Dear Mom,
Life is really tough for me right now and I wish I had you here to give me guidance and support.
I can remember seeing you go through some very difficult times in your own life while you were still alive, and though you're not here anymore, I still draw on those experiences for strength when I need it.
Mom, I turn 30 in a few weeks and it looks like my job is on the rocks. Also, the woman I was in love with has now moved on to someone else, and I am left to deal with all of these things alone, with only my internal resources as assistance.
Sure, there have been times in the past where I've had to 'man up' and dig deep for the motivation I needed to press on, to get out of bed and to face another day. But for some reason it just gets harder and harder as the time passes and the anxiety in my life mounts.
There are very few things surrounding me that I can look to and appreciate. I have difficulty in seeing the positive in things when most of what my eyes take in is gray and shadowy. It's as if all I perceive is painted in malaise; even the most beautiful rose would not please my eyes like it once did.
Anyway, I hope you're well wherever you are. Know that I am thinking of you, and that I love you, and that I will continue to live on through this regardless of how heavy my heart feels or how much my soul weeps.
Give Buster a kiss on the nose for me. :)
Forever Your Son,
Bret
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
'Hot redheaded man' is NOT an oxymoron!
Prepare for 29 years of ginger RAGE to all spill out onto one post. You have been warned.
________________________________________
I HAVE HAD IT.
For the past 20+ years I have been thought of as a human anomaly based solely on the fact that my hair is an orange/auburn color and I have freckles on my skin.
You name it, I have heard it:
- "Red on the head like a #$^& on a dog"
- "Firecrotch"
- "Ginger"
- "Carrot Top" (This one always amused me because the tops of carrots are GREEN)
- "Big Red" (began after I started lifting weights )
- "Fanta pants"
- "Red-headed stepchild"
- ...at least a dozen others.
I am here now making my proclamation that I am an AWESOME redheaded guy who is not only good-looking, but who can also rip your damn phone book in half. Twice. That is, if you needed your phone book ripped in half for whatever reason. I don't just go around ripping phone books in half.
I also happen to be very intelligent. Don't believe me? Ok, then. Fine. I challenge to you to find a grammatical, syntactical or spelling error ANYWHERE on this post. Don't even try, because I got a 750 score on the verbal part of my SAT. So THERE. What did YOU get? And if your score WAS higher than mine, is your hair red? I didn't think so.
Look - less than 3% of the population in sum here on earth has red hair. That includes hot chicks from Ireland. And, that number is shrinking. Current estimates point to the year 2250 for the general time when there will no longer be identifiable redheads in existence.
DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS?
That means you really have only about 241 years to enjoy the company of this dying species. We are a hallmark archetype of the Human Instance and so WHAT if we burn easy or have near-transparent body hair. That just means we're solar-sensitive and less chromatic when it comes to the hue of our bodies. SO SUE US.
Let's consider some very popular redheaded men:
- Ron Howard
- Conan O'Brian
- Me
I guess my point in posting this is to engage the general Denver public in a discussion about the merits of redheads. We are an unstoppable force of ginger power and we will continue to be prominent anthropological beacons for ALL cultures to admire. Well, at least for the next 241 years.
You want to know what is even more awesome about this post? I am actually SINGLE and RELATIVELY YOUNG (29 is the new 24).
I also have a few freckles in unmentionable places which I believe also makes me pretty awesome. Those few freckles actually emanate a ginger-specific power that only redheads know about. It's true. I'll show you sometime if we get to know each other REALLY well. I have one freckle that is shaped like a butterfly. Swear to god.
ASK A BLOND DUDE IF HE HAS A FRECKLE IN THE SHAPE OF A BUTTERFLY. I BET YOU HE WILL SAY 'NO'.
He will probably also look at you funny and walk away.
However, I will not. I'm a nice guy.
I'm a nice, redheaded, sincere, slightly neurotic guy, actually.
________________________________________
I HAVE HAD IT.
For the past 20+ years I have been thought of as a human anomaly based solely on the fact that my hair is an orange/auburn color and I have freckles on my skin.
You name it, I have heard it:
- "Red on the head like a #$^& on a dog"
- "Firecrotch"
- "Ginger"
- "Carrot Top" (This one always amused me because the tops of carrots are GREEN)
- "Big Red" (began after I started lifting weights )
- "Fanta pants"
- "Red-headed stepchild"
- ...at least a dozen others.
I am here now making my proclamation that I am an AWESOME redheaded guy who is not only good-looking, but who can also rip your damn phone book in half. Twice. That is, if you needed your phone book ripped in half for whatever reason. I don't just go around ripping phone books in half.
I also happen to be very intelligent. Don't believe me? Ok, then. Fine. I challenge to you to find a grammatical, syntactical or spelling error ANYWHERE on this post. Don't even try, because I got a 750 score on the verbal part of my SAT. So THERE. What did YOU get? And if your score WAS higher than mine, is your hair red? I didn't think so.
Look - less than 3% of the population in sum here on earth has red hair. That includes hot chicks from Ireland. And, that number is shrinking. Current estimates point to the year 2250 for the general time when there will no longer be identifiable redheads in existence.
DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS?
That means you really have only about 241 years to enjoy the company of this dying species. We are a hallmark archetype of the Human Instance and so WHAT if we burn easy or have near-transparent body hair. That just means we're solar-sensitive and less chromatic when it comes to the hue of our bodies. SO SUE US.
Let's consider some very popular redheaded men:
- Ron Howard
- Conan O'Brian
- Me
I guess my point in posting this is to engage the general Denver public in a discussion about the merits of redheads. We are an unstoppable force of ginger power and we will continue to be prominent anthropological beacons for ALL cultures to admire. Well, at least for the next 241 years.
You want to know what is even more awesome about this post? I am actually SINGLE and RELATIVELY YOUNG (29 is the new 24).
I also have a few freckles in unmentionable places which I believe also makes me pretty awesome. Those few freckles actually emanate a ginger-specific power that only redheads know about. It's true. I'll show you sometime if we get to know each other REALLY well. I have one freckle that is shaped like a butterfly. Swear to god.
ASK A BLOND DUDE IF HE HAS A FRECKLE IN THE SHAPE OF A BUTTERFLY. I BET YOU HE WILL SAY 'NO'.
He will probably also look at you funny and walk away.
However, I will not. I'm a nice guy.
I'm a nice, redheaded, sincere, slightly neurotic guy, actually.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Monica Fell
A brown styrofoam cup time has chipped at the rim
Keeps the strangers' change together, held by fingers long and thin
The weathered woman sighs, sitting alone in the park
Quietly she weeps counting regrets through the dark
Dawn breaks softly and its new light stings the eyes
Of Monica Alper, homeless white female, age sixty-five
The birds and the businessmen both spring from their hiding
The woman draws her pen and her paper; a clear mind begins writing
Things weren't always this way for this failed life in dismay
Thoughts trickle out now of memories that can't be erased
What exactly went wrong is remarkably clear
Though not cared for today, her words fall on deaf ears
So a tired, spiral notebook plays canvas for words
Writ in blue ink, the color a parallel to her hurt
As the fog lifts slowly from the drab cityscape
Monica scribbles on what will be the book's only missing page
"Sixteen and dreaming somewhere in Maine" she slowly writes
"Aced all my classes, entered college and found Christ"
"Majored in finance, got a man, a car and all that..."
Tears well in her eyes as the story turns black
The morning sky ripens to blue and the streets burst with new life
The woman scratches a spot on her back, using a plastic butter knife
Taxis start honking and cops start chatting over coffee
A new day has broke, as has the heart of Monica, softly
She returns to her writing and ignores the many glances
Of those walking by, their polished lives so enchanted
"A day would come soon from which there was no going back"
And soon she began detailing her addiction to crack
"At the time I got hooked, my daughter was five"
Before she got any further she took a moment to cry
A stranger en route to a meeting across town
Finds a quarter in his pocket and tosses it down
Monica manages a smile for the man dressed in gray
Who just nods and proceeds briskly along on his way
The woman takes a brief moment to use the back of her hand
To make waste of the tears as best as she can
"After trying so hard..." her threshold of pain at it's limit,
"My husband intervened, I was admitted to a clinic."
"6 weeks of therapy...oh the pain," she wrote with a frown
"That insult they call methodone - was all I was allowed"
And she continued to describe, with painful detail
How hard she fought for her life - blood, sweat, tooth and nail
As the day draws on and the mounting sorrow she feels mounts
She gets the compulsion that morning to end her days in that town
Monica stands smartly from her stoop near the stairs
And abandons her bags, shaking the sand from her hair
She tears from her notebook, the page she had written
And crushes it into a ball, concealed in her mitten
"There isn't room for me here now, no...not with this past"
She thinks to herself as she walks through the grass
The page from her notebook still clenched in her fist
She makes a beeline to where the nearest train station is
"Here's to you, Jack - I'm sorry I failed you"
She whispers to herself under a signed marked, "Rail 2"
"I did what I could and still ended up here"
And at that very moment, Monica released all her fears
Standing upright with her dignity's remains
All pooled together, she hears the oncoming train
With a final, frim grip on the ball of paper she held
She smiled as she stepped, and to the end Monica fell.
Keeps the strangers' change together, held by fingers long and thin
The weathered woman sighs, sitting alone in the park
Quietly she weeps counting regrets through the dark
Dawn breaks softly and its new light stings the eyes
Of Monica Alper, homeless white female, age sixty-five
The birds and the businessmen both spring from their hiding
The woman draws her pen and her paper; a clear mind begins writing
Things weren't always this way for this failed life in dismay
Thoughts trickle out now of memories that can't be erased
What exactly went wrong is remarkably clear
Though not cared for today, her words fall on deaf ears
So a tired, spiral notebook plays canvas for words
Writ in blue ink, the color a parallel to her hurt
As the fog lifts slowly from the drab cityscape
Monica scribbles on what will be the book's only missing page
"Sixteen and dreaming somewhere in Maine" she slowly writes
"Aced all my classes, entered college and found Christ"
"Majored in finance, got a man, a car and all that..."
Tears well in her eyes as the story turns black
The morning sky ripens to blue and the streets burst with new life
The woman scratches a spot on her back, using a plastic butter knife
Taxis start honking and cops start chatting over coffee
A new day has broke, as has the heart of Monica, softly
She returns to her writing and ignores the many glances
Of those walking by, their polished lives so enchanted
"A day would come soon from which there was no going back"
And soon she began detailing her addiction to crack
"At the time I got hooked, my daughter was five"
Before she got any further she took a moment to cry
A stranger en route to a meeting across town
Finds a quarter in his pocket and tosses it down
Monica manages a smile for the man dressed in gray
Who just nods and proceeds briskly along on his way
The woman takes a brief moment to use the back of her hand
To make waste of the tears as best as she can
"After trying so hard..." her threshold of pain at it's limit,
"My husband intervened, I was admitted to a clinic."
"6 weeks of therapy...oh the pain," she wrote with a frown
"That insult they call methodone - was all I was allowed"
And she continued to describe, with painful detail
How hard she fought for her life - blood, sweat, tooth and nail
As the day draws on and the mounting sorrow she feels mounts
She gets the compulsion that morning to end her days in that town
Monica stands smartly from her stoop near the stairs
And abandons her bags, shaking the sand from her hair
She tears from her notebook, the page she had written
And crushes it into a ball, concealed in her mitten
"There isn't room for me here now, no...not with this past"
She thinks to herself as she walks through the grass
The page from her notebook still clenched in her fist
She makes a beeline to where the nearest train station is
"Here's to you, Jack - I'm sorry I failed you"
She whispers to herself under a signed marked, "Rail 2"
"I did what I could and still ended up here"
And at that very moment, Monica released all her fears
Standing upright with her dignity's remains
All pooled together, she hears the oncoming train
With a final, frim grip on the ball of paper she held
She smiled as she stepped, and to the end Monica fell.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Road to Home
Now 35 in dog years, Luger's adventures had only begun.
He trotted along the side of the road not noticing much as he went, aside from the occasional dead squirrel or spent food container that happened to pass. It was a beautiful, sunny, summer afternoon in Tennessee and the 5 year-old black Labrador Retriever hadn't a care in the world.
At times the wind would bring a peculiar scent to his nose that would spark some curiosity, but Luger's focus was on the road. He had left that strange, confining place where he was picked at by young children and deprived of food for sometimes days at a time. Back home, the rain fell hard through the chicken wire 'roof' and happiness amongst the litter was rare. Finally, Luger had had enough of the sleepless nights spent along side his brethren and took to breaking out, via a chain link vulnerability near his sleeping pad. It had been 10 days or so since his emancipation.
So now...there was nothing to do but venture forth. It was sort of like Luger's coming of age, since he hadn't ever seen land outside of the 10 acres his prior masters owned in Chattanooga. Even as dusk fell and he felt his tender paws ache for rest, as the setting country sun shone pink and orange down on his snout, thinking back to the family he left behind evoked no remorse - Luger was a free dog.
Cresting a long, slow hill in anticipation of a night's sleep perhaps in a tree hollow somewhere, Luger spotted something interesting off in the distance. It appeared to be a rustling of sorts, in a thicket of brush that bordered the dirt road. From his position about 100 yards away, Luger could make out two human figures; one of them was much, much larger than the other and the two were engaged in some sort of struggle. Luger decided to investigate.
"yell yell yell yell yell yell yell!!" heard Luger, as he broached the scene.
"Yell? YELL YELL!! Yell yell yell yell!," came the reply from the other human.
The larger human wrestled the smaller one to the ground and knelt atop him. Luger kept his distance, though his presence was noticed by both of the humans.
"Yell? Yell!! YELL YELL!!," came more cacophony from the humans.
Soon the larger human began hitting the smaller one, bringing his arms and hands down with such force that the sounds of impact made Luger cringe. Soon his instincts got the best of him and Luger felt the hair on his back rise like it did when the boys back home got too rough with him. Setting his sights on the larger human, Luger sprang forth and launched himself at the attacker, barreling towards the two of them at full speed.
Teeth bared and eyes wide, Luger leaped at the taller man and caught his left arm between his jaws, clamping down hard and mashing his eyelids shut. The feeling of flesh being pierced by his teeth and the resulting cry from the man only fueled Luger's rage. Soon the two humans were separated, with the larger one now trying his best to fend off this wild, attacking animal.
Luger shook his head violently while still gripping at the man's upper arm. His tooth hold was lost when the man shook him off, sending Luger to the ground with a mouthful of flannel from the human's shirt, and a good amount of blood on his teeth. The coppery taste was familiar.
For a moment there was silence.
The two humans looked at each other, the smaller of them still on the ground, about 10 feet away from the larger one.
"Yell! Yell yell yell, yell yell yell yell yell. Yell, yell yell. YELL!!" screamed the larger human to the smaller one.
Then, the larger human pushed a hand against his injured arm, turned and began jogging briskly away.
Luger turned and glanced over at the small human laying in the dirt. It was a young boy...blond hair, dirty face, wearing overalls and a backpack.
"Say there, buddy...what's your name?" the boy inquired.
Luger sat and wagged his tail. For a moment the boy was at a loss for words.
He looked into the dogs eyes; Luger looked back.
"Come on. Let's go," he said, "We're late for supper."
And with that, Luger and his new master trotted off to begin their lives together.
He trotted along the side of the road not noticing much as he went, aside from the occasional dead squirrel or spent food container that happened to pass. It was a beautiful, sunny, summer afternoon in Tennessee and the 5 year-old black Labrador Retriever hadn't a care in the world.
At times the wind would bring a peculiar scent to his nose that would spark some curiosity, but Luger's focus was on the road. He had left that strange, confining place where he was picked at by young children and deprived of food for sometimes days at a time. Back home, the rain fell hard through the chicken wire 'roof' and happiness amongst the litter was rare. Finally, Luger had had enough of the sleepless nights spent along side his brethren and took to breaking out, via a chain link vulnerability near his sleeping pad. It had been 10 days or so since his emancipation.
So now...there was nothing to do but venture forth. It was sort of like Luger's coming of age, since he hadn't ever seen land outside of the 10 acres his prior masters owned in Chattanooga. Even as dusk fell and he felt his tender paws ache for rest, as the setting country sun shone pink and orange down on his snout, thinking back to the family he left behind evoked no remorse - Luger was a free dog.
Cresting a long, slow hill in anticipation of a night's sleep perhaps in a tree hollow somewhere, Luger spotted something interesting off in the distance. It appeared to be a rustling of sorts, in a thicket of brush that bordered the dirt road. From his position about 100 yards away, Luger could make out two human figures; one of them was much, much larger than the other and the two were engaged in some sort of struggle. Luger decided to investigate.
"yell yell yell yell yell yell yell!!" heard Luger, as he broached the scene.
"Yell? YELL YELL!! Yell yell yell yell!," came the reply from the other human.
The larger human wrestled the smaller one to the ground and knelt atop him. Luger kept his distance, though his presence was noticed by both of the humans.
"Yell? Yell!! YELL YELL!!," came more cacophony from the humans.
Soon the larger human began hitting the smaller one, bringing his arms and hands down with such force that the sounds of impact made Luger cringe. Soon his instincts got the best of him and Luger felt the hair on his back rise like it did when the boys back home got too rough with him. Setting his sights on the larger human, Luger sprang forth and launched himself at the attacker, barreling towards the two of them at full speed.
Teeth bared and eyes wide, Luger leaped at the taller man and caught his left arm between his jaws, clamping down hard and mashing his eyelids shut. The feeling of flesh being pierced by his teeth and the resulting cry from the man only fueled Luger's rage. Soon the two humans were separated, with the larger one now trying his best to fend off this wild, attacking animal.
Luger shook his head violently while still gripping at the man's upper arm. His tooth hold was lost when the man shook him off, sending Luger to the ground with a mouthful of flannel from the human's shirt, and a good amount of blood on his teeth. The coppery taste was familiar.
For a moment there was silence.
The two humans looked at each other, the smaller of them still on the ground, about 10 feet away from the larger one.
"Yell! Yell yell yell, yell yell yell yell yell. Yell, yell yell. YELL!!" screamed the larger human to the smaller one.
Then, the larger human pushed a hand against his injured arm, turned and began jogging briskly away.
Luger turned and glanced over at the small human laying in the dirt. It was a young boy...blond hair, dirty face, wearing overalls and a backpack.
"Say there, buddy...what's your name?" the boy inquired.
Luger sat and wagged his tail. For a moment the boy was at a loss for words.
He looked into the dogs eyes; Luger looked back.
"Come on. Let's go," he said, "We're late for supper."
And with that, Luger and his new master trotted off to begin their lives together.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
To the Woman Who Threw Hot Coffee in my Face Yesterday
I am equal parts confused and frustrated.
You didn't even give me a chance to explain myself!
My day started simply enough; I wasn't expecting to be following you into work on I-25, obliviously sipping on my grande Chai latte (2%) and listening to some program on NPR about gays in the military. In case you were wondering I am not gay.
Anyway, why did you have to have a bumper sticker on your '99 Honda Civic that read: "If you're going to ride my ass, at least pull my hair"? I mean, is that not an invitation for a guy like me, brimming with testosterone and foolishly acting on my instincts, to want to drive up beside you, just to see if you're hot or not?
I mean, COME ON! Can you say 'INVITATION'?
Well, once I did manage to get a look at you, I realized you were pretty smokin'. I guess I didn't think you worked in the same building I did. You had both hands on the wheel, at 10 and 2 exactly, with your gorgeous eyes focused keenly on the road. God...safe drivers are SO sexy.
When we both showed up to work at the same time, I wasn't sure if you knew who I was. I mean, I work in sales and you're probably an HR person or something (though that would certainly be interesting considering your taste in bumper stickers).
I thought that when I caught up to you and said "Hey!" that I'd then be able to come up with some witty comment about the traffic that morning but NOOOOO. I had to totally fuck up and say what I did: "If I was riding your ass, I know *I'd* pull your hair!!"
My big, toothy grin following that comment was, I thought, sure to win you over. Plus, wasn't what I said at least somewhat funny?
Apparently NOT as you proceeded to dump your 20 ounces of piping hot hazelnut coffee right on my face! I mean, OW!!
After dealing with the indescribable pain I experienced as your boiling brown beverage coursed down my face and all over my pressed outfit, I found myself feeling sorry for you because now, you didn't have any coffee to drink. Not one drop.
You didn't even look back as you made your way up the stairs and into the building.
Now, aside from being busy nursing my second degree burns, I'm sad.
The people in the ER were very nice to me. And, as tempted as I was to comment on the nurses excellent choice of perfume, I did realize that she had a tray of syringes next to her, and I didn't want THOSE thrown in my face, too.
Oh well.
I hope you got a refill and had a good day.
:)
You didn't even give me a chance to explain myself!
My day started simply enough; I wasn't expecting to be following you into work on I-25, obliviously sipping on my grande Chai latte (2%) and listening to some program on NPR about gays in the military. In case you were wondering I am not gay.
Anyway, why did you have to have a bumper sticker on your '99 Honda Civic that read: "If you're going to ride my ass, at least pull my hair"? I mean, is that not an invitation for a guy like me, brimming with testosterone and foolishly acting on my instincts, to want to drive up beside you, just to see if you're hot or not?
I mean, COME ON! Can you say 'INVITATION'?
Well, once I did manage to get a look at you, I realized you were pretty smokin'. I guess I didn't think you worked in the same building I did. You had both hands on the wheel, at 10 and 2 exactly, with your gorgeous eyes focused keenly on the road. God...safe drivers are SO sexy.
When we both showed up to work at the same time, I wasn't sure if you knew who I was. I mean, I work in sales and you're probably an HR person or something (though that would certainly be interesting considering your taste in bumper stickers).
I thought that when I caught up to you and said "Hey!" that I'd then be able to come up with some witty comment about the traffic that morning but NOOOOO. I had to totally fuck up and say what I did: "If I was riding your ass, I know *I'd* pull your hair!!"
My big, toothy grin following that comment was, I thought, sure to win you over. Plus, wasn't what I said at least somewhat funny?
Apparently NOT as you proceeded to dump your 20 ounces of piping hot hazelnut coffee right on my face! I mean, OW!!
After dealing with the indescribable pain I experienced as your boiling brown beverage coursed down my face and all over my pressed outfit, I found myself feeling sorry for you because now, you didn't have any coffee to drink. Not one drop.
You didn't even look back as you made your way up the stairs and into the building.
Now, aside from being busy nursing my second degree burns, I'm sad.
The people in the ER were very nice to me. And, as tempted as I was to comment on the nurses excellent choice of perfume, I did realize that she had a tray of syringes next to her, and I didn't want THOSE thrown in my face, too.
Oh well.
I hope you got a refill and had a good day.
:)
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Raid on the Sentry
A mountain of dead bodies and spent artillery casings separates the squad of footmen from their attackers, positioned about 2-3 miles from the squad's position near the eastern river embankment.
It's impossible to hear anything being said by anyone in the foxhole - hand gestures and chickenscratch on dirty, tiny notepads are the only effective means of communication.
Incoming mortar blasts and small rounds fire pepper the area. The half-dozen or so soldiers nesting in their earthen keep wait for the blasts to die down before attempting to communicate a plan for the next maneuver.
A small ridge about 300 yards north from their position affords the only semblance of protection for any advancement towards the enemy. The men in the foxhole decide to uproot their makeshift base and relocate to within sniping distance, along the foothills.
There is now 30 seconds or so between mortar rounds. The air is less riddled with flying bullets than it was earlier that morning, giving the soldiers an all-too-tempting window of opportunity to act.
The move is on. The bags are packed, the boots begin a quick march up a steep grade.
Soggy, sticky dirt-mud flies with each footstep. Somewhere close by a soldier gets his right leg ripped completely off by a land mine explosion. His cries die quickly as he does.
The men from the foxhole are about half-way to their new position. Their fear of death withstanding, they see the ridge fast approaching and quicken their pace with optimism.
A prime position amongst the foothills is obtained by the squad. The lead sniper unpacks his weapon and begins assembling it, still waiting on orders for where to point his death dealer.
For now, things are safer. The enemy doesn't know of the squad's whereabouts and the team has the slight advantage of surprise on their side.
Soon the wind dies down. Sun is setting in the west and time to point and pull is growing thin.
Sniper receives instructions, takes aim. He takes a deep breath and begins exhaling slowly. Target is in the crosshairs. The soldiers anticipate the sharp crack made by the discharged sniper round.
It comes. The bullet flies. The target has been disposed.
***
"I think you're making the right decision," Gail said as Henry finished signing his name on the document.
"They'll take excellent care of you here. I just know it."
Gail handed the signed agreement back across the desk and stood up to leave.
"Henry will be ready to move in sometime next month...I'll let you know exactly when."
The admissions clerk for the Huntington Beach Assisted Living Community smiled softly and nodded as the two left her office.
It's impossible to hear anything being said by anyone in the foxhole - hand gestures and chickenscratch on dirty, tiny notepads are the only effective means of communication.
Incoming mortar blasts and small rounds fire pepper the area. The half-dozen or so soldiers nesting in their earthen keep wait for the blasts to die down before attempting to communicate a plan for the next maneuver.
A small ridge about 300 yards north from their position affords the only semblance of protection for any advancement towards the enemy. The men in the foxhole decide to uproot their makeshift base and relocate to within sniping distance, along the foothills.
There is now 30 seconds or so between mortar rounds. The air is less riddled with flying bullets than it was earlier that morning, giving the soldiers an all-too-tempting window of opportunity to act.
The move is on. The bags are packed, the boots begin a quick march up a steep grade.
Soggy, sticky dirt-mud flies with each footstep. Somewhere close by a soldier gets his right leg ripped completely off by a land mine explosion. His cries die quickly as he does.
The men from the foxhole are about half-way to their new position. Their fear of death withstanding, they see the ridge fast approaching and quicken their pace with optimism.
A prime position amongst the foothills is obtained by the squad. The lead sniper unpacks his weapon and begins assembling it, still waiting on orders for where to point his death dealer.
For now, things are safer. The enemy doesn't know of the squad's whereabouts and the team has the slight advantage of surprise on their side.
Soon the wind dies down. Sun is setting in the west and time to point and pull is growing thin.
Sniper receives instructions, takes aim. He takes a deep breath and begins exhaling slowly. Target is in the crosshairs. The soldiers anticipate the sharp crack made by the discharged sniper round.
It comes. The bullet flies. The target has been disposed.
***
"I think you're making the right decision," Gail said as Henry finished signing his name on the document.
"They'll take excellent care of you here. I just know it."
Gail handed the signed agreement back across the desk and stood up to leave.
"Henry will be ready to move in sometime next month...I'll let you know exactly when."
The admissions clerk for the Huntington Beach Assisted Living Community smiled softly and nodded as the two left her office.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
The Most Delicious Apple Ever
Imagine if you will, the perfect field.
It is spanning, green, fertile and full of life. There are crickets, rabbits, wheat, life-giving soil and...most notably...there is a lone apple tree right in the middle.
This apple tree has been around for years, however it is not until just this morning that this tree has borne an apple that is the most delicious, most perfect apple ever.
It hangs delicately from it's branch, glistening in the morning sun and almost ethereal in it's flawlessness. The shape is geometrically perfect. The texture of it's skin is smooth and moist, and its color is so remarkable that any person walking by would be immediately drawn to it whether they were famished or not.
Yes, this is the most delicious apple ever created, and here it dangles, innocently and almost mockingly - as if to boast it's superiority among all other apples. A perfect apple on a perfect tree in a perfect field on a perfect morning; if only there were any humans around to appreciate it.
In 1 weeks time, this apple will fall from it's branch, smack the earth with a thud, become bruised by the impact and slowly start rotting away to eventually become a brownish black heap of organic slurry. It's seeds will be ensconced by the earth and it's skin will be consumed by whatever insects are lucky enough to stumble upon it's corpse.
In a month - this, the most perfect of all apples to have ever sprouted from their trees, will die.
And no one will know.
And life will go on.
And futures traders in their high-rise corner offices in Manhattan will proceed with their monetarily-fueled lives.
And wars will continue to rage.
And economies will continue to dictate the happiness of citizens.
And lions in Africa will continue to seek out the weakest of the gazelles, in order to themselves live another day.
...and all reality will be ignorant to the rise and fall of the most delicious apple ever.
It is spanning, green, fertile and full of life. There are crickets, rabbits, wheat, life-giving soil and...most notably...there is a lone apple tree right in the middle.
This apple tree has been around for years, however it is not until just this morning that this tree has borne an apple that is the most delicious, most perfect apple ever.
It hangs delicately from it's branch, glistening in the morning sun and almost ethereal in it's flawlessness. The shape is geometrically perfect. The texture of it's skin is smooth and moist, and its color is so remarkable that any person walking by would be immediately drawn to it whether they were famished or not.
Yes, this is the most delicious apple ever created, and here it dangles, innocently and almost mockingly - as if to boast it's superiority among all other apples. A perfect apple on a perfect tree in a perfect field on a perfect morning; if only there were any humans around to appreciate it.
In 1 weeks time, this apple will fall from it's branch, smack the earth with a thud, become bruised by the impact and slowly start rotting away to eventually become a brownish black heap of organic slurry. It's seeds will be ensconced by the earth and it's skin will be consumed by whatever insects are lucky enough to stumble upon it's corpse.
In a month - this, the most perfect of all apples to have ever sprouted from their trees, will die.
And no one will know.
And life will go on.
And futures traders in their high-rise corner offices in Manhattan will proceed with their monetarily-fueled lives.
And wars will continue to rage.
And economies will continue to dictate the happiness of citizens.
And lions in Africa will continue to seek out the weakest of the gazelles, in order to themselves live another day.
...and all reality will be ignorant to the rise and fall of the most delicious apple ever.
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