thanks (issue number 3)

1. my mind

2. my health

3. my education

4. my religion

5. my upbringing

6. my identity

7. my singing

8. my teaching

9. my writing

10. my readers

11.30b

continued:

Watson clamped his limbs to his shell and settled slowly to the ground.

"And if we're not alone, we certainly have to ask the obvious question: who?"

"Who, Sherri?"

"No, who is out there?"

"Yes, who is it?"

"That's what I'm trying to ask."
"No, that's what I'm trying to ask."

Sherlock whirled and saw Watson crouched in the silt, eyestalks working feverishly. "Not here, Watson. Well, here, but not here. You know what I mean."

"I'm afraid I don't follow."

"Well, this is a monumental find." Sherlock slowly rotated over the giant hulk. Black as the deepest night, the giant, rock-like mound stretched into the distance. It was easily three to twenty times the length of his own body, and possibly larger. It was hard to tell, as a large portion of it was submerged in the silt. The substance was hard and smooth and cold. It was, in short, inexplicable. Sherlock had seen things that were black, and things that were smooth, and things that were cold. But never had he seen such a large combination of the three. He wiped off the flank of the thing near the edge and exposed the part that Watson's scuttling obscured. The sharp, clean contrast between black and white played with his fingers. There were six large shapes that stood out bright from the blackness. His only conclusion was that the shapes had to have a creator. He had no idea what they were, or why the maker of the shape had decided to put them so far from center.

Sherlock swooped Watson up and swam away at speed. "If I'm correct about the trajectory of this evidence, there should be more over . . . Aha!" His tail flashed and he slowed over a shining lump.

Watson peered over Sherlock's hand. What is it?

It was then that Sherlock said the three most frightening words that Watson had ever heard.

"I don't know."

11.30a

Sherlock Holmes, merman, with his trusty Watson (a crab). WITH a pipe (and sweaters), they solve the dastardliest (this should become a word) crime ever committed between sky and sand.

Sherlock slowly rotated in his private eddy. It was never his intent to discover an alternate truth, but here he was, doing it anyway.

Watson waddled over the evidence.

Sherlock sighed, and the bubbles swirled up through his eyelashes. "Watson."

"Yes, Sherri?"

"First, I told you never to call me that. Second, you're standing on evidence."
"Aww, sorry Sherri. I had no idea. Shall I . . ."

"Move? Yes. Luckily, I have committed the evidence to memory already, so it will hardly make a difference." The crab slowly waddled exactly the wrong way, stirring up yet more silt and detritus. It didn't matter. Sherlock was already swacing back and forth with his bubble pipe champed firmly in his teeth. "If my understanding of these words are correct, and they must be, then we are not alone."

Watson's eyestalks swiveled in a full circle.

thanks (issue number 2)

1. my mother

2. my father

3. my sister

4. my brother

5. my grandmother

6. my roommate

7. my coworkers

8. my friends

9. my pets

10. my God

11.29

I'm trying to not write things right now because my writing seems to mirror my mood at least a little. When I was happy in my relationship with Kayla, my stories became bucolic and optimistic. When I was unhappy, they became focused entirely on breakup. Now that I'm miserable, I'm not sure I want to see how it is.

So I'll write what Janelle suggested. The first three sentences:

Sherlock slowly rotated in his private eddy. It was never his intent to discover an alternate truth, but here he was, doing it anyway.

Watson waddled over the evidence.

thanks (issue number 1)

1. I am alive

2. I am male

3. I am tall

4. I pulled out of a nosedive

5. My shoes fit

6. I'm not bald yet

7. All my parts still work

8. I have too much money

9. I have a support network

10. I am sane and self-aware

11.28a

I have weird wants.

I have always wanted to meet a woman fighting a man (physically fighting, now) and I have to save her by marching up to this unchivalrous lout and . . . not fighting him. As a matter of fact, in my retarded dreams, I turn his aggression from her, to me. Upon which happenstance I do not fight back, but rather kinda . . . take the abuse.
This (ravishing) woman will then see both my bravery and gentleness and be drawn to me like iron to a magnet, like a bee to a flower, like rain to the ground, or more poetically, a fly to poop.

I don't know why I wish this, but I guess I can surmise a few things.
I want a woman who is physically vulnerable, but values things other than physical strength. In other words, she
1. needs protection
2. doesn't want protection

Perhaps that is why my relationships to date have not quite worked.
Perhaps it is saying something about the mixed influences of my mother and father.
Perhaps it is perfect. This last possibility I highly doubt.

I have had this exact sequence play out in my head with . . . at least five women. Probably plural times with each. This has taken place over the course of . . . seven or eight years.

I have only once had the opportunity. Sans woman. When I was 11 or 12. Nothing came of it. <-- this is probably because men don't solve their problems with violence as often as my subconscious would like

11.18b

JELLYBEAN ATTACK!

AAAAAA

Just for you. I've found that when I'm emotionally content, I can write more things, more often, and I'm happier with the results. I'm fine. When I'm emotionally drained, I can't write a thing.

People have said that all great writing comes from an emotional trauma. Damaged people write more chilling, more engaging, more intelligent things. But my damage rips my inspiration out of my head.

I'm thinking about writing another short story, and actually a short story. Right now I have to finish writing a paper for Haluska, but I might as well start looking for inspiration now.

Suggestions? I'm open.

11.18

"Well, I just thought I would handle it with you, you know. Teameffortstyle."

"I've got this, okay? I'm just stressed."

"You wanna talk about it?"

"No, I'm fine. I just need more sleep."

"How are you feeling?"

"I'm just stressed. I've got a lot on my plate."

"And is there anything I can do?"

"No, not really."

"But if there is, you'll tell me, right?"

"Of course."

"I really care about you, you know that, right?"

Why is he so clingy?

11.15

in eile

Ich bin in eile. Ich kann nicht da gehen. Ich werde spät sein.

11.12

Her shirt is perplexing. It has lace over her shoulders, right where her bra strap runs. Literally exactly where the bra strap runs. Why? So that she can show off that she doesn't need one? I see no strap.

The lace is intricately worked, and yet so sheer. The rest of her shirt: entirely normal.

Curse you, imagination: you are more provocative than nakedness.

11.11b

I've ripped my Medulla Oblongata. It happened inside my Farcical, of course. I never could Recumbent that it would happen, though. No, sometimes you've gotta place your Pericles when the Atonal are down.

11.11

Today is a palindrome, you just have to forget what year it is.

He banked hard, pulling on the flaps. He always thought it was funny that gravity pulled his hands away from where he wanted to go.

The jet flattened out and scorched its way across the sky. He pounded his foot against a pedal and the earth went rolling away underneath him. Sky traded places with earth and back again. A twitch and a slow, constant pressure and he leveled the plane again.

Someday he would crash. He spent enough time in the air that it was a statistical certainty. But not today.

11.10

Three sentences, every day. Why is that so hard?

He hovered in the air right before he started to fall. His arms floated lightly from his sides, his back slowly arched in a gentle curve. He hit the ground like a sack of meat.

Cadavers.

11.8a

Danny hated his toes. Whenever he wore flip-flops, he would curl his toes down under his foot so people couldn't see them. When took went swimming, he wore socks.

Nobody knew until he cut off his toes.

11.5b

Subject is in good health, working reproductive capacity, concurrent with incredible genetic mutagen. Genetic anomaly is primarily beneficial, with few adverse effects.

Due to eyes on back of head, almost perfect peripheral vision.

Sleeps on side.

--Professor H. Jorgenson

11.5a

"I've never seen anything like it before in the whole history of humankind." The professor swiveled sharply, the heel of his shoe making a circular indentation in the carpet. He paced, and every step seemed to puff up more dust than the one before, giving the whole room a grainy taste. He didn't seem to care. "I'm going to have to examine it in a laboratory setting, but I'm sure Dr. Stroyavitch will corroborate my preliminary findings." He paused, and the dust that was following him swirled around him instead. "What I'm saying is that you could be very important. Do you understand?"

I nodded slowly, but I still wasn't following what he was saying.

He quickly strode past me to the cracked window and stared out of it into the gloom. "I'm not sure how to make this more clear. Your particular mutation has been very beneficial to your abilities. You say you've fathered a child, so you still have a reproductive capacity . . . you may be the future of the human race. Do you understand?" He gestured wildly, face sweaty, dust collecting on his perspiration and running tracks through the dust on his face.

I nodded again, more reluctantly this time. "Замолио бих вас да оставите сада, док ја мислим о томе."

"Yes, yes," he said, irritated. He stormed out of the room and slammed the door. Dust puffed out as the room shook. The dust settled, and I was alone with my thoughts.

11.3

I'm going to rip off my eyebrows now. Hold up a second--there, got a good, firm hold. Wait. I have to count the pulses and time it just right.

BAM! Take that, skeptics! I DID IT.

Ow.

11.2

I suppose I am one of the worst writers ever.

I open my eyes and try to peer through murk. It's like my corneas are terribly scratched and now I can't see anything. Worse, even having my eyes open stings like bees are trying to migrate to iris-ville but failed vocab in bee-grade school.

Chlorine in pools: fact or horror? Both.