANY of those songs really belong in the same category as each other?

Admittedly, if they were really to record all of the complexities of the music genre system, we'd probably use up all the memory available on our little devices with pretty useless information. I mean, how is one to tell the difference between "adult contemporary heavy metal muzak" and "post neo-classical New Age pop rock"? Honestly, the world may not be ready for the answer.

Cooking with Braddy: Crock Pot Sammiches

This is weird, but I don't really like sandwiches. I know, I know. I must be un-freakin'-American, but it's true. It's not the presentation that bothers me - I mean, bread is great at turning just about anything into finger food, and that's cool. The problem is that I don't care much for lunch meat. Most sliced turkeys and hams and whatnots are processed beyond belief, and if you put even the thinnest slice of bologna in front of me I will end you. Hard.

However, that doesn't mean that I won't ever eat a sandwich, especially when I get it free from my loving folks. So my mom introduced me to this recipe she found on Pinterest and... well, okay, it's not REALLY a recipe as much as a preparation technique. Still, it's effective.

When making crock-pot sandwiches, you buy a loaf of bread and slice it up without cutting all the way through the bread. That way, you wind up with several pockets in which to stuff whatever "meats" you fancy. That... um... that pun was not intentional. I'm so, so sorry.

Anyway, my parents recommended (and I've also enjoyed in reproducing the recipe) stuffing your sandwiches with sliced mortadella with peppercorn, hard salami, and provolone. You can also add onions and other veggies. In fact, sweet peppers work really well. I would have included them the last time I made the sandwich, but someone had shoved my bottle of peppers to the back of the fridge, where they all froze in their own juices. It was tragic.

After your little sandwich pockets are full, you wrap the whole thing up tight in tin foil and set it in the crock pot. It's a good idea to put a little water in the bottom of the crock pot, but you'll need to elevate the sandwiches out of the wet if you do that. Little balls of tin foil work to that end. Then set your crock pot to "low" and go take a nap through True Grit or whatever it is you have to do.

When you're ready to eat, just pull the bread out and cut all the way through, so you wind up with a little, surprisingly moist (in a good way) sandwich. I've found that this way of preparing the sandwich helps you save on condiments, as you really shouldn't have to add much in the way of mustard or whatever to keep the sandwich from tasting too dry. Of course, without the sweet peppers, I felt there was so ring still missing, so I added mustard, anyway.

These sandwiches are a great way to pull a trick on your friends. Invite them over for dinners or whatever and tell them you're having "crock pot sandwiches." They'll be all set for Sloppy Joes or whatever, and their minds will be totally blown when you pull a loaf of bread out of the crock pot. Do it. It'll be fun.

Project 4: The Gravekeeper

I could have left behind
this cankered stone, near consumed
by ravenous ivy.
It could have all been different.

Then I wouldn't be here,
my back bent in two against
this fallen headstone, whose name
has flaked off with time.

But where would I be, if not here?
At university, I suppose -
One of those pleasant chapels of learning
with its tidy, busy students.

Or perhaps at a boisterous desk,
trapped behind screaming windows,
staring down at the
romping, rioting city below.

And then there's the etcetera:
the family package of spouse
and children, kitchen of squabbles.
Put in my time, then off to the retirement home.

And from there? Well,
from there I'd come back here -
one more corpse to feed the ivy,
while another stoops to lift my stone.

Unremarkable, perhaps, but better than
the quiet that comes with the company
of the dead. This is not that satisfied quiet
as when the radio has just switched off.

I could have left, yes. But
there's this stone - the only stone fallen
among hundreds.
How can I leave it?

In the years I have labored here,
not one soul has come to this spot.
No one complains to the groundskeeper
that their family is dishonored.

I would like to meet that soul,
that seven-times great-granddaughter or son.
"This was my kin," they'd say.
"Here lies the inventor of the cucumber sandwich."

These are the useless dead,
men and women of no notoriety.
They lived their dust decades, and serve their purpose
as food for the fungal kings.

I will stay with these unremarkable ones,
a supportive girdle about my back,
so that, in the end, I may lie down
next to this stone, that we may both
be consumed.

I really wanted to put this up last week, but then I got sick and lost all desire to write. This one really needed another draft on the written part before it wasa close to presentable. I wound up dong more of a quick spot-edit than a full on revision (except for a passage at the end that's brand-new and MUCH better than what it replaced), but it's really time to move on.

Believe it or not, this piece actually started a a novel idea several years ago. The last fantasy novel I ever attempted to write. Even with my current disgust with the fantasy genre, I think I may go back and attempt this one again one day - as it featured an unconventional heroine and a bit of a twist on the usual fantasy ending (the hero abandons the quest and the good guys lose). Well, I guess I CAN'T go back to it now. I just spoiled the ending. Oh, well.

I'm still trying to figure out how to best take advantage of the Procreate app for drawing. My usual technique for line work just doesn't fly as well on the iPad screen, and I'm still not that great with color. That said, aspects of this picture work really well (in my humble estimation). I'm especially pleased with the grave in the foreground.

Delirium

Let's see if I can explain this phenomenon better than... well, than I'm going to.

Despite the fact that the 2012-13 winter has been the most pestilential period in recent memory, I've made it through relatively unscathed. Until yesterday, that is. I go to bed Monday feeling fit as a fiddle and ready for love, and then I wake up Tuesday morning with the feeling that somebody snuck into my bedroom while I was asleep, stuck a bike pump in my mouth, and went at it until my head felt like it was trying to contain the relative volume of the state of Kansas.

I felt kinda miserable.

Now, after about three hours of that semi-vampiric existence that passes for "sleep" while you're sick, I find myself awake and tapping away at the keys, attempting to describe what happens to my brain when physical discomfort meets tempestuous restlessness. For one thing, my vocabulary apparently expands automatically. For another, my brain starts to interpret everything as a puzzle.

It's a bizarre feeling. If you could somehow interview my sick, sleeping self, on some nights you wold discover that I had become convinced that the cure to my illness could only be found by twisting my poor, mucus-laden body into the correct Tetris shapes at the appropriate moments during the night. It'd be a bizarre experience, watching a wretched invalid writhe between the sheets, coughing and wheezing and wondering why he can't turn himself into that straight piece that he so desperately needs.

Last night's ordeal (and I say "last night" with great sadness, as it is now a quarter to ungodly in the morning) manifested itself a little differently. Somehow, all the different parts of my body had convinced themselves that they had become afflicted with some manner of vile curse that could only be expelled by what I assume was some grotesque ritual sacrifice. Meanwhile, the last remaining rational part of my consciousness, manifested in my imagination as My Little Pony's Twilight Sparkle, attempted vainly to convince the superstitious and cowardly lot of my being that what I felt was, in fact, no curse, but a rare illness that could only be cured by solving a rather intricate logic grid puzzle.

Well, now that I've shared my current misfortune, I'm off to try to get back to sleep. Hopefully, this bizarre obsession with puzzles has been exorcised from my body for the night so I can get some real rest. More likely, though, the minute I close my eyes, I'll start trying to figure out how to place eight queens on a chessboard so that none are able to kill any of the others in a single move.

Oscar Night

I may have to start up a new tradition...

I was with a friend on Friday night, and, on a whim, we went to check out the Oscar nominated short films being shown at the Tower theater. We went with the intention of seeing the animated shorts, but we missed that screening. They still had a screening going for the live-action short films, so we decided to stay and catch these.

I'm going to make a bold statement here: Any one of these half-hour films was EXPONENTIALLY BETTER than all of the films I saw in the theaters in 2012.

Admittedly, that's probably not saying much. I saw some grand old films last year, but none of them were really Academy Award material. I mean, they were great films, but they're not exactly... highbrow. What I'm trying to say is that my taste in entertainment may be kind of pedestrian.

Still, that massive disclaimer aside, I thought these films were really good. I don't want to give too much away about these shorts, as the act of discovery was (for me) a huge part of their appeal. However, if you get the opportunity, O Faithful Blog Reader, I'd recommend you check 'em out:

Dood van een Schaduw (Death of a Shadow)

This Belgian film is probably the most "out there" of the bunch, which may be why it so absorbed me. the short opens with a scene of brutal violence - portrayed almost completely in silhouette. The story follows a frail young man who possesses a strange camera which allows him to capture the shadows of the dying. These death portraits he trades to a collector, who appraises the act of dying as though it were an artistic medium. Meanwhile, he finds himself taken with the memory of a young woman who at one time aided him, and he works to be reunited with her.

Henry

A French Canadian film, Henry tells the story of an aged pianist, who, on a casual walk through the city, encounters a mysterious stranger who warns him that he is being hunted. His first thought is for his wife, who suddenly vanishes. What the film lacks in subtlety, it makes up for in the strength of the performances. Also, it contains what is possibly my favorite on-screen kiss ever. Very touching.

Curfew

Curfew is the film I have the hardest time recommending. None of these films are rated, but Curfew would definitely be rated "R" for violence and language. That'd be a turn-off for most people I know (and it'd give me pause, too). But I LOVED this movie. Curfew is the story of a drug-addled young man who tries to connect with his estranged niece. The movie opens with a bloody attempted suicide, and, about halfway through, features a dance number in a bowling alley. If that tonal see-saw appeals to you, then I can whole-heartedly recommend Curfew. If it doesn't, then I would honestly have to say I understand your point of view, but you are missing out on an excellent story.

Buzkashi Boys

After a few minutes of Buzkashi Boys, I thought for sure I'd be seeing just an abridgment of The Kite Runner. Turns out I was just homing in on the superficial similarities between the two stories. Like The Kite Runner, Buzkashi Boys focuses on the friendship between two young boys in Afghanistan. One is the son of a stern blacksmith, the other an orphan. The two boys bond at a Buzkashi game (which is like polo, but, instead of a ball, the riders play with the carcass of a goat). The story has all the conventions of a standard, somewhat cliche childhood story, but throws in enough good stuff to make it a story worth telling in its own right. There's not a "twist" ending, per se, but I wouldn't plan on guessing how the film will end too early.

Asad

Is it strange that the most optimistic and lighthearted of these five films would feature a starving village, desperate pirates, several corpses and a possible rape-gang? Yet Asad is easily the most optimistic film of the bunch, setting its story of a small boy attempting to be a fisherman against the backdrop of an impoverished Somali village. Asad was put together by a cast of Somali refugees, which makes that optimism even more inspiring than it would be otherwise.br />
I can't tell which of the above films will take the award home (though my bet's on Buzkashi Boys). All five of the movies were really excellent, although there may have been TOO MUCH good stuff here. As short as these movies were, each contained enough thought-provoking material to keep a mind occupied for a week. Watching all five in a single sitting may have been an overdose. Darn good stuff.

Project 3: Monsters and Dating

The letter came in a simple brown envelope and smelled slightly of rotten lumber and a floral women's perfume.

"My Dear Dr. Hoffman," the letter began:

I hope this letter finds you well. I have often thought of our conversation that night at the D.E.M.O.N.* convention. I have spent many long hours thinking over your theories on the long-term benefits of peasant suppression, and I find myself desperate to know more. I would be very much interested in continuing our discussion at my chateau in Burblebank Swamp next weekend.

Aching to hear from you again,

Dr. Emilia Bethelstein

Dr. Ivan Hoffman leaned back in his chair and grinned, his lips parting wide to reveal a row of paper-colored teeth. Oh, he remembered Emilia - a woman who many thought to be far too young to rule even a small village. Already, though, the bulk of the mad scientist community accepted her for her radical yet efficacious means of splicing plant and animals tissue.

However, Hoffman remembered her more for the mad glimmer in her eyes when he talked about burning peasant huts in a geometric pattern, and for the way the light glistened off the section of exposed cranium above her left temple. Truly, Hoffman had never seen a more enchanting creature. He was more than flattered to accept her offer, and so he rung for his butler, Shambles.

The hulking brute dragged himself in on his wide, hairy knuckles. Shambles had been one of the doctor's first successful experiments in bringing dead tissue to life - he stitched Shambles together from the corpse of a large felon and some bits of dog he had found in the roadway. Although Shambles's days of enforcing the good doctor's will on a terrified countryside were long gone, the doctor still looked fondly on his oldest and dearest servant.

"Have you ever felt lonely, Shambles?" the doctor asked.

Shambles shook his head, his basset ears flopping from side to side. "I don't think so, sir."

"Imagine, if you can," the doctor said, "that, after a long day of toiling in the Gorgon Gardens, pulling weeds and dusting off statues, you went home and had someone there waiting for you."

Shambles nodded enthusiastically. "I pull a knife and run them through, just, like we did in Prague." He jerked the doctor's letter opener from the table and swung his arms to demonstrate.

"No, Shambles," the doctor said. "I mean someone you want to be there. A gentle, kindly someone. A wife, perhaps."

"Oh," Shambles said. He clenched his eyes shut and bit his lip. "Okay. I see it now."

"Now, imagine that person is suddenly gone."

Shambles peeked through one eye. "Did the intruder stab her?"

"No," the doctor said with a paternalistic smile. "She just left."

Shambles closed his eye again. It shot back open. "Is she coming back?"

The doctor shook his head.

"Am I'm sad?"

"Yes, Shambles," Hoffman said. "That's what it's like to be lonely."

"That's bad," Shambles said. "Who wants to be lonely?"

"Now," Hoffman said, idly rubbing the paper of the note between his fingers, "imagine that you had a chance to end that loneliness."

A small bead of sweat dripped down from Shambles's brow. His eyes snapped open and he frowned. "No good," he said. "Imagining is too hard."

Hoffman sighed. "Something less abstract, then." He stood up and walked around the table. "Imagine that your wife came back."

"You just said she wouldn't come back!" Shambles whimpered. "Now I have to re-imagine everything else from the beginning!"

"Never mind that," Hoffman snapped. He felt his temper slipping out of control. "It's a new wife, then."

"What's she look like?"

"Does it matter?"

"How can I imagine her if I don't know what she looks like?"

"The same as you last wife, then."

"Is she a twin?"

"No, a new woman."

"But she looks like the old one?"

"Yes."

"Where did she come from?"

"I don't know. Somewhere nice."

"How can I trust her if I don't know where she comes from?"

"I made her, all right?!"

"You can do that?"

"Of course I can!"

"And she looks just like the wife I imagined?"

"Exactly the same."

"And smells the same, too?"

"Why not?"

"And you would make he for me?"

"Easily done."

"Oh, thank you, Master!" Shambles bobbled up to the doctor and clasped his hand in gratitude.

"You are very... Wait, what?"

"When will she be ready?"

"Shambles, I think you misunderstood me..." The doctor clawed vainly to get a word in.

"I never have to be lonely again! Thank you, kind master!"

Somehow, this conversation had taken just the wrong turn. Hoffman sighed in surrender.

"I suppose I'll have some time this weekend."

Shambles shouted with joy and licked the doctor's hands. "How can I express my thanks, dear master?"

Hoffman absently toweled his hands off with the note from Emilia Bethelstein. When he noticed what it was, he gave it to Shambles. "Just send a response to this request that I will be unable to attend. I'll be busy," he said, his lip twisted into a sneer, "with work."

Shambles gave a short bow, already halfway turned around to leave the room. On his way out, he kept as high as his massive size would allow him and clicked his heels together two inches above the floor.

Hoffman sank down in his chair with a sigh. For a moment, he thought on Emilia, and he felt a twinge of longing as he imagined staring into her cranial dome again. Thoughts of work soon swarmed into his mind, and, without even registering a change in temperament, he began to sketch wildly on a notepad.

"Let's see," he said, "I'll need to find the body of a tightrope walker and a poodle..."


* - That's "Despotic Enclave of Monarchs and Orders Nefarious," for those not familiar with the international fraternities of those villainously inclined.

Okay, so I'm a little behind. But the point of a goal is something to work towards, not necessarily achieve right out the gate, right?

*cough*

I don't know that I'll be able to manage many short stories like this one. It took a lot longer than I was expecting, and the final product is not something I'm terribly satisfied with. I still think there's something here worth exploring... but this isn't it.

The picture was fun though. I've spent so much time fiddling around with my iPad that I'd nearly forgotten how much fun it is to draw with pen and paper. I'll be doing a few more pictures like this coming up, I think.

Poem of the Week

Dirty Face

By Shel Silverstein

Where did you get such a dirty face,
My darling dirty-faced child?

I got it from crawling along in the dirt
And biting two buttons off Jeremy’s shirt.
I got it from chewing the roots of a rose
And digging for clams in the yard with my nose.
I got it from peeking into a dark cave
And painting myself like a Navajo brave.
I got it from playing with coal in the bin
And signing my name in cement with my chin.
I got if from rolling around on the rug
And giving the horrible dog a big hug.
I got it from finding a lost silver mine
And eating sweet blackberries right off the vine.
I got it from ice cream and wrestling and tears
And from having more fun than you’ve had in years.

***

Poems about children aren't for children, I don't think. I mean, yeah, kids like to see reflections of themselves in the media they consume, I'm sure. I mean, who doesn't? Except for those filled with incredible self-loathing, I mean.

But there's always that obligatory dig at grown-ups at the end of these poems, which makes me think that they're really meant to be read by adults. Maybe it's just me. Maybe I'm the only one who thinks this. But yeah, I can't help but think that adults, for some reason, LIKE getting the piss taken out of them.