The Missionary

Sometime in the late 1600s (the exact year is not certain), a Spaniard by the name of José Sanchez Martinez Guadalupe México Éstrada Velázquez left an anonymous port city in Spain, and floated over to New Spain, somewhere in the general vicinity of Venezuela. For continence’s sake, his name is José, because it’s rather an ordeal to type his whole name. José was a missionary. He had been accused by several people of being a Jew, and so took a job as a missionary to the new world in order to bring the light of Christ to the Indians, and also prove he was not a Jew. Coincidentally, most of his accusers actually were Jews, trying to get those damn Catholics off their back by accusing someone else. Not a totally unreasonable (or original) idea. Now back to Venezuela. José was actually having a rather good time there, raping, pillaging, and generally bringing the loving grace of Jesus to the savages. The only reason he hadn’t been skinned alive so far was the large company of rather burly, fearsome conquistadors who seemed to follow him everywhere. They even slept in his tent and watched him go to the bathroom. These guys were watching out for any funny stuff. José didn’t exactly understand what funny stuff was, as he was a rather boring character and without a sense of humour.

The first time the conquistadors left, some funny stuff happened. José was sitting in his tent, thinking of the Virgin Mary and touching himself, when he heard a large amount of clamour from outside. He cussed, crossed himself, then looked out of his tent. A large crowd of Indians was throwing a large picture of Jesus donated by the church into the fire. One might expect a missionary to have a natural impulse to stop such a sacrilegious act, but José was no normal missionary. Instead of taking action, he crawled back into his tent and shivered. He was more scared of the Indians then he was of God.

After a short period of time, the Indians realized that the conquistadors had left their padre in the camp. They then proceeded to knock him out, tie him up, and drag him to their village. These Indians, rather than being enlightened as to the idea of Jesus being our saviour, were rather miffed at the Spaniards, and rightly so. What with the encomienda and the diseases, they had lost half of their tribe already. So, in an act of revenge, they bopped José rather hard on the head with a large stick. They did this right after he had woken up from being knocked out, and so his only memory was of a dark-skinned man swiftly bringing a large stick towards his head. However, this was soon forgotten, along with pretty much everything else he knew, which, in all honesty, was not a lot. Anyhow, he had no idea that he was Spanish, or that he was a missionary, or even that he was José Sanchez Martinez Guadalupe México Éstrada Velázquez. He had suffered a terrible concussion as a result of prior bop to the head, and this had resulted in a powerful amnesia. José, still being rather stupid, and even more so now, however, assumed he was one of the Indians. Remarkably, he could still speak Spanish rather fluently, and conjugate all of his verbs correctly, even the irregulars. The Indians knew Spanish also, and, realizing that this man could be useful, adopted him in. Later on, they would manage to kill the conquistadors, a Herculean feat by all standards, but that is irrelevant to the story.

The Indians taught José their customs and language, and like most stupid people, José was an extremely good follower, and caught on very fast. They even gave him a new name, Saquilla, which meant, roughly, “dirty foreigner asshole”. The Indians told him that it meant, “honored one”. They were good liars, and great salesmen. They sold Saquilla the idea of driving those bastard Spanish out of their homeland. In time, Saquilla became the greatest revolutionary Indian leader, mostly functioning off his one talent, the ability to stare at something for an extremely long time. All important historians agree that this is the truth. All the rest of them thought it was hilarious, and were therefore deemed unimportant.

After a defeat by the new conquistadors shipped in from Spain, Saquilla and his men had taken to hiding in the jungle, a hard task, seeing as the jungle was rather small. He invented the ingenious style of guerilla warfare, destroying the Spaniards. But they just kept on coming. It seemed Spain was fighting a war of attrition. Eventually, Saquilla’s army consisted of Saquilla, and thirteen Indians in loincloths, with small clubs.

Saquilla was captured and sent to Spain, were he was hanged for being a Jew.

The Fugitive

John sat huddled up in an abandoned cellar near some cornfield in the Midwest. He was a nervous man, a man with nothing to do but run. The government was after him, and the police, and the FBI, and the CIA, and NASA, and a mess of other important organizations of important people doing important things. As everybody else seemed to realize, however, none of this was actually happening. Sure, he was in a cellar in the Midwest. Sure he THOUGHT they were after him. Maybe they were. But to the average person on the street, nobody was chasing John. To the average person on the street, John’s entire existence was unknown and, truly, unneeded.

He had had a family before he ran off. They cried when he left. But he didn’t have time for that emotion, nor any. He was most concerned with the preservation of himself. Getting out of the city had been hard. He was not a particularly suspicious-looking man. But when he was walking, he would see a policeman. This was inevitable. He would become nervous. What if they recognized him? He must be all over their files right now. An aura of deathly fear would course through his body. Even if the police officer didn’t acknowledge his presence, he would feel as if the officer was watching him. Watching, waiting for the perfect time to attack. They couldn’t do it in public. No, what he had done was too grave, too serious, too perverse even, to reveal to the general public. They had ways of concealing it. They could always figure out a way, brand him as a madman, take him to an “asylum”, more like a torture chamber.

John shivered. He moved the logs in the little ring of stones that constituted the fire pit that he used to warm himself. He had no regrets for what he had done. It was totally and completely reasonable. So how had they found out? He thought, maybe it was one of my friends. They were always jealous of him, he knew he had had a better life, and they knew it too. A wife, two kids, a middle-sized paycheck, and an ample supply of polo shirts, and beer. Anything anybody with a sense of reason could ever want. A wife for fun, kids for something to do, paycheck to live on, shirts to look decent, and beer to drink. Yes, it was his friends that had turned him in. Those damn jealous assholes, what did they know about loyalty, honesty, trust, even. Friends. Bah. They didn't deserve that title. Just fry them until they’re at their end. Maybe then they’ll be nicer to him.

His train of thought soon ran to his current hiding place. The Midwest, something about it just didn’t appeal to him. Maybe he was just too much of a city slicker. Suddenly he heard a twig snap outside. He waited in deep fear. When nothing happened, he lifted up the trapdoor that led into the cellar and discovered a small bird hopping around in the pile of sticks he had collected to use as food. He looked up at the sky. So this is what he was missing. Didn't look like anything special. The sky was grey. It seemed to be getting worse. The wind picked up. He saw a funnel cloud forming. Then John did the impossible. He predicted the future. He saw his imminent doom at the hands of the tornado. It had obviously been created by NASA. He climbed up to the top of the house that covered the cellar. He sat down. As the tornado neared, until he could almost taste the destruction, he sat peacefully. He died thinking, what effect will this have on anybody? A fitting last thought.

5 days later, some farmers were in the process of eating breakfast when they heard a loud noise on their roof. They went to investigate. The found a skeleton. One said to another: “What should we do with it?” The other said: “We’ll have to bury it. I wonder who the poor bastard was.” They picked it up to move it off their roof. When they tried to pick up the skeleton, it crumbled into dust, as if it were allergic to humanity. The particles floated away calmly into the gray sky. The farmers gazed incredulously at the last bits of the skeleton as they slowly slipped into the cracked between their calloused fingers, then finished their breakfast and went to work.

And the wind blew on.

The Famine

Bernard Whiffletree stood at a street corner, contemplating the demise of his city. It had come fast, and gone just as quickly. One day, the supplies had been cut off. Early morning shoppers walked into the groceries to buy their various goods, and were surprised to find the shelves empty. It was as if food had never existed. The gates to the city had been closed, and there were very high walls. Never mind the time or place, they are not important. By the time the month was over everyone was dead. Why? For the greater good. Bernard survived by being intelligent. There were few left. They sat on the curb, munching on the bones of their relatives. It was the only thing to do. What else could you do? Stare at that meat, and go hungry? That would be torture. There was already enough torture.

In the first days of the famine, there was general panic and confusion. Riots broke out every night, and there was not a night when the streets were not lit up by the torches and flames of revolution. They screamed for freedom, they screamed for food. But it was all in vain. How can you counter something which does not exist? People have a hard time accepting the truth. Give them a lie and they will justify it. Give them a truth and they will prove it wrong. The answer to the problem? Stop giving them anything. Why create more trouble? Maybe that was the reason, maybe they closed up this town to get rid of the halves and the halve-nots, half person half ideal. But you couldn’t do that, there were too many. The human race regenerates at an astonishing rate, with hundreds of new ones each day. Who exactly were they, though? They did everything, knew everything. They were everything. You can’t escape them, they’re always there.

Maybe it was all our fault and we brought it on ourselves. Maybe this was all one big metaphor, showing on a small scale the steep slope humanity was rolling down. The velocity increases with time. After most everybody had died, they opened the gates. Black helicopters flew in from the cloudy sky and dropped aid packages. When we opened them, we found a pistol, a loaf of bread, and some ammunition. It looked like it was every man for himself. When people tried to leave the town, automatic machine guns killed them on the spot. They were hidden cleverly. The smart ones stayed behind, rationed their bread and ammunition, and cleaned their guns regularly. Bernard was smart. That was why he was alive. There was little else alive, no birds, no rats running through the sewers. The flowers were never in bloom, a perpetual gloom had settled over the doomed city.

It seemed as if they intended to keep them there until no one was left. Bernard thought, I’ll survive, I’ll do it, even if I have to eat granite and paper to survive, I’ll live to see the outside world again. They heard his silent vow. The next morning he woke up from unpleasant dreams to find he was in a vacuum. It took him minutes of staring to realize there was nothing left. After some speculation, Bernard decided that he indeed was in a vacuum, gasped for air, and fell down on his bed, dead as a doornail.

Some Poems:

Poetry isn't really my forte, but I still do it once in a while.

The Drunk

Look-
there he goes
stumbling out
of his trailer
full of
speed,
booze,
trash,
greasy McDonald's hamburger wrappers,
vomiting
on his
american flag t-shirt.

Tryouts

I went to the soccer field
and unfolded my lawn chair
to watch the tryouts
for the team.

And after the tryouts
I watched a little boy
cry
because
he didn't make it.

Pencil Sharpener

My pencil sharpener
is clogged
full of
shavings
of old pencils
My pencil is blunt
how can I write
when the pencil sharpener
is broken?

Stain

It was a hot day
and I was having a drink
then I stumbled:
dropped the cup,
and spilled the drink
all over the new carpet
I scrubbed
and scrubbed
but it wouldn't come out
some things
are forever.

Apple

I was told that eating fruits is good for you,
so I ate an apple
when I finished
I forgot to throw it away
and it sat there
on my kitchen counter
and rotted.

Wet Cigarette

a long line of people
stand outside of a Theatre
in New York
chatting
laughing
and they enjoy themselves

and it starts
to rain
and while the rain falls
emotion does the same
and the chatting stops
and the laughing stops
and they feel
limp and useless
just like
a wet cigarette.

And I sit in my house

and have a smoke.

Restarting this blog.

So... I made this a while ago and forgot about it. So now it pleases me to restart it. Mostly because I have nothing better to do.

Please notify me and ask for permission and such if you want to use my writing for anything, It would be very nice of you and then I wouldn't have to punch you in the face.