When he <br>noticed the<br>tiny freckle<br>above her<br>lip<br>she felt <br>as
if a <br>cat had<br>licked<br>her eyeball.

sheesus. You have a real talent. Hey
humanheadtransplant, have you got any of that gel for me?<br>I
absolutely LOVE the development of this story, it is classic
and by the time you get the idea that something is
horribly wrong, it's too effing late and your neck muscles
do the wave as your hairs stand on end.

sheesus. You have a real talent. Hey
humanheadtransplant, have you got any of that gel for me?<br>I
absolutely LOVE the development of this story, it is classic
and by the time you get the idea that something is
horribly wrong, it's too effing late and your neck muscles
do the wave as your hairs stand on end.

sheesus. You have a real talent. Hey
humanheadtransplant, have you got any of that gel for me?<br>I
absolutely LOVE the development of this story, it is classic
and by the time you get the idea that something is
horribly wrong, it's too effing late and your neck muscles
do the wave as your hairs stand on end.

I will now use the extra hold Tresseme hair gel now.  That is the only thing
that will put the hair on the back of my neck back down!!!  Love it!!!

I keep reading it again and again...

to the ground - hard yet soft - black coffee eyes
and cinnamon skin - kneeling to my body, nails sink
into me - she takes the swollen pulse deep down to her
velvetine throat - jaw at slack, half mast - deep down,
face to the base - my cock's in outer space - drag my
fingers thru her satin brown hair and caress the gentle
round mound as the heat beats down - get it on - "get
it on" - kill it - kill me - kill kill kill - let
the stars BLOW out tonight - down her evil larynx
tight

martian_brain_robber: jack, i dont write like
this at all.<br>diane56_98: no...just the man tapping
on the window...it had some of your
eerieness<br>martian_brain_robber: oh.<br>diane56_98: but no...not your style at
all<br>martian_brain_robber: nope. not at all.<br>martian_brain_robber: she's
much too coherent<br>diane56_98:
exactly!<br>diane56_98: lol<br>martian_brain_robber: and
purposeful<br>diane56_98: not nearly hysterical
enough<br>martian_brain_robber: man, i wish i can write like this
sometimes.<br>diane56_98: yeah i like that concrete language<br>diane56_98:
its clean...i like whoever who is doing
it<br>martian_brain_robber: and solid pictures, things you can actually
touch.<br>diane56_98: mismo!<br>diane56_98: you can feel helen start
the dishes<br>martian_brain_robber: i got nauseaous
when she told him to please
go.<br>martian_brain_robber: jack, im posting this convo. lol<br>diane56_98:
oh good!<br>diane56_98: we said only nice things
right??<br>diane56_98: lol<br>diane56_98:
laughing!<br>martian_brain_robber: i dunno. read up.
lol<br>martian_brain_robber:
okay one bad thing i have to say---whats up with the
caps at the beginning of every sentence? i
mean...sheesh!<br>diane56_98: LOL<br>diane56_98: yeah..how
banal<br>martian_brain_robber: *eye roll*

i cant even begin to enumerate the many ways this story got under my skin. and
how starkly it so reminded me of Plapla and the things he killed when he passed.

An hour later, Susan was kissing Gary goodbye at
the door. He drew her in and held her tightly,
whispering his love in her hair, her neck. Susan told him
again, reassured him that she and Justin would be fine,
they would play all weekend and wait for Daddy's
return. Gary's back stiffened.<br><br>"Honey, let Justin
sleep, okay? He's just a little boy, he needs a lot of
sleep. You...you don't need to spend the whole weekend
with him." Gary's voice was low and firm, but Susan
heard an undercurrent of petulance.<br><br>"Of course,
he will get lots of good sleepy time, lots and lotsa
lots. But my sweet baby will want to play,
too."<br><br>Susan slipped into her baby-talk mode, though she knew
it grated on Gary's nerves. Well, she reasoned, he’s
leaving, he'll forget as soon as he hits the freeway.
Gary's arms tightened around Susan's waist and he kissed
her cheek. He climbed into the front seat of the
Jeep, backed out of the driveway and was out of sight
within seconds.<br><br>Wrapping her arms around her
slender frame, Susan watched the taillights fade. The sun
had completely set and the breeze was cold. She
walked back inside and locked the door behind her. Susan
grinned as she felt all of the muscles in her shoulders
and her neck loosen as the lock clicked home. She was
the queen again. She was alone, alone with her
boy.<br><br>Susan looked at the clock on the far wall and decided
it was nearly time for Justin's dinner. She started
down the steps, then cocked her head to the side.
Susan smiled. She could hear her boy crying for her.
She proceeded down the steps into the cool basement
and made her way to the light switch. It was Gary's
idea to move Justin down here. He was such a quiet
baby, but Susan supposed Gary was just that
territorial. He couldn't stand the thought of Justin sharing
his space.<br><br>She turned the switch. The corner
of the basement was filled with a dirty yellow glow,
jumping with harshly outlined shadows. Susan began
singing to her boy in sotto voce as she crept towards his
dark cradle. Crooning gently, she reached down and
pulled Justin's teddy bear blanket from his
face.<br><br>"Sweet baby, sweet boy. Mommy missed you so much! Is my
little boy so hungry?" The baby's face had long since
turned a rotted gray and had sunk in at the cheeks and
the eyes. Susan kissed those spots with love. She
gathered her son into her arms and carried him to the
rocking chair that Gary had finally allowed down next to
Justin's bed. She wanted to touch his little feet, to kiss
his little fingers, but Gary had told her that babies
like to be wrapped tightly, very tightly in their
blankets. It reminds them of the womb, he said, safe and
sound. She supposed Gary was right and resisted the urge
to unwrap her little boy.<br><br>Susan sat carefully
in the chair, singing quietly to her beautiful son.
"Little baby bunting, daddy's gone a-hunting..." She
unbuttoned her shirt as she rocked her boy. He must be
hungry, Susan thought, babies are always hungry. She
lifted him to her breast and closed her eyes as he began
to suck.

Susan tapped the steering wheel impatiently as
she waited for the large Chrysler in front of her to
make a wide right-hand turn. With so many older
drivers in town, it seemed to her that she was always
stuck behind one, especially on her way home. As the
car began to clear her lane, Susan swung her slick
black Jeep around the old car and zipped through the
intersection. Mentally ticking off her to-do list, Susan
decided to wait and run her nuisance errands over the
weekend. It was Friday, after all, and Gary was going out
of town for the weekend.<br><br>Ahead on the hill,
Susan could make out the trudging figure of her
office's elder secretary. Susan slowed, then merely lifted
her hand in a brief wave as she decided that Helen
wouldn't want a ride. It was such a lovely evening.
Besides, the walk was good for a lady of her age. The
other secretary in her office should take a lesson,
Susan thought that was one girl that could use the
exercise. Susan prided herself on keeping her trim body
healthy and strong. She knew she looked great for a
37-year-old woman, and although that wasn't very old, it was
certainly a good foundation.<br><br>She still envied both
of the secretaries. Neither was married, both got to
go home as the queen of their castle, to pick up and
put down and rearrange their lives as they saw fit.
Susan saw her life becoming one of such mediocre
routines and little chores. Merely motions of a life, not
a true, full-color place in the world. Even Gary,
whom she had always thought of as her best and closest
friend, had turned into a regular husband. But she did
have Justin. With Gary going out of town for the next
three days, Susan could spend time with Justin, just
the two of them together. The rest of the world would
fall away.<br><br>Susan's whole life had changed after
Justin's birth last year. For the better, on the whole,
although Gary had always been jealous of the time she
spent with him. He never came out and said it directly,
but Susan could see the way he looked at her after
Justin went to sleep. She couldn't understand it. How
could a father be jealous of his son? It was so
Shakespearian, so gothic. Susan laughed to herself as she pulled
into the driveway and shut off the engine. King Gary.
Gary and Juliet. The Taming of the Gary. Susan laughed
aloud and strolled through the open front
door.<br><br>Gary looked up from the kitchen table and asked what
she found so funny. Susan waved him off and started
flipping through the pile of mail on the countertop.
Gary's itinerary was posted on the refrigerator door,
noted with hotel phone numbers, times and train
schedules. He was treating her like a teenager staying home
alone for the first time. Gary looked at his wife with
concern and suggested again that perhaps Susan would like
to join him on this trip.<br><br>Susan noted that he
did not include his baby boy in the invitation.
Families travel together, her always had. But that was
typical Gary behavior. So selfish, so alpha-male. Susan
grabbed an apple from the basket by the sink and shined
it on her shirt. She told him again, as she had told
him before, that she would be fine, that everything
would be fine.<br><br>"Gary, go. Enjoy yourself. You
need to get away. Things will be quiet here. I need
the quiet. Just...go, babe."<br><br>He looked as
Susan again, frowned, then sighed with resignation. She
would not call him on it, not this time. She wouldn't
start that fight again, the fight about space, the
fight about time alone. Didn't he understand? She
needed her time, Justin needed her time and she only had
so much to give. "Please," she pleaded silently with
the gods of business travel, "please get him out of
here, just for a while."

Oh the glory of Disco Neck Ted, the reigning AOL
mascot. I had to pummel him into submission and climb
over his bruised misshapen body to get
here...<br>Grievings and Salivations!<br><br>~Screeny-1/Ted-0

The length may be daunting, but, dear reader, take the time to read Icca's full
song.  It was fantastic, not merely for content but the wonderful form.  Thank
you, Icca.

With some difficulty the trench was soon
crossed,<br>its moat there had caused few to drown.<br>Still
lumbering onward, this war not yet lost,<br>they hacked and
they burned the walls down.<br><br>Explosions of metal
and galloping hoof,<br>a whirlwind of ghastly
nightmare.<br>A torch spread its flame, and it danced on the
roof,<br>lost limbs were like birds through the air.<br><br>In
fear and confusion the peasants fought
on,<br>outnumbered one swordsman to ten.<br>The Wolverine banner
thrust forth on a lance<br>and ripped open torsos of
men.<br><br>Each woman too weary was ruthlessly raped,<br>and
death wouldn't meet them with grace.<br>The blood of
their children in which they were draped,<br>disguising
their own beaten face.<br><br>To keep children safe
from that butchering harm,<br>weak parents had done in
their own.<br>A quick, steady twist and a strong upper
arm-<br>came snaps of unwary neck bone.<br><br>Swords fell
exhausted and lazily swung,<br>the peasants had failed at
their goals.<br>Up from the earth there, St. Irene had
sprung!<br>Her army through small, covered holes!<br><br>The
enemy startled, now stunned in surprise<br>at Irene's
ear-splitting war cry.<br>"Your skulls we shall take, for
trophy and prize!<br>Come to yon slaughter and
die!"<br><br>The armies clashed on with the village
ablaze,<br>half bodies they littered the ground.<br>Black and
gray smoke there created a maze,<br>which rang out
each dying man's sound.<br><br>St. Irene raged forth
like a steel bladed wall,<br>a razor-edged fortress
unbound.<br>Each took their care not to stumble and fall<br>from
entrails spilled out on the ground.<br><br>She fought ever
bravely, in sweat-sticky mud,<br>and fountains, and
fountains of red.<br>Each man became blinded, and choked on
the blood <br>from geysers and gouts from the
dead!<br><br>Their army diminished, the fight became fair,<br>and
for these poor peasants the tides had then
turned.<br>The stench mingled thick with the smoldering
air<br>from mangled, hacked bodies that then
burned.<br><br>The Wolverines dwindled and took to retreat,<br>and
Shannon was left in a massacred state.<br>The smokescreen
did clear from the fiery heat,<br>revealing a figure
in crimson breastplate.<br><br>"The Warlock!" Cried
one, as he rushed to attack,<br>and others had
followed behind.<br>A wave of his hand, the sky turned
pitch-black!<br>His voice entered St. Irene's mind.<br><br>"I am your
nightmares, I toy with your fate.<br>I am the Warlock, the
Red Wolverine.<br>The words I shall speak of, you'll
soon learn to hate,<br>my innocent, precious and
saintly Irene.<br><br>You must defend me, I've much more
to say.<br>This truth shall be known, this knowledge
you'll need.<br>Shield and protect me, far from harm's
way,<br>as you are the product of my very
seed!"<br><br>Having that said, the night became day,<br>the
spellbound Irene ran forth to his side!<br>This Warlock in
crimson she must now obey,<br>a father she won't be
denied!<br><br>The peasants were awestruck at what she had
done,<br>some had refused to take fight!<br>And when she had
told them ‘they haven't yet won’<br>they knew she fell
victim to smite.<br><br>The Warlock then uttered
inaudible words<br>as Irene performed in hypnotic
swordplay.<br>Then darkened the sky from a thousand dark
birds,<br>each carried a body away!<br><br>The country fell
silent and made not a peep,<br>this moment for Shannon's
behalf.<br>Her mind's eye saw clearly! She started to
weep.<br>Behind her, the Warlock did laugh.<br><br>Stricken with
pain, St. Irene spun 'round,<br>emotions of dismantled
wreck.<br>Her sword blade bit deep at the mark it had
found<br>and severed his head from his
neck.<br><br>Approaching the fires of embers and coal,<br>she tossed in
the cynical head.<br>"Let flames cleanse damnation on
this blasted soul!<br>My father, the Warlock, be
dead!"<br><br>"My father,” she sullenly said.

Fucking Yahell. It's Yahell's fault.

When Irene had left on that cold, misting
morn<br>and rode on to Shannon, a land blessed true,<br>there
came o’er the hills a foxhunter's horn <br>and birds'
conversations of her passing through.<br><br>Her church had
grown lonely and ill from neglect,<br>St. Irene did see
this and set off in search-<br>to find helping hands
to defend and protect<br>her home and her temple,
her heart's only church.<br><br>Over the streams,
beneath skies of gray,<br>into the heart of a birch
forest's throng.<br>The rain-trodden winds made an ancient
birch sway,<br>it danced such a jig to its own creaking
song.<br><br>A rabbit sought shelter beneath an old log,<br>a
robin flew quickly to shelter its young.<br>A fawn and
her mother retreated through fog,<br>and daisies
drank greatly from where they had sprung.<br><br>The
jagged-edged rain assaulted her face,<br>gritting her teeth,
she rode further on.<br>Her steed suffered slightly
and quickened its pace<br>in hopes it could get them
to Shannon by dawn.<br><br>No incident passed
through the frigid, wet night,<br>soon did the darkened
sky blend into gray.<br>‘Twas off in the distance,
she heard a great fight-<br>perhaps she could be of
assistance-she'd pray.<br><br>Up o’er the hill and down the
ravine,<br>through the clawing dead briars, and they did reveal<br>a
war-torn banner of an armed wolverine,<br>and clashings of
wood against flesh against steel!<br><br>Axes met
faces! Clubs against shields!<br>Hammers crushed skulls
in a scene all too grim.<br>The rain washed the
blood and had more yet to yield,<br>as sword blades
fell heavy, each taking a limb.<br><br>St. Irene
determined who was on defense<br>and dismounted her steed to
take fight alongside.<br>She swung around keenly, with
warrior-sense<br>to a man that she thrust her sword deeply
inside.<br><br>She hacked and she chopped and she gutted them
out,<br>her sword it drank deeply on their very blood.<br>She
spat in the face of a man who did shout,<br>and soon
there was nothing but bodies in mud.<br><br>"You fight
with the strength of a hundred skilled men!<br>We
thank thee, great fighter, we know not your
name.<br>Our village awaits us within the next glen,"<br>did a
man from the peasanted-army exclaim. <br><br>Their
army took lead, and St. Irene the rear,<br>and soon
they arrived to their Shannon that day.<br>"Please
tell us your name, and why you are here.<br>I’ve a
room in my house, please, can you stay?"<br><br>St.
Irene spoke briefly of her mission there<br>and wearily
listened to widowed wives weep.<br>She wrung out the rain
from her long, golden hair-<br>too tired for prayers,
she fell fast asleep.<br><br>St. Irene awoke to the
pattering rain,<br>and off to her side sat a big breakfast
plate.<br>Her muscles were wracked with such fiery pain!<br>But
soon she replenished her strength as she ate.<br><br>A
peasant had entered and sat on the floor<br>and
straightened his tunic in which he had worn.<br>"A warlock so
evil is waging this war,<br>you shall see this in two
days and a morn'."<br><br>"I'll help you, my good man,
if you would give ear,<br>my homeland's own temple
needs aid."<br>With that he was off like a young
frightened deer<br>to call on a willing crusade.<br><br>St.
Irene had thought up a good ambush-tact<br>and gave the
head peasant her plan.<br>Be ready by sunrise! For
when they attacked,<br>they'd vanquish this Wolverine
Clan.<br><br>When the battle was won, it would be agreed,<br>if the
warlock did retreat in shame,<br>St. Irene would take
back the army she'd need<br>to protect her dear church
in her name.<br><br>Outside that small village
surrounded a trench,<br>each tree had a trap in its
crotch.<br>Bodies past prayer were wafting their stench,<br>and
openly placed to stand watch.<br><br>The new sun had
sprung up, and with it came war,<br>a thunder of horses
was heard.<br>The Wolverines numbered like never
before-<br>the traps cut them down by one-third!

Piles of bodies were stacked fifteen
high,<br>whilst others were hung from the trees.<br>With sorrow,
St. Irene, she looked to the sky,<br>and prayerful,
fell to her knees.<br><br>"Give mercy, my Lord, to
these people this day,<br>this plaguing is cursing
their kin.<br>Listen, my Liege, to these prayers I
say,<br>these people act not out of sin."<br><br>The sun shone
as bright as a king's polished crown,<br>the
blessings it gave were in wealth.<br>The sick people healed
in that plague-stricken town,<br>and they rose from
the dead in good health!<br><br>"I beg thee, St.
Irene, come quickly this way!<br>A child's in my
bedroom, within!<br>Your Lord did not heal her," this
peasant did say,<br>"my daughter, my sweet
Gwendolynne.<br><br><br>"I found the wee girl at the poor age of
five,<br>her beautiful eyes were so rare.<br>Lucky, she was,
to be found so alive,<br>I'd vowed to give her all
my care."<br><br>St. Irene knelt by the child's
bedside<br>and thought for the prayer she'd give.<br>She gazed
at the mother who pitifully cried.<br>"I'm sorry, I
don't think she'll live."<br><br>Gwendolynne sighed and
she opened her eyes,<br>and slowly attempted to
speak.<br>The words that she spoke were quite a
surprise,<br>they came out steady, yet weak.<br><br>"I remember the
curves of your face, this I know!<br>And your eyes make
you look just like me!<br>If I'm not the child you
bore long ago,<br>Mother, who else could you
be?"<br><br>Irene's dark past, it did fill her with rage,<br>of
nurturing instincts instilled.<br>The child she bore, back
when she was of age<br>her mother had taken and
killed.<br><br>"The plague makes you say these things that you
do,<br>and I've lived my whole life all alone.<br>Child,
it's true, I'd do battle for you, <br>but you cannot
be my own."<br><br>The plague it took
one<br><br>when the blessing was done<br><br>on this cold and
wintry day.<br><br>The mother, she cried<br><br>as
Gwendolynne died<br><br>and St. Irene walked softly away.

‘Twas three winters past when St. Irene did
weep,<br>she restlessly paced down the church oaken
floor.<br>The face of her Cederic had entered her
sleep!<br>‘Twas then that a banging came from the front
door.<br><br>She opened the door with a candle in hand<br>and
there stood a peasant with a frightened face.<br>He
begged for her blessing on his cursed land:<br>a foul,
wicked hell-hole, a plague-stricken place.<br><br>The
cold peasant shivered as he shut the door,<br>and
Irene donned armour and knelt with her sword.<br>The
peasant proclaimed that his people were poor,<br>but
deeds of St. Irene are gifts from her Lord.<br><br>The
village of Ola was a full day's walk east,<br>she packed
enough food for herself and her friend.<br>Recalling the
strength she had to face the Beast,<br>this plaguing of
Ola would come to an end!<br><br>They followed the
road to the riverbank's end,<br>‘twas there, swaying
gently, a rickety bridge.<br>The village lay yonder, just
up 'round the bend,<br>across a deep river and over
a ridge.<br><br>Through creaking and moaning the
bridge made a dare,<br>its boards stifled giggles
beneath icy snow.<br>The cross appeared simple to the
wandering pair-<br>one slip left the peasant's feet hanging
below!<br><br>St. Irene joined wrists and she pulled with her
might,<br>the peasant saw something stir water beneath.<br>His
screams went from shock to icy-cold fright!<br>His ankles
were held fast by Jenny Green Teeth!<br><br>Her teeth
sprouted mosses, her hair slicked with mud,<br>her nails
they dug deep into his very flesh.<br>Her thirst was
unquenched for a few drops of blood,<br>her hunger undying
for red meat so fresh.<br><br>With holy sword drawn,
and over the rail,<br>she cleaved Jenny Green Teeth's
wrists clean through the bone.<br>"If it's blood that ye
thirst, let me hear thy soul wail!<br>Pray my Lord lets
you choke on your own!"<br><br>As he clambered over
and trembled so weak,<br>his torn, wounded tendons,
they ached, and they hurt!<br>Irene did approach him;
he didn't dare speak,<br>as she wiped Jenny’s blood
from the blade on his shirt!<br><br><br>"All in the
name of thy Lord," she did say,<br>"this blood on my
sword blessed true.<br>If your eyes won't accept what
they'll see on this day,<br>I cannot give help unto
you."<br><br>The blood on his shirt formed a red Celtic
cross,<br>a symbol he now bore with pride.<br>His thanks to
his savior were not at a loss,<br>he felt not a pain
in his stride.<br><br>The village of Ola was a
moment away,<br>they hurried to escape the harsh, biting
cold.<br>"Prepare yon pure heart," the peasant did say,<br>"for the
wickedness you shall behold."<br><br>Blistering bodies did
litter the streets<br>of the old, decrepit and
young.<br>The decaying were wrapped in linen bed
sheets,<br>were the lives of these people unsung?<br><br>The
pitiful screaming and children's loud wails<br>o'er
parents so suddenly dead.<br>A man who went insane was
pounding some nails<br>through the skull of his infected
head.

"I thank thee, fair lady, for saving my
life,<br>a curse of a warlock has caused me this
strife.<br>For his daughter I cared, ‘twas love that we
shared,<br>and banished I was, before she was my
wife."<br><br>"You're welcome, poor man, but this cannot be true!<br>I
knew not my father, but could it be you?<br>‘Twas so
long ago, it ached my heart so!<br>Your face is like
that of a man I once knew."<br><br>"Cederic of Ulster
is my only name.<br>A shoemaker's son, I am trodden
with shame.<br>I loved my Irene, from Belfast so
green!<br>A blonde-headed beauty with spirit
untamed!"<br><br>"Dear Cederic of Ulster, I am St. Irene!<br>Should love
from the past remain dormant, unseen?<br>I've taken a
vow; I'm celibate now.<br>I fight for my church to
bring peace in pristine."<br><br>She didn't exactly
know what was at stake<br>when Cederic of Ulster's own
life he did take.<br>With splinter of bone, he let out
a moan<br>and fell to the ground to lie forever
awake.<br><br>St. Irene lived life from her holy-book tome.<br>Life
empty again, she headed on home.<br>In moments so
brief, she almost felt grief,<br>and mounted her steed
to go aimlessly roam.

She withdrew her sword and she burst in great
pride.<br>The beast threw a gasp as it rolled on its
side.<br>Do the wonders yet cease? Is this not thy dear
beast?<br>‘Twas the form of a man where that beastie had
died!<br><br>(I forgot to add this paragraph.)

She traveled the day until snowy
nightfall,<br>the cove lay yon' o'er a forbidding wall.<br>Up o’er
the top, her steed it did stop,<br>it'd heard
Dublin's beast give its lonesome night call.<br><br>St.
Irene dismounted and followed the sound,<br>through the
Dead Forest on Faeriedom Mound.<br>With caution she
walked, as faeries, they talked,<br>and told of the way
to the cove that they'd found.<br><br>She found the
fresh tracks of a fox that had fled,<br>she stepped off
the trail to see where they'd led.<br>A horn made its
sound, and as she spun 'round,<br>wolves pulling their
master in his hunting sled.<br><br>She let this man pass
and was soon on her way,<br>‘Twas ‘The Master of the
Hunt’ so the old legends say.<br>With crimson red eyes,
his antlers grew high,<br>(he's never been seen in
the broad light of day!)<br><br>The bend curved
around, as she made the turn,<br>a harsh winter gale blew
that made her skin burn.<br>With keen, squinting eyes,
she received a surprise-<br>a cavern mouth yawning
that made her blood churn.<br><br>St. Irene pressed on
and sought refuge within.<br>She’d heard in that
darkness a growling begin.<br>Her sword blade cast light,
she held its hilt tight,<br>and ventured forth,
whence the sound came again.<br><br>She entered a cavern
of terrific size,<br>and held her sword ready for
what met her eyes.<br>In a blubbering heap lay the
monster, asleep!<br>She stealthily tiptoed to gain the
surprise.<br><br>A rat scurried yonder and he snapped
awake.<br>Poised at the ready, this chance she did take.<br>Her
blade it thrust down, through the heart it had
found,<br>She'd done a great deed now, for old Dublin's sake.

Have you seen the man-gobbler that lives by the
cove?<br>His legend lives on in the pictures they wove.<br>He
came and he saw, he gobbled them raw,<br>and ravaged
the vineyards in Old Dublin Grove.<br><br>‘Twas one
chilly night whilst the moon rose the tide,<br>the
villagers drank in the tavern and sighed.<br>They wished a
strong man would vanquish their land,<br>bring justice
to all the dear people who died.<br><br>The fires
were burning in hearths of the homes,<br>the faeries
were dancing with enemy gnomes,<br>they knew what they
saw, this bringer of law,<br>a heaven-sent knight
whose destiny roams.<br><br>The bards in the kingdom
sang of a great war<br>fought mainly by peasants,
although they were poor.<br>This evil they fought were
lepers of rot!<br>The singing did cease for a knock at
the door.<br><br>The gatekeeper tensed and opened the
gate,<br>his mind was prepared in a hostile-like state.<br>He
welcomed her name, and realized who came,<br>St. Irene of
Belfast in golden joust-plate.<br><br>The night at the
tavern did disappear fast,<br>St. Irene told stories of
enemies past.<br>They opened their ears, they cried
joyful tears,<br>the savior of Dublin had arrived, at
last.<br><br>Next morning came swiftly and goblets were
poured,<br>the kingdom fell silent as she sheathed her
sword.<br>"I promise," she said, "your beast will lie
dead!"<br>And everyone present there cheered and they
roared.<br><br>She donned her plate armour and readied to
go.<br>"Take care, St. Irene, else we'll miss you so."<br>Her
aerial steed was mighty indeed,<br>and soon she set off
to face Dublin's worst foe.

It's difficult getting the creepy image of him
pushing against the glass out of my head.<br>Oh...<br>And
the coffee mug breaking, that was an experts touch.
Will you be continuing this?<br>If it's a short, it's
perfectly sweet, if it continues, I'll be looking forward
to more.<br>bleagh!<br>Was that an ass kissing?<br>I
sincerely hope not.<br>ptooie!

She hung her purse and her coat on the back of
the chair. Helen had bought a quart jug of milk, and
brought it into the kitchen. She walked quickly past the
window above the sink and set the milk on the top shelf
of the refrigerator. She closed the door and turned
back to the window, telling herself not to look, this
time, just once, not to look. But she did, as she
always had, every morning and every night, pulling the
curtains aside at only the corner to check. He was there.
Yes, he was there again, inches from the window,
staring past Helen, over her shoulder into the empty
kitchen. She dropped the curtain and backed away. Perhaps,
she thought, perhaps he will stay quiet
tonight.<br><br> The tapping began. Against the window, his cold
knuckle rapped a steady slow beat. Helen sighed and
turned on the radio next to the stove. The music did not
cover the metronome of his tattoo. Tap, pause, tap,
pause, tap. Helen leaned over the sink to address him
through the tightly closed window.<br><br> "Can you go,
please? Tonight, please, just go." He didn't cease, nor
did he slow his tapping, gazing steadily past Helen,
shadows from the setting sun falling across his face.
Helen sighed again and let the yellowed curtain drop
back into place. She began running water in the sink
so she could wash this morning's dishes. Helen began
to hum and found she could not stray from the beat
of his rapping knuckle against the
glass.<br><br> She had reached her limit. Helen dropped the coffee
mug she had been attending back into the sink. It
cleverly caught the edge of the faucet, cracked solidly,
breaking its shards into the water. She tore the shade
harshly to the side and shouted at him.<br><br> "Go! Go,
go, go!" With every beat of his knuckle she chanted
at him. "Go!" Helen caught her reflection in the
window's glass and saw tears writing lines down her face.
She stared at him, hesitated, then brought her hand
up to meet his.<br><br> He stopped and looked at her
directly. He then pushed his hand against the glass, his
eyes widening. Helen backed quickly away from the
window, wondering if this time he will break the glass,
take her by the shoulder, by the hair, take her with.
She began her protest and, as was the case every
evening, every morning, he disappeared. As quickly as a
spark of static, he winked out, his time with her this
night was now through.<br><br> Left alone again with
the quiet music of the radio, Helen dried her face on
the dishtowel and set about finishing her chores.

The walk home was less than a mile and Helen had
walked it, to and from work, for twelve years. It still
bothered her when she recognized a car that flew by as a
car owned by a friend. Friends would be a loosely
used term, of course, as Helen did not have many of
those. Her hand would curl into a fist and she would
have to stop herself from shaking it at the passing
car. Of course they didn't stop for her, offer her a
ride. No one does that kind of thing these days. Helen
reasoned that selfishness was the newest prevailing vice.
<br><br> As she walked at a cant against the hill, Helen
slightly resembled a mime walking into a stiff wind. Had
this been pointed out to her, Helen would not see the
humor in it. She didn’t find humor in very much
anymore. The other girl at work once asked her if she
found pleasure in anything, going as far as to
pronounce Helen "bitter". Foolish little girl. Helen
thought again to herself, "Foolish little girl,
smart-mouthed girl." Helen didn't want to remember that this
young girl was just as smart as she seemed. Instead,
she tried to remember if she was a full of this
youthful arrogance when she was that age. She determined
she most certainly was not. Such lack of respect was
a hallmark of that child's generation, not
hers.<br><br> She turned the corner and walked the last
half-block to her dark little house. As she stood at the
gate, Helen noticed the small dog sitting on the porch
across the street. She silently dared the animal to
bark, dared it to rush across the street, to snap, to
growl. Anything to allow Helen the opportunity to give
it one kick and send it crying home. The little dog
stared back, then turned to its hind leg and began a
concentrated chew.<br><br> Her house was quiet. Helen kept her
blinds pulled tight against the sun. There was a time,
some time ago, when she would stand at her window and
watch the sinking sun paint gold light against her
yard, her windows, her arms. Helen realized that such a
harsh light would end up fading the upholstered chairs
in her dining room, and kept her rooms dark. As she
untied her coat, Helen stopped to check the little
caller I.D. box she had been convinced to purchase. It
was to help her answer only the callers she wished to
speak to. No one of interest rang her phone anymore.
Helen read the tiny screen and saw that there were no
new callers today. That was fine by her. Helen wasn’t
one to chat. She simply didn’t find much worth
chatting about.

let me tell you why i like this pome,
jack:<br><br>aside from the fact that i know who it belongs to
(which therefore makes me god), it grates against the
nerve-endings of my tongue. its THAT abrassive. i know you can
do smooth and flawless, i've seen and envied it. but
this one just had to have frays that stick out and
stab. in other words, its an incredible success at what
it's supposed to say. <br><br>and you know what, jack?
i have a feeling i'm going to have to explain this
comment. this is why i keep my comments mostly to
myself---i always sound like self-consuming snot even when i
am in total awe of tennis players who kick my ass
all the bloody time. <br><br>oh..and by the way, this
is not your only chair pome. liar.

you are aware i realize<br>for both of us<br>the
futility of future reference<br>not looking this
particular<br>beast in the face<br>not able to bear perhaps the
steamy<br>vapor of swirling cloud<br>or of coming to pass
<br>breast atop this vastness alone<br>horizons over star
lands<br>beating places, sponges moist <br>moving with
rhythm<br>overlooking not a one <br>propelled to live.<br><br>september
28, 1999<br><br><br>...this is my only chair poem and
now it belongs to god only knows who.<br><br>I hope
that posting in here will make me a better writer much
like playing tennis with people who can kick your ass
will improve your game.

He has been been here once before, but only for a
few minutes. His skin looked almost brittle and he
was covered with light downy hair that told you he
was born way too early. He only had time to throw
cursory glances around him and squint against the blurred
silver images that were no less impressive than the
darkness he came from. He released a heavy sigh before
finally closing his eyes with a look of mild
disappointment across his wrinkled face. <br><br>The next time
he came, there was a lot of noise. He felt his body
hitting the ground and soon, he was swimming again.
Except this time, there was no mercy in the water. Every
breath sent a searing pain to his chest and he couldn't
understand it. Again, he closed his eyes. He didn't know to
wish, but even if he didn't, it was granted. The water
showed compassion and finished it quickly. <br><br>This
visit had been the most successful, he went farther
than he has ever gone, he lived through childhood even
if he didnt grow from it. He discovered he liked
untangling knots, he had the perfect body for it. He had
large muscular hands and a frame that would fit in a
small refrigerator without folding. His fingers would
press against a joint and a ligament would pop free of
its trap. There would be no thanks, just a few pieces
of paper that he never knew what to do with. He
didn't need to eat, although he sometimes pretended.
<br><br>When hair started growing in angry explosions on his
pubis, Broncobilly realized he remembered all his
previous visits. He would knead the backs of people who
came to him, untangling the knots in their flesh, and
think about the bright silvery things that he saw. The
faces that surrounded him belonged to hands that
attended him but they were really elsewhere, floating in
channels that crisscrossed the space above them.
<br><br>As his body twisted more grotesquely, Broncobilly
discovered a lot more. He decided he would help transcient
visitors and ease their going by untangling the knots with
his huge hands, very gently.

We hope you'll enjoy this club!<br><br><br>Here
are a few of our goals:<br>purchasing webspace for
member use<br><br>monthly emails with updates and info
(upon request)<br><br>producing and consigning a group
publication (lofty, we know, but VERY
possible)<br><br><br><br>Because this club is publically visible by members and
nonmembers alike thus lending credence to fears of
plagiarism and other foul words, the founders have decided
to use 'the chair is not thinking' as a gateway club
to a second, "invitation only" club. <br>Anyone
posting four or more bits¹ of written material and or
commenting or critiquing another members material will
automatically be invited.<br><br>The invite will be sent no
matter what you've written or responded
to.<br>Hopefully, this little safety measure will give us some
privacy and peace of mind.<br><br>¹bit: does anyone
really know?<br><br><br><br>The following copyright and
trademark symbols are there for anyone that wishes to cut
and paste them, so try to ignore the other nonsense.
If you happen to know anything about web publishing
and intellectual property, share your knowlege, we
need you!<br><br>Have a good effing time.<br>© 2000
'the chair is not thinking'™ of Whoop There It Is inc.

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