Holes and Rings

 “Holes and Rings,” by Maldys Shrubb

    The road leading to the old tavern was windy and littered with potholes which frequently filled up with rainwater.  The parking lot of the tavern was especially in a state of disrepair.  Only the most careful drivers and regulars at the tavern knew how to avoid them without some kind of damage to their vehicle.  The owner could have fixed them, but he rarely desired entertaining new patrons.  He thought it was a good way to keep strangers out his bar.  Should anyone dare to venture down the road, he also knew a reliable mechanic not far from his establishment.  He would recommend them to the mechanic.  It was a symbiotic, yet somewhat corrupt relationship.  The mechanic was also one of his most trusted regulars.  The mechanic was named David, but everyone called him Chip for some reason.  The two swarthy men were both fond of collusive schemes.

    There was a prominent university in the city several miles from his tavern, which brought students into the area.  The owner would periodically receive rowdy students who would create a ruckus during sporting events that played on the television, make an awful mess, and rarely leave suitable tips.  The experiences the owner had with these sporadic college visitors, cemented a feeling of justification for his poorly maintained private road leading to the tavern.  The name of the tavern was “Mike's Place,” after the last owner.  The new owner was named Owen, and he never bothered to change the sign.  He liked to be asked if he was Mike, which was another red flag that someone wasn't a regular.   Owen was the type who relished generating obfuscation.

    After a rather nasty rainstorm, Owen walked out of the bar to check to see if any branches or small trees had fallen on his private road.  During his walk to the back road that led to his bar, he noticed a flicker of light reflecting off one of the waters filled potholes.  The shimmer of something metallic became more pronounced as he walked toward the pothole roughly 2 feet in diameter.  He saw something metal at the bottom of the murky water reflecting the morning sun's rays.  He pulled his sleeve up and reached his hairy arm into the hole.  He felt around momentarily and pulled a gold wedding band from the water.  He looked carefully at the band and noticed an inscription on the interior of the band.  The ring was covered in much which obscured the written message.  He dipped the ring back in the hole then vigorously shook it off.  It read: “For Mike, with love.” 

  

THE END 

Cancel Culture

Cancel me, and I become your pariah.  I become your pariah, and I become your downfall.

    It was an unusually cold March when Thomas noticed the change.  The change in how he was treated by those people around him.  It started slowly, like a friend not returning phone calls, plans cancelled at the last second by friends, and spending more and more time alone.  Thomas kept trying to tell himself it was some coincidence or mistake that was occurring.   

    Thomas worked in a software office scanning lines of code, searching for discrepancies in the programming.  The work was relatively simple but took a tremendous amount of effort to focus on.  Thomas found his mind wandering while he took breaks to avoid the strain of focusing on all the intricate code details during his work in the cubicle.   The pay wasn’t great, and his coworkers seemed out of reach for making any kind of meaningful connection.   

    Thomas lived alone in a pleasant looking 2-bedroom apartment.  He took 2 rooms in case he had guests at any point.  The extra bed and mattress seemed like a waste since he so rarely entertained company.   Thomas had simple furnishings, cheerful yet cheap knick knacks, modernist light fixtures, and a few photographs of flowers on the wall.  It wasn’t much, but Thomas happily called it home. 

    It was on March 12th that Thomas got a phone call from his longtime friend Gregory.  Thomas had just gotten home from work just a few minutes before his phone rang.  “Hi, Thomas.  This is Greg, and Uh.”  Gregory trailed off for a second, as if straining to find some missing words.  “I saw that you finally called me back after almost 2 weeks,” Thomas said with a pinch of irritation.  “To be honest Thomas, I really don’t think I should spend any more time with you. I just need my space.  Sorry.”  Gregory’s terse goodbye alarmed Thomas immediately. 

    “Gregory!  I don’t understand.  Did I do something that...”  Thomas continued until he heard the phone click and knew that he had been hung up on.  Thomas put down his phone and morosely slid onto his sofa.  Thomas tried to play back all the memories of the past month to try to discover exactly what he might have done to make his friend treat him this way.  It was like a sinking feeling in his gut that drained all the color from his face. 

    Thomas tried to see if he could figure out what exactly was occurring with Gregory by calling their mutual friend Alex.  The phone rang 2 times and went right to voicemail.  Thomas suspected that his call was ignored.  Alex was usually free this time of day, so it didn’t make much sense to Thomas.  Thomas tried a different tact after that unsettling phone call.  He intended to call his parents.  They were relatively old but still were sharp enough to provide some kind of insight. 

    Thomas got through to his parents' house at least.  “Hello hon,” his mother in a slightly sheepish voice.  Thomas explained the phenomenon that was occurring with his friends.  All kinds of other details came out.  How he had to wait 40 minutes to be seated at a restaurant that was barely half full.  How his mail would be thrown on the hallway floor under the mailboxes.  Thomas wanted to be sure he wasn’t just coming undone, and that there were some kinds of demonstrative forces at work here.  His mother responded, “Thomas, don’t worry about it.  If you see life’s normal troubles as all connected, then you will think there is a terrible plot against you.  Honestly, you sound like you are just being paranoid.”  Thomas sank further into his couch.  This was not the comfort or explanation he might have hoped for.    

    His mother hurried him off the phone shortly after, and Thomas was left with a sickening feeling before he fell asleep.  He would wind up spending the remainer of the weekend either in bed or binging streaming programming on his TV.  He wanted to be a more active person, but the feeling of abandonment had left him feeling completely isolated and alienated.  It was as if the energy was being sapped from his very being.

    Work the following week was of little help to Thomas.  He kept hearing whispers from his coworkers.  Mostly from the people he rarely talked to.  What became more disconcerting was the fact that people that Thomas thought he had a solid rapport with, were suddenly finding convenient excuses to avoid conversation.  Even eye contact sometimes.  One of his closer work friends, Mark, told him he had to work on a meeting project when Thomas asked to go to lunch with him.  Thomas later saw Mark during that break, laughing and having a grand old time with some of the other workers. 

    He was even called into his boss’s office near the end of the day at the end of the week.  “Thomas, I am afraid to tell you that your reviews are not looking good.  Your handling of the encryption files has fallen a bit short of our expectations.  I was really hoping that I could motivate you to reach a bit higher.  We don’t need people working here to just get by, we need them to succeed.”  Thomas had no strong responses to the corpulent bald man that had just summoned him.  “Try and spend some time with your friends this weekend to loosen up your mind,” his boss (Mr. Thomkins) said with an impish grin. 

    Thomas felt such disappointment and irritation that he might have been speeding just 6 or 7 miles per hour before he got home.  He saw the familiar lights of a local police cruiser behind him.  Thomas was stuck for at least twenty minutes waiting for the officer to give him a ticket.  The officer reminded him that he was speeding in a construction zone and therefore the fine would be doubled.  Thomas looked in his rearview mirror and saw that the construction area was empty and almost 2 miles behind him.  How could the cop have seen him going that fast?  He didn’t think he was going that fast.  Either way, he didn’t have the time or the stomach to dispute the ticket in court.  Looked like the town treasury was going to get another deposit at Thomas’ expense. 

    Thomas got home to his apartment and somberly collected his mail.  It was 2 credit card bills, a cable bill, and what looked like junk mail.  Thomas collected his things and went home, stuck the ticket to a magnet on the fridge, grabbed a beer, and fell back into his couch.  On this couch nothing could hurt him.  On this couch he would not feel the bitter sting of rejection and sorrow.  Thomas was just starting to relax when he heard a knock on the door.  He slowly marched to the door to see the visitor that was surely here to torment him. 

    It was Mrs. Garabedian. Mrs. Garabedian was a kindly Armenian widow that lived a few apartments down from Thomas.  She smiled as Thomas opened the door.  “Excuse me young man, but could you help me with a leaky faucet?  I have been asking the landlord for several weeks now and he still hasn’t sent anyone in.”  Thomas instantly felt discomfort at the prospect of entering this woman's apartment and doing some project.  Even worse, Thomas had barely any knowledge of home improvement projects.  He could turn a leak into a full-blown flood. 

    “I would like to help you ma’am, but I am just not that good with that kind of thing.”  Thomas stated firmly, feeling supremely unwilling to perform as Mrs. Garabedian’s projects.  “Nonsense! You can get it done.  I have faith in you, young man.”  She flashed a toothy grin that made Thomas uncomfortable even more so.  Thomas let out a sigh and rolled his eyes and agreed to help her.  Thomas followed Mrs. Garabedian into her apartment, as she muttered about disrespectful pissant neighbors.   

    Thomas spent the better part of an hour trying to fix that faucet by tightening certain pipes and nuts.  He was using tools from a toolbox provided by the late Mr. Garabedian.  They were certainly not a top-notch tool set.  Eventually, Thomas just tried to cheat his way through it by using duct tape to wrap around the pipe just to shut up Mrs. Garabedian.  Before Thomas could leave, Mrs. Garabedian asked, “While you are here, could you...” and out came a laundry list of projects from boxing up old possessions, cleaning to places she couldn’t reach, and a myriad of other tasks.  It took up Thomas’ whole evening. 

    Thomas retired to his bedroom that night riddled with thoughts of despair, suffering, and the bitter and lonely farce that was his life.  He tried with all of his inner strength to find a reason to stay positive.  It was becoming just too easy to become dyspeptic and at a loss for reasons for living.  Thomas thought to himself that maybe this might blow over for a second, but the thought of blowing over seemed to apply to him.  He saw an image of himself being blown away by a gale-force wind in his mind instead.  It was a metaphor of his life being blown away like garbage in the wind.  It was personification-based visage of his condition appearing in his mind.  Sleep did not come quickly or easily for Thomas. 

    The next day at work, Thomas was on his way to the bathroom, when he heard one of his coworkers, Shirly, laughing and sharing some vituperative statements about him.  “Did you see how Thomas is proving himself to be a callow person? It is so obvious he won’t last in this company!”  She added with a shrill laugh that caused the blood to rush to Thomas’ head.  That was like the glass breaking in Thomas’ ear.  The silent explosion that pushed a man too far. 

    “You know what you are Shirly?  A complete moron, you, and anyone who agrees with you!  Anyone at this company who lacks the courage to say what they are thinking to me can choke on their own egos!”  Thomas’ words were accompanied by a cascade of spit.  Sweat was beading on his brow, and his chestnut brown hair was becoming instantly matted.  Shirly just looked back at him and said, “You have a violent temper, Thomas! I am going to human resources and ending this charade, you call a career!”  She immediately got out of her chair and stormed off.  The woman and intern that she had been speaking with, both eyed Thomas with disgust. 

    Thomas returned to his desk and tried to find calm.  He tried to find his center.  There was a center within Thomas that did not wish harm upon anyone, a truly gentle soul that desired only harmonious companionship with his fellow species.  It was token some people take for granted, and some, so desperately wish for.  Thomas was trying to find the words to apologize to Shirly or create some kind of narrative that didn’t involve Thomas in a far worse place.  That far worse place was calling to him, just that second. 

    The phone on Thomas’ desk rang moments later and the voice of Mr. Thomkins could be heard with irritation, contempt, and a mouth full of pastries.   Thomas was being summoned to HR to stand judgement for his little outburst.  Given the climate of the world in general, Thomas expected no mercy.  In fact, he expected to be shot with a magnum promptly.   He made a slow ambulatory course toward the office destination. 

    After what seemed like hours of pondering his own demise, he arrived at the door of Martin Cooley.  Mr. Cooley always presented himself as a new-age type that would play Buddhist chants while meetings took place or offer ceremonial tea to people during conflict resolution efforts.  Martin Cooley at the very least, seemed to be a man who would be at least a little empathetic to a man under as much duress as Thomas was.  Thomas was seated in the chair. 

    Martin began by reading a report of what had happened.  The alacrity of the report appearing on his desk since the incident occurred was staggering.  It was now clear that so many malevolent forces were converging at Thomas that a swift death might be the only clear answer to this whole dilemma.  Martin began talking at length about how people have feelings that need to be respected and how violence would not be tolerated at the workplace. 

    All the while, the voice of Martin Cooley faded away like elevator music that he couldn’t even interpret.  The welling of hatred and despair that clutched at Thomas’ insides was a deafening roar.  The world seemed to turn into a blur of noise and colors.  It was kind of the way that you would think it looked like when you were first born.  It was just a “buzzing and blooming confusion” as the philosopher William James put it.  Thomas had returned to that natural state. 

    Thomas got out of his chair and fell to the floor.  He tried to both curl up into the fetal position to drown out the insanity surrounding him as well as swing his fists madly at anyone who approached him.  The result of the two horrid emotions colliding was the sight of Thomas on the ground of his place of employment looking like he was having some kind of medical emergency.  Just as Martin tried to approach Thomas to get a clearer understanding of the situation, Mr. Thomkins had burst into the room. 

    Mr. Thomkins was ready to turn this incident report into a full-blown job termination.  Mr. Thomkins was an obsequious manager that always opted for the most severe punishments.  Thomkins wanted Thomas removed from his position and company property with as few spectators as possible.  He wanted to make sure that Thomas could get no sympathy and could create as little discord as could be.  Thomas was rolling onto his knees, hunched over and breathing through the throes of a severe panic attack. 

    Several minutes later, two heavily muscled security guards had entered the room and took Thomas by the arms.  They had escorted him out of the building and practically dragged him completely off the parking lot.  Thomas kept trying to stammer something about clearing off his desk and one of the guards just told him to keep quiet.  The other guard, a bit more sympathetic, told him that his stuff would probably be delivered to him. 

    The weeks that followed were filled with unresponsive employers.  It was filled with no promises of job interviews, and personnel that would direct his calls to a web of automated lines.  Thomas was suddenly feeling the shock of what some thought might be “cancel culture.”  Thomas had heard of such a phenomenon but had absolutely no idea what might have triggered such animosity against him.  Perhaps there was some confusion?  Perhaps he had said the wrong thing to the wrong person?  Perhaps the world was simply going crazy and imploding on its best. 

    Thomas tried to muster support on internet discussions, podcasts, blogs, social media sites and any other means of projecting himself into the digital world.  Nothing appeared, no views, no comments, no likes, no attention, no hits.  Thomas was not even able to find himself on the most prolific search engines on the web.  It was like someone was scrubbing his existence off the internet.  These were dark times for Thomas. 

    Hygiene went by the wayside for Thomas as nothing seemed to be worth the effort.  He had neither the money nor the inclination to go out.  He was never a particularly gregarious person, but now, it was just becoming absurd.  His parents were no help.  They insisted that this was his problem and that he would just have to solve it himself.  It was surely his fault that people turned against him so completely.  Thomas wasn't even sure whether he could or couldn't agree with the sentiment.  It wasn't the "why" that mattered, it was the "what's next" that frightened him.

    Thomas’ ability to speak began to degenerate as his human contact dwindled.  It was becoming harder and harder to remember what a good conversation felt like.  The thing he wanted to ask people the most was, “can I have some money?”  This was because Thomas had no savings left and the rent was becoming delinquent.  He was becoming emaciated and sunken eyed with insomnia.  Thomas only had a very short period before he would be cast off into the hard streets.  Thomas began always brandishing a weapon, for he thought at any moment, he would have to fight for his life. 

    The county sheriff eventually showed up at his doorstep.  It wasn’t much of a fight when Thomas attacked Sheriff Calister with a kitchen knife.  The sheriff wrestled him into submission in under 2 seconds.  It was over and Thomas had a new home, the penitentiary.  Thomas was unable to afford bail or an attorney, so it would off to face the worst part of human nature in a cell with many hardened criminals eager to do him harm. 

    Thomas made a genuine attempt to befriend those around him at the state correctional facility, but it, for some reason, only made things worse. He was teased at first, with vile nicknames and taunts.  He found meals and showers to be a terrifying place where he was constantly intimidated by stronger males.  Thomas didn’t have anything to live in here for and nothing waiting for him on the outside.  His parents found the idea of even visiting him just a little too out of their comfort zone.  Thomas was alone. 

    Perhaps it was never the death penalty that was Thomas’ sentence, but it was the result.  He, in the court of public opinion, was a monster, was treated as such, and left this world as.  The guards made a half-hearted attempt to protect Thomas.  It wasn’t even entirely the failing of the guards.  Thomas’ will to live had become so drained, that his subconscious mind pushed everyone around him like a lamb to the slaughter.  

    Thomas was unable to fight against a world that made him a pariah and was unable to be victorious against a slow and creeping entropy that eats people alive.  His fate was not isolated as the world around him suffered that which they did to him. Without a person like Thomas for the vultures to pick apart, they were forced to turn to one another.  It was a row of stacked dominos, all falling down in an orchestrated dance.  Was it the will of modern society to commit collective suicide?

What became of Shirly?  She was mocked by own friends until she took a bottle of sleeping pills and a heavy dose of red wine.  She laid dead on the floor of her kitchen for 3 days before her husband came home from out of town and discovered her. 

What of Mr. Thomkins?  He tried to show everyone that he could be healthier and was on track to becoming a better self.  One day, while adorning an all-black track suit and jogging in his neighborhood, he fell over into a row of manicured bushes and died of a heart attack.  Local children poked him with sticks for over three hours to see if they could “make the fat dead man fart.” The children were beaten by their fathers and mothers when they got home and heard the news. 

Martin Cooley seemed to have things figured out and surely remained in the good graces of the world around him.  That was, until the day he left the country on an exciting back packing trip.  It would seem that another foreign government was not as approving of his alternative lifestyle as his home country.  It became a point of international debate of whether what the country in question did to him should be condemned.  And boy, did they do something terrible. 

Maybe Thomas’ friends had more luck than the others.  No.  Sadly, they were all victims of the same social weaponization scheme as their former friend.  They all tended to end up in suicides or murders.  Maybe the good sheriff?  No, he enforced the dystopian law of a disconnected sovereign.  He would go on to shoot over 6 people to death in a public park.  He would then be suspended without pay and take out his fury on his wife, which led to tragic divorce. Not to mention the guards in the state prison who would be massacred during a frenzied prison riot. 

His parents seemed to weather things the best as they died alone, old, and without a legacy to carry on their name.  We could all die lonely and without an heir.  It would the end of the world as we know it.  Maybe something would carry on, but it wouldn’t be human. 

Perhaps this could be the world we live in.  Perhaps this could be the fate of so many people that we could otherwise find it in our hearts to love.  Remember not to turn your backs to people around you.  You might find when you separate yourself from others, you are making a war.  That is part of what I call the “Public’s Great War with Itself.”  It can only end if we learn or we die.  I prefer the former. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Faith

 “Faith.” 

    It was late dusk when Jacob left market to return home.  The warm autumn sun was setting, and bringing with it, the chill of the night air.  Jacob loaded the parcels into the bed of his pickup truck, opened the door, and climbed in.   He let out a deep resigned sigh.  “Why couldn't I make a clearer argument?”  He muttered to himself under his breath.  He was sure that no one would have seen him complaining to himself, but he lowered his voice out of habit. 

    The truck turned over in its usual sputtering fashion.  The sound of the engine spewing to life and the faulty exhaust system discharge continued to jostle him.  He tuned the radio to a familiar country station as he pulled out the market's parking lot.  He made his way down the main road leading from town.  He expected to be home within twenty minutes at the latest.  The music failed to drown away his irritation at the impromptu trip to the store.   

    Feelings continued to fester within Jacob.  He didn't understand why he felt so betrayed, or why he felt so angry.   Jacob grumbled, “There needs to be a reason I feel this way.”  He so dearly desired a chorus of angels or God himself to hand him an answer that would total satisfy him.  Around these parts of rural Tennessee, he had come to expect that kind of phenomenon.  A life of monotonous tedium tended to invite such visions. 

    Jacob approached the back road that led to his house.  He signaled and turned left, despite the fact that there was not another car in sight.  Jacob always took pride in obeying the rules, even if there was no practical reason to do so.  This made Jacob a target in his mind.  His willingness to be obedient and follow rules could have easily gotten him into trouble numerous times.  His father, Jeremiah, insisted that obedience and hard work were essential to remaining humble in the eyes of the Lord. 

    Jacob pulled into his driveway, only to discover another car parked at his home.  It was a silver two door compact car that he had no recollection of ever seeing.  Suddenly, Jacob was gripped with a memory from his trip to market.  John, his old friend, was insisting that he come over for a couple of beers from the store instead of heading home.  Jacob told him that he simply wanted to finish his shopping and return home.  Jacob wasn't sure why that memory triggered, but curiosity about who might have stopped over haunted him. 

    Jacob removed his parcels from the back of his truck and walked up to the front door of the house.  A sickening feeling of anxiety was welling up from the pit of his stomach.  A voice in his mind, barely audible, begged him to walk away from the front door.  The door was locked.  This exacerbated the feelings of fear and confusion within him.  He set the parcels down on the porch.  Had his wife brought over some company? 

    Jacob fumbled around his pockets for his keys, pulled them out with shaky hands, and proceeded to open the door.  He opened the door slowly, out of an unseen reflex.  The foyer was dark, but the kitchen light was still on.  Jacob looked down at the floor and saw a men's silk button down shirt strewn on the floor.  It was a revolting deep crimson in color. He could faintly hear the sounds of voices grunting licentiously above him.  Fear immediately mutated into steely resolve and irreconcilable fury.   

    Jacob crept through his own home and searched the cabinet in his living room for his shotgun.  It was a 12-gauge gun with polished oak handle; he slowly loaded shells into the weapon as he crept toward the stairs leading up.  As he moved toward the stairs leading to the bedroom, he could hear the sounds of raucous love making growing louder.  Hatred took hold of him, and he could barely contain the feeling of wanting to slay the man who was currently destroying his marriage. 

    Jacob climbed each and every stair with catlike stealth.   He even took an extra step to avoid the creaky fourth step.  Slowly he approached the closed bedroom door with bated breath.  The chorus of his wife's howls of ecstasy were filling his mind with a symphony of murder.  By this point, there was no conscious thought, and all of his blood was drawn to his head.  With no further hesitation, shotgun pointed toward the ceiling, he kicked the door to his bedroom down with his right foot. 

    The door burst off its hinges, while he moved to cradle the shotgun at a hip fire position.  Cries of pleasure turned into shrieks of horror as a shattered door and splinters of wood entered the room.  His wife and some man he didn't recognize were huddled together naked on his bed.  “I am going to kill you!”  Jacob screamed as the veins in his head pulsed violently.  The naked man immediately dove for the bedroom window.  Jacob's gun was trained on him the whole time, yet he couldn't bring himself to shoot the man. 

    The man's weight blasted through the windows peppering the air with shards of glass.  He fell from the second story bedroom window into a roll.  He sported an athletic in frame, and managed to only suffer minor injuries.  Jacob watched in disgust as the nude man burst into full sprint down the road.  Jacob fired a shell and missed.  He fired another and another, pumping the gun frantically.  Jacob failed to hit the man once, before he was well out of range. 

    Jacob looked at his wife in indignation, who was crying and shaking on the bed.  Jacob could smell the sweat and semen in the room around him.   It disgusted him further.   He pointed the weapon at his wife, who was sobbing uncontrollably at this point.  She begged him to stop.  He couldn't.  He fired the gun on her, spraying a crimson mist.  Then he turned it on himself. 

 

    Jacob wasn't sure what the afterlife would or should have been.  He was surprised to find out that God looked exactly like Dwight Eisenhower.  God spoke to him and told him, “You took that business with your wife a bit far.  You never made a thing better by shooting the poor woman, or yourself.”  Jacob was humbled. 

 

THE END 

Fly Times

 “Fly Times,” By Maldys Shrubb

 

    Buzz Fly performed his fly agenda with persistence and gusto.  He sailed across a man's bedroom constantly, pursing the sweat and dried skin cells off the man's body while he laid on a bed and played with his cell phone.  The man would try to angrily swat at Buzz Fly as it dive bombed him, however, the fly was quite adept at eluding the man's clumsy swats.  The man constantly and loudly complained about being the frequent victim of the fly's busy agenda.   

    The man would call friends and distant relatives in an effort for advice, comfort, and counsel in the matter of disposing of his insect antagonist.  Many of the man's friends and family were extremely disconcerted with his calls and text messages.  They feared that he was losing his grip on reality, and that a simple fly had dominion over him.  Sometimes they would mail him gifts, such as fruit baskets and meat platters.  None of them could muster the courage to visit the man, who showed signs of being constantly in the throes of hysteria. 

    The fruit baskets and meat platters would often go uneaten, and left out by the man, who was becoming increasingly despondent.  Buzz Fly assumed that these platters were meant for him, as a gift for paying the man so much attention.  To Buzz Fly, the man was a god; large, providing, and imposing.  To the man, the fly was a devil; adroit, clever, and able to perceive the world in a more dynamic way (with his compound eyes. Man and fly shared a relationship that bridged the world between low and high forms of life.  They maintained a constant dance of swatting and landing, which became symbolic of the maelstrom that is our global society.  Humans, and all other creatures of the world. 

    The man was unemployed, after working for years in a prestigious floor cleaning company.  Buzz Fly was gainfully employed in the fly hierarchy as a top tier government agent.  Buzz fly would frequently listen to the man spout nonsense from an easy chair about his own government.  The man complained about the state of healthcare and the use of military action in other parts of the world.  Buzz Fly found this puzzling, as his government had a zero-tolerance policy on subversives and dissenters.  Buzz Fly found that this gave him carte blanche to aggressively land on him.   

    On many occasions Buzz Fly would fly near the man's ear and whisper buzzing into his ear.  While the author can only roughly translate the language of the house fly, the translation was approximately:  “Your government is here to help you.  You must find employment and seek to be a contributing member of society.  I've also invited a lady friend.  She is pregnant and will be using the old bologna you haven't discarded, as a breeding ground for our young.” 

THE END 

No Other Fish in the Sea

 “No Other Fish in the Sea,” by Maldys Shrubb

    The fishing vessel sailed across the gentle night water by a lively crew.  They were currently captivated by a rudimentary dice game this particular evening.  The fish were not biting this week, and the mood was certainly sour.  The captain was cloistered in his chambers drinking rum in excess, as was his usual coping mechanism for a miserable trip at sea.  No one dared to disturb him, for he was a cantankerous drunk with a mean streak a mile wide.   

    The captain would often fill his pipe with tobacco and his glass with rum, as he let his mind recall the face of a woman, he believed he loved.  She was married, but that couldn't stop the captain's feelings.  She would spend her afternoons gazing off the pier in a port town in Maine, and he would spend those free afternoons staring hungrily at her.  He must have watched her a dozen times before he could muster the courage to talk to her. 

    Her name was Alana, she spoke with distinct eloquence, and with an accent that was local to northern Maine.  He introduced himself as Robert, the captain of the Nadia.  He named the ship after his dear mother, who raised him with care while his father took long voyages out to sea.  He told her that the sea salt coursed through his veins and that the waves were always calling him.  Alana found the crusty middle-aged man, with a prominent pot belly, to be an amusing character.  However, she didn't feel any particular attraction to him.  For all he represented an amusing character, that told stories that she fancied, and nothing more.  Robert dearly wished that she didn't feel this way, as he was enamored with her. 

    Captain Robert would greatly enjoy talking to her at length about fish migration patterns, life on the high seas, and the occasional ghost story while sailing at late nights.  Sometimes Alana would listen and jot down notes on a small pad so inspire her amateur (although well written) poetry.  Robert liked that she took notes, as it made him feel like his life was not a story that would be lost through time.  He periodically feared that his experiences would sink into a tangle of brine and coral that is the sea.   

    One evening Alana drank a bit too much wine and saw the captain walking on the pier with lit pipe and discerning look on his face.  He was trying to decide if he should delay his next voyage due to inclimate weather.  The sudden appearance of Alana distracted his calculated thoughts, and he flashed her a wide grin when she approached.  Her walk was both tipsy yet graceful.   Alana spent countless hours practicing walking with confidence while inebriated. 

    They spoke at length about life in the small port town which they inhabited.  Alana eventually changed the topic to her husband, whom she said was often neglectful.  The thought of such a wonderful woman being neglected appalled the captain.  He didn't want to confront her or her husband about such an affront to his romanticized notions of what she deserved.  He just wanted to push off the whole subject entirely.  He announced his intentions to leave in the morning, and to set sail on fishing voyage that would keep him at sea for some time. He knew that he made this decision out of misplaced heartache and not from sound fisherman's logic. 

    The captain pulled himself from his memory, and cup, when the sound of whipping winds suddenly snapped his attention to reality.  Gale force winds pounded the sides of the old vessel, and the shouts of the crew could be heard on the deck above.  He cursed himself for being so impetuous in his desire to leave the town.   Despite his foggy mind, he knew one thing to be true:  He left town out of feelings of rejection.  It was a woman he was infatuated with that sent him running.  Now it was the sea itself that rejected him, and sent him running, to the deck. 

    Lighting cracked and snapped the mast in half like a piece of dry kindling.  Crew members scrambled and dived out of the way of the falling mast.  Robert tried to call out orders to the crew.  Some of them had dived overboard to avoid the falling mast.  This trip was a disaster.   Love, like the sea, often felt like being tossed around by vicious waves, waiting for fish that would never bite.   

THE END 

 

Poison Ivy

 “Poison Ivy,” By Maladys Shrubb 

Theodore considered himself to be a man of science, even if he had no formal training at any university.  He viewed himself as self-educated, and thus, unfettered by the constraints of the academic institutions.  His pursuit of botany was done simply out of a great love of plants.  He would spend the days of his youth staring out of the window of his home at the breathtaking woodlands in rural New York. 

As a youth, he spent considerable time gathering various plant specimens.   He dedicated his time to dissecting leaf material, then studying them under his cheap microscope.  He would always mutter “fascinating,” as he looked at the enlarged image of a leaf or a stem.   He found odd comfort in examining the folds and veins.  His mother watched with both curious amusement and irritation while he went on his numerous nature hunts.  Theodore would often track dirt and debris on the floors and leave piles of decaying plant matter around the house to her chagrin.   

Young Theodore once brought home a large pile of poison ivy and set it on the kitchen table.  He ran into his room to fetch a box to sort the leaves and stems for the purpose of sorting the newly discovered plant.  His mother returned home from the grocery store and shrieked in terror at the sight of the familiar three-leaved plants laying upon the kitchen table.  Theodore expected that she was merely upset that he hadn't cleaned up his mess. 

He returned from his room and attempted to placate her, by informing her that he had a box ready to scoop up the plant matter.  “Mother, I will attend to cleaning this mess right up,” he innocently remarked.  She trembled with fear and anger, “Theodore!  Do you know what those plants are?”  He shrugged and began setting to the task of removing the plants from the table.  She stepped between her son and the table and slapped his outstretched hand.  “Those plants are very itchy and dangerous!”  She scolded him. 

Theodore gasped in horror and embarrassment.  His mother was terribly allergic to the plant.  She asked Theodore to call emergency services immediately.  He did as he was asked.  When EMS arrived, his mother was slumped on a couch, and her entire body was swollen.  She appeared to be struggling to breathe.  One of the EMS folks (a rather portly gentleman by the name of James) quickly administered a shot of epinephrine.  They removed the plants from the house with gloves and masks, then they proceeded to take her and her son to the hospital. 

She recovered quickly, then admonished her son for being so foolish.  He contended that science was a learning process and that these things happen.  Theodore had a mild rash on his hands and face, and the doctors gave him some calamine lotion.  Theodore chuckled at its pinkish color and applied the salve to his great relief.  When his mother saw her son coated in the pinkish goo she giggled madly and promptly forgave her son.   

When they arrived home his mother showed him a picture of poison ivy and told him to, “avoid this plant at all costs.”  Even being close to the plant could make her very sick.  Theodore agreed, learned his lesson, and avoids Poison Ivy to this day.  He still has a great love of plants and visits any botanical garden whenever he has the time or inclination.   

 

 

THE END 

The Beginning

I have decided to begin my adventure into blogging with something that I wrote in a state of consternation about the capacity of own abilities as an author and a creative.  This blog will be a series of essays, book reviews, commentaries, critiques, short stories, and perhaps partial installments of a fiction novel that I had been working on several years ago.  With all of that preface aside, I begin thusly:

    I became mired in my own thoughts as usual while fumbling around the apartment, and I found myself needing to produce some form of written work.  Perhaps I feel it is obligatory to have some documentation of my thoughts, or that someway, somehow, that a person or persons might take an interest them.  I would endeavor to believe that my greatest works of the mind would allow a reader to enjoy themselves, learn something, or consider a new possibility arc in which to operate on this road called life. 

I was just considering the nature of ownership and how does one lay claim to something.  I was in a state of self-pity that I reside in an apartment in a relatively cozy portion of tier 1 suburbs in Albany, New York.  It seems appropriate that I should aspire to become a homeowner and live on land that I could have some kind of proprietary claim on.  I do not have a lovely manorial vista, and thus, I consider this a failure. 

Let us assume that some wealthy industrialist had given me an ample sum of money to build the life of my dreams, and I could afford to contact a realtor and purchase a fine home and land to accompany it.  How would it become affirmed that I truly owned this land?  Does that agreement between myself and the realtor establish a total ownership (that, in a court of law, would be upheld)?  This assumes that I would be able to pay my taxes and remain in good standing with the state.  This essentially means that government sanctioned transactions are the law of the land when it comes to ownership in a practical sense. 

What if there was political upheaval and the military (or paramilitary faction) took possession of whatever land it wanted?  Would it not be fair to say my claim to ownership is therefore void?  Does sovereignty establish ownership or the ability to claim ownership, if nothing else?  Does avoiding the notice of another sovereign (whomever that might be), suddenly grant a claim based on luck?  What if I were able to defend my home with an elaborate series of booby traps and assault weapons, would it make “might makes right,” a valid form of jurisprudence?  All those factors could contribute to the assumption that I, indeed, owned the house in question. 

What about this option:  What if I snuck onto protected wilderness territory and built a shanty out materials that I found.  While, I would have no legal claim to ownership of the shanty, would it, prima facie, have more of sentiment of ownership, even if I had no means of protecting it?  Perhaps, by building something rather than simply buying it by a transaction of money or trade, I have a higher capacity to claim dominion.  It would an interesting process of determining who owns what, if you had to consider the time and effort, they put into shaping something to their will.  This creates two distinct forces at work: proprietary ownership and manufacture related ownership. 

I found myself feeling branded by clothing labels and that I was somehow a victim of fashionable control over my life.  I was unable to call a garment my own because I never designed it, I never cultivated the recourses (such as cotton) to manufacture said garment.  The fact remains in my mind, that people are accustomed to calling something their own because they paid for it, and not because they made it.  Shouldn’t manufacture and ownership be directly connected?  Don’t I simply wear pants and shirts because that is what society expects and that is what is available at the local department store?  Some people working in a textile mill might say that it was my blouse because I made it.  Some people shopping at the department store might counter argue that it is my blouse because I paid for it. 

Now we are at the heart of the matter, and it is called money most commonly.  One can ask how our services or skills are being rewarded in the context of money by a quantifiable ratio.  The supposed capitalist asserts that there is a proportional ratio of work accomplished to money earned.  Someone with a more pragmatic opinion might counter that argument by pointing out the sheer number of hard working, yet destitute persons in the United States alone.  A man constantly rummaging through the garbage collecting bottles for recycling is making a pittance and yet is doing a highly beneficial service for the environment.  Regardless of viewpoints of one’s service, we are still confused about what seems to be an equitable means of distributing wealth. 

This is where the more classically educated among us might interject that it is training and education developed over a proper period that creates a distinction between who might be able to buy gator skin shoes and who might be buying wooden loafers.   Those with a more traditional liberal value system find that education is the means for everyone to afford to buy those gator skins.  Unfortunately, there just not enough gators to go around, land to live on, or almond butter to eat.  We are forced to prioritize to those who have led lives following the proper narrative of a prescriptive system that cherishes its own academic livelihood. 

Where does this put me?  I have gone through rigorous academic training.  I completed twelve years of primary school education which included a myriad of subjects and things to learn.  I received an associate's degree from the local community college and furthered my education in the hopes that I would have some kind of boost in terms of my marketability of my job skills.  I then continued my education into a state university that allowed me the opportunity to really improve my mental faculties and demonstrate my professional value.  Therein, I was invited to study in an honors program, join an academic fraternity, and even share my research topics at educational conferences.  To top it all off, I managed to complete the master’s comprehensive examination and get a Master of Arts degree from said state university.  Yet, I live well below the poverty line in this country. 

Life and its many vicissitudes had proven to imperil my goals of becoming a beloved author with a major scholarly contribution to the world.  For personal reasons, failed relationships, and frankly, poor decisions, my life became a quagmire of despondency and chagrin.  The only thing I feel like I have any true ownership of is my suffering.  This may be the case with all people, and the rest of life is a series of objects floating in and out of our view.  Regardless of how I view my burdens, I am plagued by a need to find a relationship between them and that which I covet.  Was I even educated in the most valuable of lessons? 

Perhaps if people (me included) were properly trained to have the means to construct their own homes, grow their own food, and fashion their own garments, they would be free of the artificial construct know as money.  However, this does not grant us immunity from dilemmas related to the natural economic state.  Furthermore, it generates a world that is less bureaucratic, academic, and specialized.  If such a holistic approach was the most efficient, it would probably have been the road we have already chosen.  Perhaps in such a world people would simply eat raw food and live in thatched huts.  This would remain a truly tepid experience and lack the flavor of our modern society. 

So let us return to the premise that performing a service or some kind of labor that benefits society in some manner would provide incentive in the form of monetary emoluments.  If this is the case, then how can I turn the labor I am performing, by dedicating my efforts to entertaining and enlightening the public into wealth?  In short, how can this written word get me paid?  The fact of the matter is that there is no small answer to that question.  Perhaps it would take a well-known publisher to disseminate my labors, or a well-respected academic to recommend this essay to a scholarly publication.  Whatever the case may be, there must be some crossed wires. 

There is one possibility I can muster.  That is this: there are over 350 million Americans currently.  How many of them are trying to advertise their written work as more prolific and worthwhile than mine?  How many people are willing to read anything that isn’t required for their essential day-to-day necessity?  Unfortunately, competition is a malefic factor that absconds from some less skilled and less lucky authors from being able to feed themselves from their preferred skill.  This is why a capacious and worthy author might be working at a grocery store.   Said author might even have academic credentials that reveal a highly overqualified worker. 

Much of this essay has been compromised of an amalgamation of questions with not much perfunctory success in reveling some austere solution to the quandary of how to provide fair pay for fair work.  We must be willing to examine our ability to become freed from the yoke of assumption about our qualitative judgements about one others’ ability.  We must feast on the possibility that humans could work collaboratively to build a more feasible path to the American Dream.  It is surely something that I would like to achieve. 

I think there is a common assumption that the United States is a meritocracy and that a lifetime of good deeds will result in a higher quality of life.  I want to believe that myself because it sounds just and it sounds like the kind of world that I would find most palatable.  How many artists, designers, authors, and countless other professionals were not regarded in their time and lived sad and tired lives?  I live with the constant dread that I could be one of those cases, but that might even be a bit of a parochial assessment.  Moreover, I might not even attract any attention or wealth after my passing and my legacy dies with me.  Let us even consider the worst, and that the world, for its descension indulgences simply falls apart.  Would there be any art left for some advanced alien race to come upon when humanity is long dead? 

Let us put all this dyspeptic preponderance aside and focus back on a solution for economic woes.  I assert that this topic is both that of creativity and that of raw economic forces that deal with how labor is applied to society, and how we draw wealth and value from that labor.  Beyond the academic institutions, what means is there to draw evaluative judgement for what people try to provide?  For example: What grade or payment would this essay get for its explanatory power, and what governing forces determine such a thing?  It would be beneficial if there were an aspect of bureaucracy that determined what things were worth with assuredly, reliably, and with the expectation that accuracy was achieved. 

Imagine if there were some forms of agency or corporation that determines what professional worth that things have.  It could be an active census that rates or categorizes the work or services that people try to perform.  I am advocating for a ubiquitous organization of goods and services.  This estimation of labor and qualitative characteristics could be applied by many active individuals sharing intelligence cooperatively and making a flowing and harmonious collective with the proper self-corrective mechanisms to make our current society more equitable. 

With a fair estimate of what goods and services are worth to all persons, they would then extract (with the proper oversight) a means to establish a valid system of proprietary distribution.  The goal of this essay was written to figure out what it means to own something.  If it can be agreed upon what dictates ownership and what agreements people can affirm to such claims of ownership, it is possible to then find a solution to the greatest problem of all time. 

The greatest problem of all time is finding the means for survival and prosperity.  The greatest problem is that people think they might have an entitlement to something in this world, when it is poisoning them.  The future may be determined but it is not certain to us. When we find out what we can do that adds worth to our collective economy and how to have our needs met, then we can begin to find the perfect solution to that problem.