A Word About Muck: Part 2

It's Twain.....And expect an article on why Obama can't win the presidency because of a political power structure that's been in place for, literally, centuries, soon. I'm still checking my sources on that one.

Part II


We had been traveling in the deep flooded muck for nearly two hours, swatting mosquitoes and trying to keep at least above the chest in deep dank mud, and we had hoped that these creatures would be both numerous and easily captured. The dusk had set in to a hard dark night, but Barron's oil lamp lit the surrounding swamp better than could be suspected, and as it turned out, lighting was not one of our many problems.

For one, my dear fellow traveler's equipment had been a foremost problem from our first step. Barron's two large metal cages were hammering into each other on a constant basis, and the noise they created would easily scare not only any fretful rabbit, but a swamp monster himself if he'd even been absent minded enough to be spotted by our pair. I told Barron this myself, but he seemed to brush it aside.

"Nah," he replied, "These rabbits can't hear, actually. They are deaf, dumb and blind, and of this I am rather sure."

I disagreed. But I decided against vocalizing this disagreement. It was, after all, not my trip, and in fact prior to but a few hours ago I had never even heard of the creature Barron and I were clumsily stalking. Maybe it was a dumb animal.

But after yet another hour of searching it seemed more and more likely that my earlier hypothesis was indeed correct. We had seen not one animal, and certainly not the much sought after rare rabbit; not only this but we were increasingly being pestered by an insect population that clearly was not frightened away by the one-man-band that was my new friend Barron. It seemed to me that it would not be long before some of the more violent locals of this swamp lost their fear as well, and this concern I did vocalize.

Barron sighed. "I suppose your right friend, this rabbit seems to not have taken this storm seriously enough to come out from its hiding. Perhaps it waits for a more powerful showing of God."

"Perhaps," I said, and I sat down in a clearing on a large piece of oak that had apparently not stood up to the weaker showing of God that the good Barron had spoken of. I began immediately scratching at the welts that it seemed would be the only reward for this trip into the swamp. The Barron sat down, noisily, next to me and took his large beige hat off to scratch the dismally hair-less top of his head.

"You know, I only came to this town to repair my watch, Barron, but I feel great pride in at least accompanying you on this random adventure."

"Problem with a timepiece, eh? My, the God of Irony is strong and vengeful tonight," He proclaimed this with an air for the crazy, and looked at me with an odd smile, waiting for a response.

"I suppose I don't follow, Barron."

He laughed in his casual way, and again looked up at the stars and the quickly moving clouds.

"I, in fact, grew up the son of watch repairman, let me have a look at your problem there Samuel."

And now I understood the irony that had clearly followed me this entire night, and shared the smile which was still visible in the shadows of Barron's face. I calmly handed my defunct timepiece over to him, and we sat in silence as he studied the tidy piece of Americana. He then expertly cracked open the gold back and began peering at the tiny mechanism inside, and to my pure astonishment, as well as joy, he actually worked in the dim light of his lantern to repair what could have been ailing my timepiece.

"An Elgin 45th series, I believe," he said in the midst of his acute concentration. He was exactly correct.

"That's right."

"Well your problem is clear Samuel," and with this he pulled a tiny rock out of the back of my old watch, and placed it in my palm. "Rock in the gear," he said with a smile, and then closed the time piece and handed it back to me.

It immediately began ticking with the rhythm I grew up with, and I stared up to see the now visible moon at a nearly perfect midnight hour. I set my watch accordingly.

"Well Barron, I have the necessary fee for such a repair, and-"

Suddenly a crack from the brush before us quieted me completely. Barron quickly put his palm in the air, as if it were necessary, and inaudibly un-holstered his six-shooter. He got up swiftly from the oak log and moved towards the sound, I followed a mere step behind, trying to record in my head what would undoubtedly be viewed as the Great Discovery of the Red Rabbit of the Southern Swamp. Sweat was now visibly pouring off the brow of my friend, and when he raised his musket quickly I could see nothing but darkness before us, but clearly Barron saw something different.

He fired. The crack first killed the click of the crickets which had taken over the air around us, and then moved quickly to its intended target. As did Barron. He took off after his shot with a speed that I could not have foreseen from the short man, and I tried valiantly to keep up as he pulled through the bush looking for the killed red rabbit. I caught up to him standing next to a large palmetto brush, and to my shock he actually held the hind legs of a rabbit from his small hands. But his expression was sour and clearly disheartened.

I had been carrying the glare of the lantern, and now with its full force upon the dead rodent we could view its color; grey and light brown, with mud coating the legs and paws. No sign of red whatsoever, and it was now that I could see why Barron had no look of joy on his face.

"Must be a distant relative or something," he said glumly.

"Indeed," and I nodded hoping to ease the pain.

We exited the swamp and headed back to the city of Godlessness only a few short hours later. Barron had kept the dead rabbit and had put it in one of the two large cases he was carrying, just in case it decided to try and escape. I felt a frank joy at the feeling of a working timepiece in my pocket, and even managed to whistle on the walk back. My new friend was in no such mood, but had begun to pick himself up at the prospect of eating fresh rabbit at sunrise. For me the path was back home, up river to a swamp I even knew better than this one, and back to my position on the porch, overlooking the running river of the world I'd always known. And here it would be that I would sit back, with my newly repaired timepiece in hand, and watch as the time faded.

A Word About Muck: Part 1

This here is what could be called a concept work. The goal was to imitate a famous writer, and if you can identify which author I'm going after (and it shouldn't be that hard) then you get double points. And if you are actually reading this, triple points. And on a side note, it's not easy losing one shoe. More on this later.

A Word About Muck

I had come to the city with few thoughts, with few worry, and with a hope to view the summertime storm I was accustomed to along this coast, when appraising that the storm had hit prior to my arrival and I was now a secondary account contrary to the hopes of being a first. The city on the gulf still held many things a traveler may need, and however long the time it would take before the city was once again the columns of wooden stilts and bordellos I had come to assume it by, my time in this place held but one primary goal. My timepiece, that I had become rather fond of after the lengthy times of my youth, was no longer ticking, and it appeared to be an issue only a times keeper or watchman of a big city could resolve. And so I had left my home further up stream, and now found myself in a chaotic city of which I used to know. With any luck maybe I still did.

Luck is often the guide of the un-prepared traveler, a compass for illegitimate exercises which could never be scheduled, and a handy tool for those without a plan. My luck had come to be relied on, over the years, to be a relationship which I could handle, as much as I'd rather not. And as long as I was in this city of distress, as long as the tides would allow me to not follow further upstream to the grass bed I knew far better, than it would, in fact, be this very luck which I would come to weigh more heavily on than I would have liked. As I stood in front of the local Goods Store, a tired place of old kings and desperate citizens of this now defunct city, I felt this luck tingle at the tips of my large white hat, sensing the possibilities of a town reeling from the wind. But I would not allow myself to revel, and I moved inside with my back to the wall, consistently aware of the dangers of a desperate citizenry.

My handsome gold watch could still feel like death in my right front coat pocket. It was a hope, a fleeting one maybe, that the owner of this once fine establishment could help me fix of this problem of time keeping. I approached the splendid oak wood counter.

"Dear sir," I began as a humble servant to a southern city, "I have come into trouble with my fine timepiece, and it is my wonder if you could be the one to fix it for me. If not, if your particular set of skills or schedule does not fit snug into mine, I should hope you could have some advice as to the location of a man that would."

It seemed harmless enough an account of my particular situation. But it was at this time that I began surveying the inhabitants of this tired establishment. Many seemed beaten, as if from some distant wind, their eyes told the tale of a dark night and a dark day, and the aspect of a good-natured traveler from only a short distance up stream seemed to arouse little care in their collective minds. And for that matter, neither did it arise any interest in the shop-keep before me, who stood with a glass eye and a lost pair of trousers behind a register with a hopeless penance of money in it.

"What is it you want?" He asked finally, to distill the silence we had begun to collect in this all but necessary conversation.

"My timepiece, it has forgotten how to run, and I am enlisting your help if it is at all possible."

"We ain't do that here."

"Than direct me to a different location, if you can, this issue is of an utmost importance and I have come by steam from only a short ways up the river to sort out this matter. I would be much obliged if-"

"You one of them carpetbaggers, come down here after a the storm to clean up what belongings can no longer be claimed," and he pointed a long and bony finger at my chest, "Or is you stupid, to empty headed to see that we is in the middle of cleaning up after an attack from God Himself. We got no time for your fancy northern timepieces," he said.

And I was about to counter, about to tell this varnished victim of the winds that I was in fact from only a small ways up the river, from a town not very distant from this one, only slightly further up stream and protected vicariously from the winds that routinely scorched the swamps of the coast, when I caught myself. You see, there was no need to incite an argument after being in a town after such a short while. No need to ruffle the locals with possessed tongues, I looked merely to fix my timepiece and how was it to be helped that my timing had been so woefully off.

So I took my unnecessary whipping and moved out of this dreadful place of commerce and back into the hectic street before it. Thinking it may be high time to simply get back onto the boat, and move along the reeds and cattails back upstream to my home, when I spotted what appeared at first to be a traveler similar to myself. He was a short man with a hurried fashion, and he was busy securing various handbags and boxes. Some seemed to be cages, and yet others seemed filled with odd documents one would not think to find amongst the swamp coast after a storm. I approached the man with no thing in mind, hoping only to question him about his sidewalk oddity and possibly procure information as to where I could fix my timepiece at this late an hour. Horses passed through the street at a slower than average pace, it was growing more dusk by the moment, and the sun that had kept the peace for a full day now was retiring its post.

"Good evening there kind sir," I again approached in a gentle way, hoping this time my manner would pay off, "what is that you have going there."

The man looked up quickly with lightning eyes, and continued moving about his business, but he did not ignore me.

"The storm, you see, it creates my business."

"And what business may that be sir?"

He stopped at this and looked up quickly to the night beginning to fall all around him, and he began scratching his ample forehead.

"The business of the Red Rabbit," he did say.

"Red rabbit," I repeated with suspicion. The man had now stopped fumbling with his baggage and had come to stand directly before me, albeit a few inches lower.

"Yes sir, you see a storm like this is perfect for them. They wait all spring, all winter and through the depths of summer, for the perfect storm to rustle them out of their hiding places. It is than when the lucky man, or the prepared one, can finally capture them, and sell the red hide for a bit of money up north."

I was bewildered. Had I not grown up among this river and its many swamps? Had I not, in all my years, heard every tale there was to hear of this area and its creatures? And now this, a red rabbit that comes out only after a storm, for some unknown reason, simply to be hunted by some distant traveler that seems to be the only one in the Lord's earth to know of it. It was too much to handle, and I had forgotten quickly the true reason for my trip. This man seemed not worthy of documenting such a creature, and I took it upon myself to do this very documenting.

"How is it that I've never heard of this tale?"

The man shrugged. "It isn't a tale," he said without hesitation.

And with this I was forced to believe him. His conviction seemed pure and strong, and he had given me little reason to be a non-believer at this point.

"You know," I said "I have a vast knowledge of these surrounding swamps, and it goes without saying that after a storm like this they are apt to be wild and flooded. It could serve your purpose rather well to have a sage of the muck accompanying you on this mission, and I will assure you that my only retribution will be the documentation of this creature."

He again shrugged. "I don't believe I will need any help in the swamp. This blow was a rather light one, and I presume that the floods will not be as wild as you anticipate. But your company should be not a problem, good sir. You can come along if you wish."

And I did.

The man had begun to pick up his various bags and tools in an effort to get moving, and I asked the only two questions left unanswered.

"And how shall we be getting to the swamp? Raft, horseback, steamboat? And what, kind sir, is your name?"

"Neigh," he shook his head. At this time he had been wrapping his tools all around his body like a warrior preparing for battle. Two large cages had been positioned on his back, two green suitcases across his stomach, a cane, a six shot musket across his shoulders, and a large beige hat, that made him look as if he were off to a distant continent, on his head. "We walk, and the name is Barron."

Surprised I was, but not disheartened. The swamp was not far, but stomping through the muck infested with everything from alligators to leeches did not suit my original ideals of this trip. But I was in it now, and the thoughts of discovering some savage red rabbit seemed to ideal to pass up.

"Just call me Samuel," I said, "and let us move out of this city of the damned."

And we did.

Exactly 250 Words

This is called a true short short. It requires that the author uses exactly (not 249 or 251) 250 words. Which is exceptionally difficult and often takes a million revisions to get it right. I'd say I revised this one about 37 times.

Zero One

The planes roared overhead with destinations and pumping fuel. And she sat on a hard egg shaped seat with her back to the airport wall, biting her nails, and tapping her feet. It wasn't her fault, and she knew that she had done everything right. She had performed every exercise, taken every breathing class, and managed perfect attendance at Dr. Novak's clinic. Everything.

It wasn't the blindness that made it so hard, but it was the deafness and that eerie unshakable silence it had brought to the house. They were forced to go beyond simple child-proofing, and they had with vigor. But then one night he left, and it wasn't the pain of a different child that made it so hard, it was taking that pain alone.

And now she watched him from a distance. She watched the tender lost motions of the child with tears that stained bright purple overalls. He was spinning in slow calculated circles and pushing around with his bright orange feeling stick. His cheeks were wet below his darkly tinted sunglasses, and yet he had a certain confidence that grew from living in a world of black static. A tall neatly dressed woman now crouched before him and started asking questions. And she watched him feel the woman's face with his small sweaty hands and move his mouth with no words, the way she had taught him to. And she took one last look, placed his stuffed brown bear on the seat, and walked away.

Breath In

A short short for your viewing pleasure.

Hard Pillows


As Adam peered through the Venetian blinds out his window, his attention was immediately drawn to the two-ton bull elephant standing on his front lawn. He knew it was a bull because of its posture, of course. However, he was confused by the color of its rough and worn hide. Bright gold hardly seemed the proper color for any camouflage situation. Other than maybe the set of a Puff Daddy video, and Adam suddenly became quite sure that this was exactly where the creature had come from.

The pachyderm came off as harmless though (no discernible stomping, a general lack of mauling), and so Adam grabbed his morning robe and walked towards the kitchen. The television was blaring and his head hurt at the sound of distant airplanes. They always flew a little lower to the ground on Wednesday.

His grandfather was already at the oak wood table eating an absurdly large bowl of grainy cereal. He seemed to eat a fork full, and then change the channel to an increasingly loud station, and then eat another forkful. Adam certainly noticed. And he also noticed that his grandfather had done something different to his feathers today.

Adam sat down across from him and mixed a little more milk into his bowl. His grandfather had now forgotten about the fork and had taken to lapping up the rest of his milk up with his large dark orange bill. Adam leaned across the table and looked into his small beady black eyes.

"I think I'll take the motor-coach to market today, Grandfather. And I did notice the new look with your feathers, very dapper. The ladies at the pond will be all over you".

His grandfather leaned back in his tall chair and sighed deeply and heavily.

"The doctors had said it would never be easy," he said.

Adam nodded with confusion, and he never could understand what his grandfather was talking about. And they sat there like that for the rest of the morning. The door was locked, the sky was soft, and the motor-coach never did arrive.