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The Limber Mind Library => The Dudeku Book => Topic started by: cakebelly on January 09, 2011, 07:07:42 PM

Title: Prose (Dudeku/Annual)
Post by: cakebelly on January 09, 2011, 07:07:42 PM
Now, Dudes, I know that a few of you are scribes, so there ya go, all yours. Anything, ideas, tall tales and short stories . . well, you get the idea.

                   Thanks to CC Keiser for setting up the pins, again.
Title: Re: Prose (Dudeku/Annual)
Post by: cakebelly on January 11, 2011, 01:14:59 AM

 I have always found it interesting how any word will bring images to
 mind. No word exists by itself. Every word is connected to so many
 words and images it forms a holographic four dimensional collage
 itself. Follow any one word image to another in the mind and you will
 that word image is also part of another collage, also surrounded with
 four dimensional word images, and all colored and flavored with sounds,
 smells, tastes, and landscapes all their own.
 All word images are the product of our experiences with that word. The
 and meaning associated with any word are purely personal and are the
 consequences of the experience we each have with that word.

 Word associations: The Mama's and the Papa's California Dreaming; John
 Steinbeck and Cannery Row; Monterey; a communal house called Big Big; a
 young artist named Manuel who drew your soul in pen and ink; the blue
 Pacific; washing dishes in a whorehouse; a 67 Firebird; 1968; 1969;
 and a million other images come to mind, but lets stop at the collage
 surrounding Abalone. There are so many different pathways leading from
 California and Abalone it's a story worth the telling.

 The Great Abalone Hunt of 1968.

 It's a little foggy how it all started. The passage of time is only one
 factor that has my memory a bit hazy. The other factor, and probably
 leading cause of the memory fog, is I believe the adventure began at
 one of
 the parties at a flophouse I first resided in after arriving in
 The best I can remember a young fellow named Jake was there and
 somehow the
 conversation turned to abalone. I was new to California and I had never
 heard of abalone. He was telling me how great it was and how expensive
 was, especially if you tried to buy abalone in a restaurant. But he
 knew a few good spots where we could wade in the tide pool and fish them out
 hand. That is, if we started out real early, and didn't get caught.
 According to Jake the best places were protected, but he was
 enlightened by
 one of the locals on a few places were the Fish and Game didn't check
 often. We would be poaching, but if we got in and out early in the
 we wouldn't get caught by the Fish and Game.
 I didn't realize it right then, but Jake was working me, and working me
 pretty good. He needed a car for this adventure, and I had a 67
 Early the next morning I arrived a Jake's bungalow. I had to knock on
 door to wake him up. I guess he didn't mean that early! His half of the
 bungalow was a bit spartan, but it was a big improvement from the
 He had just moved in so there wasn't much to clutter up the place, and
 the looks of things he had yet to get around to buying much more than
 a cup
 and a saucepan to make "range coffee." That's where you boil a cup or
 so of
 water in a saucepan, throw in the coffee grounds, let it simmer a
 than pour in a cup of cold water to settle the grounds. It doesn't
 make bad
 coffee, but then at that time of the morning I guess any coffee isn't
 It wasn't until we were in the car Jake informed me we needed to make
 another stop along the way. We were picking up a fellow poacher in our
 abalone adventure; a fellow who was even newer to California than I
 was. We
 shall call our new friend Mark. Mark was from the Midwest, and as best
 as I
 could make out was here on a lark. He arrived by bus a few days ago
 and was
 staying in a motel. I never learned how he and Jake hooked up since
 wasn't very talkative. Maybe it was just me or the Firebird, not sure,
 he hardly spoke but a few words and seemed to me to be a bit on the
 defensive. Not that either of us needed to hold up our end of the
 conversation; Jake pretty well managed to do all the talking. Mark must have heard nasty stories about all the riffraff and drug
 hippies running around California. All his money was in travelers
 and he was a little shy about letting anyone see which pocket it was
 Once we were on our way he did relax a bit and by the end of the
 warmed to me a little. Heck, by the end of the adventure he was

 It was still dark when the three of us got going, but there was a soft
 just beginning to peek over the horizon. Jake had us drive a bit south
 heading to Big Sur. It was just daylight by the time we pulled over
 into a
 rest area just a few yards from the ocean. The sea otters were already
 yipping it up, and it was another time I wished I hadn't hocked my
 Damn it was beautiful. It also looked like it was mostly private
 down on the beach. We sat in the car while Jake had a look around and
 like what he saw. "Nope" he said, he didn't feel right about this
 spot. He
 thought someone was watching.
 "This isn't the best spot anyway. There's a better spot a little south
 here." We returned to the road and headed south again. We didn't get
 far before Jake spotted a diner just opening. "Hey anyone hungry? Lets
 for some steak and eggs."
 Now steak and eggs sounded great, but I was pretty broke. I was
 living on sticky buns and coffee the last two days with a few snack
 thrown in now and then. Steak and eggs would be the first decent meal
 I had
 in days. I mentioned to Jake my temporary lack of funding, but he said
 to worry, Mark had plenty of money on him for breakfast, and treating
 us to
 steak and eggs was the least he could do since we were driving him all  over
 Rt 1. I didn't miss the "we"! Mark didn't say much, but Jake got him
 to pay
 for breakfast without so much as a grumble.
 I didn't know Jake all that well, but I was beginning to. Over
 breakfast it
 hit me, we were on a Snark Hunt! Good old Jake was playing Mark for a
 meals, and me to drive him there. I didn't say a word, but by the time
 got back on the road headed to the next "good spot" Jake could tell I
 wise to what was going on. I think he could read it in my eyes.
 Whether Mark
 knew was anyone guess, but after steak and eggs and a few cups of
 good coffee we were all feeling good and ready for whatever was going
 come next. It was a beautiful day, we had rock and roll on the radio,
 were fed, and driving south on Rt 1 in California, which just may be
 one of
 the most gorgeous highways in the world. We were on an adventure and
 becoming friends. I stopped caring about abalone. And that is the
 object of
 any good snark hunt. The object is not the snark, but the adventure of
 hunt, and what you just may find along the way. Essentially not that
 different from life itself.
 Along the way we ran into another sometime resident of the flophouse
 who was
 hitching his way down to Big Sur. There was a party going on! I didn't
 him well, but he and Jake were good friends. To hell with the abalone,
 were going to a party in Big Sur. Someone had built a house in the
 not a kids type of tree house, but an actual house, about 1300 sf by
 looks of it, and they were throwing a party to celebrate.
 I didn't stay too long, I was getting really tired from being up all
 and day, and I had a job washing dishes in a whorehouse the next
 When I left it looked as if Jake and Mark were still having a good  time and
 the great abalone hunt of 1968 ended in great success for all involved,
 especially the abalone; who were never in any real danger from us
 to begin with.

Title: Re: Prose (Dudeku/Annual)
Post by: cckeiser on January 12, 2011, 03:46:37 PM
My first short story:

Medicine Man
   I grew up with the TV as my babysitter. In the late 40's and early 50's the Cowboy Western was the big thing on daytime TV. We could only get three stations back then, but it didn?t matter, they all were showing westerns. The Lone Ranger, Hoppalong Cassidy, The Cisco Kid, Roy Rogers and Dale Evans, and Gene Autry the Singing Cowboy are the ones I remember best. Not that I truly remember each and every show, they are all mixed together and pretty well almost forgotten by now. I do remember that I liked the shows with the Indians best. Even at that tender age I was rooting for the Indians. They never won of course, but I always had hope that maybe the next time.
   One year my parents bought me a Hoppalong Cassidy outfit for Christmas. I still have a picture of me at five years old, sitting on a wooden barrel wearing that black outfit with my than blond hair sticking out from under the black cowboy hat. It had silver buttons and a bright and shiny silver cap gun in a black leather holster. Man did I look cool. I was the envy of the neighborhood.
   Whenever we would play Cowboys and Indians, which was all the time back then, I would wear the outfit. It was practically the only thing I wore that whole year. We would break into camps and choose who would be a cowboy and who would be an Indian. Of course by virtue of my magnificent Hoppalong Cassidy outfit I was always a cowboy and the leader of the posse out to round up the heathen Indians and make the country safe for civilized Americans everywhere.
   You must remember, that back in the 40's and early 50's, the movies and TV always portrayed the Native Americans as blood thirsty heathens. I think it was because it was the only way they could justify all the terrible things that were done to them. I believe it was Jay Silverheels' Tonto that was the first to depict the American Indian with honor and dignity.
   I didn't need Tonto to tell me of the nobility of the Indian, somehow, I always knew it, even at the tender age of six. But I had the cowboy outfit, I was the leader of the posse.
   The only problem is, I wanted to be the Indian. I wanted to tear off the outfit, draw two lines on my cheeks with the dark brown mud of the earth and run bare chested through the neighborhood.  I wanted to ride my pinto pony ( imaginary of course) and shout the Comanche cry "Yeeeiii, Yeeeiii!" for all the world to hear. We had no idea what the Comanche yell really was, but at 5 or 6, that was  all we needed to raise our blood and make us feel like true warriors of the great Comanche nation. I never got to  fill my lungs with the sweet air of spring and let forth the mighty call, I was the one with the Cowboy outfit.
   One summer day, while hiding in the tall grass, somewhere out west on the frontiers of civilization, ( The corner lot across the street from the big stone house.)  waiting  for the blood thirsty savages to come riding along, the modern twentieth century came intruding into my universe. Some blackguard had thrown a beer bottle out a car window and it had smashed in the field where I had been playing. The pieces had been obscured by the tall grass and I didn't see them. I had dove for cover right into a shard of dark emerald green glass and received a nasty deep cut right in the middle of my palm. There was nobody else around, they had all taken up positions somewhere else in the neighborhood. The glare of the noonday sun beat down on the black cowboy hat, the silver buttons shimmered too bright to look at, and my deep red blood ran forth and mingled with the tall green grass and the dark brown earth.
   I wasn't scared, or panicked. I just sat there for awhile looking at it. I pulled the shard from my hand, and wondered what to do next. What would an Indian warrior do if he got cut?
   Here I am, stranded in the great frontier of the west, how would I stop the bleeding and treat the wound? These are the things I was thinking when he came.
   The Medicine Man came walking through the golden hip high grass from across the street and stood before me. He was dressed in what was at one time a rather nice black suit. But now it showed the signs of many years of service, and was just the tiniest bit too small. There were patches on the elbows, and these were beginning to show through. There was no mistaking his features, the high cheekbones and the proud and powerful nose, the tan and redden skin of his face, and the dark black hair which was over long for that time and looked like he had cut it himself with the horned handled knife he carried. I don't remember him as being overly tall, but standing straight and proud in front of me, he seemed a giant.
   He bent down and took my hand in his, which made my hand look even smaller than it was, a mere little pink pebble in his. He never said a word, but proceeded to wipe off the blood from my wound with a red and white handkerchief he withdrew from his rear pocket. He than produced a leather pouch from somewhere inside his coat and extracted a  packet of tan powder from the pouch. Wiping my wound once again, he carefully sprinkled it with the tan powder. He looked around him and gathered a handful of tall grass and cut it low to the ground with his knife. He placed a small clump of a brownish mossy looking substance on top of the tan powder and held it in place by tying the grass around my hand. I didn?t feel anything. My hand didn't hurt nor did the tan powder sting or burn. Everything just felt cool and soothing, and the bleeding had stopped.
   The last I remember seeing of the Medicine Man he was walking back through the golden hip high grass from where he had come, and was gone. Now being only 5 or 6 at the time, I never told anyone, I think for some reason, that is how the Medicine Man wanted it. Sometimes I wonder if it really happened, or if it was a delusion brought on by the shock of my injury. One of the reasons I wonder is because of where he walked through the golden hip high grass from across the street from where I was. If you remember, from what I told you before, across the street from the lot is a big stone house. There is no field of golden hip high grass. But then I still have his gift, and I know he was real.
   I think of him often, especially when I cut myself, which isn't too often thank goodness, or when I need to have something or other cut, removed, or repaired by a doctor. You see, he has left me a gift. I heal really fast. Even doctors and surgeons have commented how fast I heal. It's nothing that would be considered miraculous, but it does draw note. I know in my heart that it is a gift from my Medicine Man.
   Now this should be the end of the story, and it nearly is. Except for something that happened many years later, and now many year ago. As a young man in my twenties I had an occasion to drive across country heading for California. Somewhere out west, and I don't remember where anymore, I stopped at a gas station to refuel and stretch my legs. It was a hot summer day and the sun was beating down from over head. As I came out of the store sipping from the bottled drink in my hand I walked around the side of the station. There, across the street, was the very field of golden hip high grass that the Medicine Man had walked through. The grass in the foreground and the hills in the distance were exactly as I remembered them. I almost expected to see him come walking through the field again. I walked back into the store and asked the middle aged attendant if there was a Medicine Man around here. He said not that he knew, and that was that. My memory has faded, and I curse myself from time to time that I cannot remember even the name of the state I was in, or that I didn't spend a little more time back then to find the Medicine Man. Maybe one day after I retire, I will retrace my route and see if I can again find the place of my Medicine Man. I don't know what I would do if I ever found him, maybe just thank him, but somehow I think he knows, for he has never really left me. He is always here, in my mind and in my heart.

This had been published in an ezine called AU Publishing, but I see it is no longer on line.
Title: Re: Prose (Dudeku/Annual)
Post by: brother_erwin on January 12, 2011, 04:01:59 PM
that is a wonderful story.
If I may add a comment: Ithink, there is no need for you to look for the Medicine Man once you have retired. Don't seek him. You already found him.

Once again: Wonderful story.
Brother Erwin
Title: Re: Prose (Dudeku/Annual)
Post by: Caesar dude on January 12, 2011, 06:54:29 PM
The Great Abalone Hunt of 1968

This is great dude...reminds me of Kerouac....keep writing mate...

Title: Re: Prose (Dudeku/Annual)
Post by: cckeiser on January 12, 2011, 10:06:44 PM
Rag Bag

I was digging through our rag bag the other day. I was looking for something to dry off the dog with before letting her back in the house after watering the garden.

Our Katie loves to help water the garden. She stands on the other side and barks up a storm for me to direct the hose her way. If it's a tight enough stream she tries to bite it off. Of course she ends up near soaked to the bone and her feet caked with mud. I always hose her feet off when we get back to the house, then dry her off before letting her back into the house. If not, Katie and I would both be sleeping outside for tracking up Sue's floors.

The rag bag we keep is for all those odds and ends of old towels and dish cloths that have seen better days, and come in handy for odd jobs such as drying off Katie's feet. The rag I pulled out was something I had almost forgotten all about. It was the last of the towels I bought when I first left home to live on my own nearly 40 years ago.

I still remember when I bought it; it was one of a set with all the matching this and that. They were a pale olive green and golden yellow in a Aztec Sun-God design. I guess you could say they were a bit garish; my taste has changed greatly the past forty years and I would not buy them again today even if I could find them. When I bought them I really didn't give much thought to the design as much as I did to their lush softness. They were extremely plush and very well made, even if they were ugly. I found them on a discount table. They were on sale, and you can probably guess why.

Here it was, the last tattered towel from my very first apartment. The very first towel I ever bought for the very first time I was on my own. My bachelor days in Pennsylvania, right after landing my first job and buying my first new car. I had no idea what the hell I was doing! How I survived those first few years is a mystery to me, but I did. I learned to do all the things we guys take for granted while we are living at home and have a mom to take care of us.

One of the things I learned was you can only live in a place so long before it needs cleaning and the laundry must be done. I already knew how to cook, sort of, having worked as a cook while going to school, but I didn't know anything about doing the laundry. Everything I owned turned pink after my first attempt. That is when I learned never to throw a crimson blanket in with the rest of the clothing, especially the whites! I taught myself to iron, with only a few scorch marks on the clothing...or myself. I also learned the stain I managed to put in the carpet can be taken care of quite nicely with a little creative rearranging of the furniture.

That was just before I got the itch and left for California. I packed what little I actually owned into the trunk of my 67 Firebird and just took off. I think I left to "find myself". Back in the 60's finding yourself seemed to be the important thing to do. Nobody told you just how to do it, but getting away from everyone you knew was the recommended first step. After that you were on your own, and I thing that was the whole point; to be on your own.

I didn't have an exact destination in mind, I just went, and the towels went with me. The towels and I traveled all across the country and up and down the west coast before ending up in the state of Washington. Both the towels and I  got a good workout when I landed a job as a lumberjack. After six months I did find out one thing in Washington, if I was going to myself, I knew damn well it wasn't going to be as a lumberjack!

I left Washington and arrived back home just in time to meet Sue, and we married in September of 69. When Sue moved in with me the only things I had were a couple old pots and pans, a few mismatched cups and plates, and my towels.

Sue set about making our place a home, and I guess I lost track of both time and the towels. Over the years we must have had a few dozen sets of towels, but none were ever as plush as that very first set. What ever happened to the others I don't remember, I didn't give them any thought until that moment...when I was holding that last tattered old towel; the very last of the first towels I had bought all those years ago.

Title: Re: Prose (Dudeku/Annual)
Post by: DigitalBuddha on January 13, 2011, 12:20:35 AM
Hell of a flashback you got there, cc dude. Completely unspoiled.
Title: Re: Prose (Dudeku/Annual)
Post by: brother_erwin on January 13, 2011, 04:15:14 PM
I suppose you keep that last towel? I mean, you don't throw it away, do ya? It may somehow tie it all together  ;)
Title: Re: Prose (Dudeku/Annual)
Post by: Caesar dude on January 13, 2011, 04:29:21 PM
that last tattered old towel

Is your real name Arthur Dent Sir?  ;)
Title: Re: Prose (Dudeku/Annual)
Post by: cckeiser on January 13, 2011, 04:47:49 PM
Yeah dude, I keep the last of it in a trunk to keep it safe, but it's so damn ugly I'm  thinking of having it framed! ;D

@Caesar dude
No sir, but my first philosophy I wrote; which morphed into Poly-Solipsism, was titled 42:Defined!
Also wrote a poem titled 42. It has 7 lines per stanza with the same end rhyme and 42 stanzas long, but it sucks. It was more of a technical challenge to construct than to compose. It has no passion. It's all lips and no tongue.
And NO I will not post it here! It sucks!

Title: Re: Prose (Dudeku/Annual)
Post by: brother_erwin on January 13, 2011, 04:57:27 PM
The next frame, cck, should be for the rag, not the rug, and mark it 8!
Also, the towel should not end on the head of some - well you know, who look for the reverse on a "murcan" tank.  ;D
Title: Re: Prose (Dudeku/Annual)
Post by: brother_erwin on January 13, 2011, 04:57:59 PM
Yeah dreadful, I know, I just couldn't resist.
Title: Re: Prose (Dudeku/Annual)
Post by: cckeiser on January 13, 2011, 05:07:03 PM
The next frame, cck, should be for the rag, not the rug, and mark it 8!
Also, the towel should not end on the head of some - well you know, who look for the reverse on a "murcan" tank.  ;D

;D ;D ;D
Title: Re: Prose (Dudeku/Annual)
Post by: cckeiser on January 14, 2011, 09:37:28 PM
  The Bizarre Bazaar

During the writing of Poly-Solipsism I had this strange dream. Of course the concept was haunting me day and night, so it's not a great surprise I would have a dream about it. What is strange is the form my quest took in the dream.

The first thing I remember about the dream is I was standing in a arid desert someplace in the Middle East. From the feel of it I knew it was thousands of years in the past, and stretched before me and all around me was an ancient Bazaar. There were tents of all different shapes, sizes and colors, with the door flap of the tents tied back to allow a view and easy access inside. But as I walked along the main avenue between them I could not see inside of any of them. The sun was at high noon and shining glaringly bright and all I could see of the insides was a dark emptiness as I walked down the middle of the avenue. Sometimes I could just make out a shadow of movement and a faint glimmer of light from a few of the open doorways, but there was no way of telling what lay inside without venturing inside.
In the front of each tent were tables and stalls displaying a sample of the wares to be found within. In front of many of the larger tents were all manner of men and woman performing to entice me to enter their tent.
There were Belly Dancers, Sword Swallowers, Fire Eaters, Jugglers, Magicians and Conjurers. There were tables set with retorts and stills, selling spirits of all kinds, and I swear I saw Albert Einstein himself wearing a turban holding a small crowd of onlookers enthralled as he levitated stars, planets and moons all swirling around in an expanding globe of darkness.
There were stalls with monks in robes who sat motionless meditating in the Lotus position, while at the next tent a small group sat on pillows smoking from a bong with spiraling whiffs of smoke rising to the heavens.
There were tents with different styles of crosses in front, and Preachers admonishing the sinners to repent. There was a tent where young men with shaved heads and yellow and orange robes danced around with tambourines while chanting and singing.
There were Sirens in gossamer gowns, and Nymphs hardly wearing anything at all beckoning seductively to enter their tent.

I'm not really sure how I picked a tent to enter, but it had a large Greek letter Delta above the doorway, and Hams, Sausages, and wheels of Cheeses hanging outside. An elderly grinning Greek with a glinting gold tooth held back the tent flap with one hand while he ushered me inside with a slight bow and a wave of his other arm.
There didn't seem a need for haste as I was the only one entering, and from what I could tell there wasn't anyone else hanging around this particular tent, so I stood for a moment just inside waiting for my sight to adjust to the dim interior.
When they finally did I found I was standing right in front of a table behind which sat a rather bored young Gypsy girl cheating at solitaire. She barely noticed me, and without uttering a word she casually handed me a pamphlet with one hand while she continued turning cards with the other. I could not make out the writing on the flyer, but I could tell by the palm and Zodiac printed of the front it was an advertisement inviting me to have my fortune told by Madam Somebody or other. I shoved it into a pocket, and with a slight nod of my head to the disinterested young Gypsy, I ventured deeper into the interior.
I didn't get very far before running into a set of tables with scattered dust covered odds and ends of old and empty bottles, a few tankards and tarnished trinkets. It looked as though at one time they may have been for sale, as each bore an ancient and yellowing tag whose value had long ago faded from even the keenest vision. Perhaps when the tent was new these were the hot items, but by the looks of it their days of interest were long gone and nobody cared enough anymore to even stash them away.
As I wiped the dust from my fingers on the side of my trousers I saw the reason for their neglect. The tent had no back! The once treasured objects lost their appeal to the more enticing treasures that lay behind the tent.
The glamor and glitter of the main avenue in the front of the tent paled in comparison to the riot and revelry taking place behind. It was like going from black and white to landing in the full Technicolor of Oz!
None of the tents had a back. You just had to pick one to go through to enter the real party in the back. Each tent spilled into the common arena where everyone mingled more or less together to celebrate and peddle their wares. To either side of the tent I had exited intermingled denizens from the tents next to them. Each blending together to produce a combination of flavors and colors.
It was a Fair, a Circus, a Festival, an Extravaganza! It was Carnival!
There was a mass of humanity as far as the eye could see engaged in every activity imaginable. There were stalls selling fish and foul and cooked meats of every kind. There were stalls over flowing with fruits and vegetables, and stalls with breads and pastries. And everywhere was the aroma of spices and cooking, all mingled together with perfumes, the smell of baking beads, and the sweet scent of roasting sugar.
"Now this is more like it" I thought, as I drifted bewildered by the diversity into the fray. I was famished and the aromas of all the different foods tugged at my hunger.
I stopped at the first vendor I came to, who was dispensing a barbequed something or other wrapped in a pita. It smelled Devine, but tasted like hell! I think it was lamb and had too many funky tasting spices. I moved on to the next and the next, but it was always the same. Everything looked good and smelled wonderful, but tasted strange, and I could not eat but a bite; if that much. At one stand I nearly gaged with the first bite and spit it out wiping the remains off my tongue with a napkin.
This was noticed by a patron standing next to me, who seem to thoroughly enjoy what I had found so repugnant. "Don't like huh? I love it! It's all I ever eat." He said as best he could between shoving in great mouthfuls. "Perhaps you will find the food more to your liking at one of the other tents?" He mumbled with a wave of his arm in the direction of a crowd some distance away. I could just make out a whole series of other vendors over the heads of a sea of revelers. I was wondering what my chances were of maneuvering through this mass of humanity, when my new friend notice my calculating expression. "Just go back through the tent you came from, and find another tent to enter. Every tent has their own flavor. Hope you find one to your liking." he said has he turned around to order another serving.

With very little difficulty I retraced my rout and found the tent with the young Gypsy girl still cheating at solitaire, and passed the grinning Greek with the glinting gold tooth on my way back to the main avenue.
I surveyed all the different tents, trying to prophesies without a clue, in which one I would find just the right flavor for my pallet.

Time and again I entered a different tent only to find myself back out in the main avenue and still famished.
I tried them all to no avail. Not a single one offered anything I could make a meal of for very long. There were a few that didn't taste all that bad, but none of them were what I was searching for, and none of them quenched my hunger.
It had been an exhausting search, and as I stood there once again in the main avenue, I realized that if I was to find just the right flavors, I would have to put up my own tent with my own colors and flavors.
If I could not find what I was looking for; what I needed to satisfy my hunger, I would have to make it myself.


Title: Re: Prose (Dudeku/Annual)
Post by: brother_erwin on January 17, 2011, 02:54:20 PM
love that one, too. I like the tent without backs idea. Somewhere between good-old Vonnegut and Jorge Luis Borges in style, my impression, well of course it is your style you write in, it's just what comes to my mind when reading it.

If I had a grumble about it, it is about the end. It is - what appears to me - a little bit too ... fishing for the right expression here, Dude, ...obvious, didactic, .... .
But that's just like my opinion, of course.
Title: Re: Prose (Dudeku/Annual)
Post by: cckeiser on January 17, 2011, 10:32:55 PM
love that one, too. I like the tent without backs idea. Somewhere between good-old Vonnegut and Jorge Luis Borges in style, my impression, well of course it is your style you write in, it's just what comes to my mind when reading it.

If I had a grumble about it, it is about the end. It is - what appears to me - a little bit too ... fishing for the right expression here, Dude, ...obvious, didactic, .... .
But that's just like my opinion, of course.
Thankee brother, and yeah the ending is a little more than a bit obvious, but then that was the dream dude. Aren't Parables supposed to be obvious? ;D ;D
Title: Re: Prose (Dudeku/Annual)
Post by: brother_erwin on January 19, 2011, 03:53:56 PM
I suppose they are,  CCK, I suppose they are. ;)
Title: Re: Prose (Dudeku/Annual)
Post by: cckeiser on January 27, 2011, 05:51:57 PM
Go Into The Light!
( The Whiney Spirit)

It wasn't that she was a prostitute; it was just that the men in her life
never stayed around very long. A few days, a week, maybe a little more
sometimes, but they always left. Some would stop back now and then, only to
leave again. That was all right with her, hell it was more than all right. For
most of them, if they didn't leave she would have thrown them out.

She figured she just wasn't the marrying kind. Her taste in men really
sucked and she knew it. They were the riffraff, the good old boys, the wham
bam, thank you ma'am kind of guys. They were little boys who never grew up, just out
for a good time. Well that was okay, so was she. She was the
wham bam, thank you man kind of girl.

Unfortunately, she wasn't a girl anymore. She was getting old; past her prime, and she
was beginning to look it. Too many good times, too much hard drinking, and
too much hard living and loving were beginning to show in her once lovely
face and her once lovely body, and now she was a mother!

She was not exactly sure how it happened. One day she woke from a drunk and
she was pregnant. Hell, she didn?t have a clue who the father was. It could
have been any one of half a dozen guys or maybe none of them. Hell, she was on a
drunk, how the hell could she remember? One thing for sure, it
wasn't Robert Redford! Unless he started hanging out with bikers. What
did it matter who the father was anyway? The kid was hers, he was here, and he
was a pain in the ass.

She could have gotten rid of him right away when she found out. She and a few friends went out to celebrate. By the time she sobered up it was too late, she was too far gone to abort. Besides she spent the money. On what she didn't remember, probably booze, but it was gone. Anyway, she thought it might be nice to have a kid. To have someone to love and to love her back. Someone who would stick around and not be leaving her in a day or two. Hell, maybe having a kid was just what she needed to start settling down.
She could get a real job and find a nice place to live. She could make a real nice
little home and family. Well it seemed like a good idea at the time. It
didn't work out that way; it never worked out the way she wanted it to.
Even her kid didn't work out the way she wanted.

Here she was, still living in the same dump, still drinking, and still dating the wrong guys, and there he was, still dirty, still smelly, and still whiny. He was a whiny, smelly, dirty, always under foot, pain in the ass, which just didn?t go away.

It was past eleven and he should have been in bed. Instead there he was, outside
playing in the dirt by the junk pile. He was in bed before her date came,
but he never stayed there. How the hell was she supposed to watch him? She
had company, she could not watch him every minute of the day. He must have
gotten up while they were in the bedroom, and now he was outside; whining
again. He was whining to her date to take him along for a ride. Her date was going
out for pizza and beer, and the little brat heard him. Now he was whining to
go along. "I want pizza." "I want to go for a ride." "I want, I want."
That's all the little bastard ever said. "I want!"

She sat on the stoop in the open doorway to the "back yard" watching her
kid whine, and chase after her date. If "yard" is what you could call it; Junk Yard
would be more appropriate, but it was in the back of the building. It was an
old two-story brick building down by the tracks. It must have been an office
building at one time, but it had been converted into apartments; most of them
empty. Hell, all of them were empty except for hers. The rest were in too
bad a shape to live in. The whole thing was going to be condemned any day
now, if it hadn't been already, but the rent was right, nothing. It belonged
to one of her old boyfriends who would stop by from time to time to "collect
the rent." She didn't mind, he treated her nice and he didn't smell. She had
no idea where she would live if they tore the place down, especially with
the brat. She had a few friends who would put her up for awhile, but not
with the kid. The damn kid was always in the way; he always ruined everything.

She sat there in her almost good nightgown. The pale pink one with blue and
white flowers on it. It was only a year old, but it had seen a lot of use
and it was beginning to show. She sat there smoking a cigarette and watched
her dirty, smelly, whiny little bastard whine after her date. She didn't say
a thing. She was hoping he would take the brat along and give her a break
for a little while. She could just make them out in the dim glow from the
light coming from the open door. Her date wasn't amused, he didn't like
kids, and didn't want anything to do with this one. She could just hear him
telling him to go away, to go back to his mom. The kid was persistent in
his whining little voice; he was a pain in the ass and would not take
'no' for an answer. He just kept at him and at him, whining all the time.The only thing he understood was a kick in the butt, and still he would keep
at it. "I want." "Take me with you." Her date was getting pissed, but still
she said nothing. She just sat there, silhouetted by the light from the
doorway, in her almost good nightgown; smoking her cigarette.

Finally, her date gave in. She knew he would. That little whiny monster could
wear anyone down. At last a little peace and quiet, a little time all to
herself. She could feel the tension melt away. Just a little time to relax
without anyone bothering her. She went back in for a beer and another

Her date never intended to come back. The pizza and beer
was just an excuse to get out of there. He got what he wanted, he had a few
drinks and a roll in the sack. He had a good time and now it was time to
leave. He wasn't good with the "afters." He never liked the ?afters.? Once you
get what you came for, why stick around? For what? Small talk? He didn't
have any small talk. It's not as if they were in love or anything like that.
He was just looking for a good time; so was she. That was what it was about,
having a good time. He was a good time kind of guy. Love them and leave
them. Yes sir, that was his motto. All that other stuff was just too messy,
too encumbering. He didn?t want to get tied down, especially with someone who
has a kid. A damn dirty, smelly, whiny monster at that. The kid should
have shut up. He should have stopped whining. He should have gone back to
his mom, but no, he had to keep at it, he had to keep whining. "Well if she
can't teach him some manners, I will."

The kid showed no fear. He dragged the little bastard into the old dilapidated trailer, and still the kid showed no fear. No matter how loud the date yelled, how angry he got the kid never gave in. He just continued to whine and whine; never shutting up for a second. The date?s anger grew and he hit the kid hard, but all this did was make it worse. Now the brat was screaming bloody murder. He was going to make this little bastard shut up if it was the last thing he ever did. Screaming, "Shut up, shut up," he held the kids hand over the lit gas burner, but the kid cried even louder. The screaming, the crying, he couldn't take it anymore. He hit him again, this time even harder. He hit him with all his might. This time the kid shut up.


I didn't know who he was.. All I knew was that the kid was still here, not in body, just in spirit. His spirit was still the dirty, smelly, whiny little monster it was in life. He still wants, and he was roaming the earth looking for anyone to satisfy his want. He was still a
whiny little monster and a troubled spirit. Somehow he found me, he
attached himself to me and entered my psyche. I didn't know it at first, but
my mood began to change. I felt his want. I felt his miserable never-ending
whiny want. He affected my spirit. He made me feel his anguish, and his
anguish was reflected in my thoughts and my demeanor, but I found him out.

He came out in my dream. I saw the whole story unravel in a
single shot of recollection. Not my recollection, but his; I saw it through his eyes, his spirit. I could not see him, but I could feel him. He was a troubled, grotesque little spirit
hanging around just at the edge of my senses. His influence made me
irritable and cranky. I have discovered him and exorcized him.

When I realized what and where he was, I was able to rid myself of him. It
was not easy; he was a stubborn little cuss. He would not take 'no' for an
answer. I had to convince him I was not what he was looking for. I had to
convince him that he would find what he was looking for somewhere else. He would be happier, warmer, and better off,  if he would leave me and go into the
light. I had to keep repeating it over and over, trying different approaches
to get through to him, but finally it worked. I could feel
him leaving.
As I talked about the light, I could just make it out in
the distance. It was faint at first, but got brighter and brighter as I
spoke of it. It wavered and shimmered just in front him and me. What I
could see of it was not a solid light, it was a combination of many, many
lights all shining together. As I looked at it I kept telling him to go into
the light, but what he said to me as he was leaving gave me a start. He said,
?I thought you were the light.?

With his leaving, I had a new awareness of his plight. His spirit was born
into a non-nourishing atmosphere. His want was of love, of
tenderness, of nurturing. His soul was crying out for sustenance, but like
so many, he tried to quell the hunger of his soul with material
things. "I want! I want!" No matter how many material things one acquires,
the hunger of the spirit cannot be quenched. His spirit was in search of what
it needed, what it didn't get when he was alive. He was searching for the love
of another soul.

As I laid still, I could feel him go. I could feel a release come over me. My
spirit was tranquil once more. I was awake and had been since I recognizedhis spirit touching mine. My eyes were still closed, but I could still see
the light. As I watched it dim, his parting words rang in my thoughts. "I
thought you were the light." It was more of a question than a statement. How
could he think I was the light? That is when it struck me, I was the
light. The light isn't some magical doorway to enlightenment. The light
isn't out there somewhere. The light is in here, inside each of us.
We are the light.

Every spirit glows with a light of its own. It may seem like a dim flicker
in the vastness of the UNIverse, but when it joins with all the other souls
it is a magnificent beacon. We do not go into the light to gain
enlightenment; we join our spirit with other spirits to share our knowledge
and our love. The total of our collective spirits knows no more than we did
in life, but we shared together. Every soul we touch, we share who we
are. We share our love and our pain. We share our wants and our answers. The
collective spirits are looking for answers just as we do in life, but they
do it together. We become the light.

I did not send the spirit of that troubled kid to another place. I just
passed him on to find another soul. Hopefully, a soul that can give him what he
needs. Perhaps I have passed him on to you.



I have since had other ?Past Life Memories,? but what I have come to realize is they were not my memories of a past life; they were the memories of others who have lived before and who?s spirit and memories exist in a dimension beyond the physical. Sometimes they find a glimmer of light to attach to. When they do they share their memories with those who will lend an ear to listen. Most are similar to my Whiney Spirit, they have passed on while still searching for something they need. Sometimes it?s love, sometimes its loved ones, and sometimes it?s forgiveness.
It is not our victories and triumphs we take to our grave; it?s our failures.

You can call them Dreams if you like, but what is a Dream? Do you know the difference between a dream and a memory?
So do I.

Title: Re: Prose (Dudeku/Annual)
Post by: cckeiser on January 29, 2011, 10:45:51 PM
Dutch literary great Jan Wolkers dies at 81

Ok, I didn't know Jan Wolkers, in fact I never even heard of him before he died. Not even sure why I read his Obit, as I usually do not read the Obit page, but on Sunday, for some reason, I did.
I liked his face. For some reason when I close my eyes and try to envision how I look, I see myself looking quite a bit like Jan Wolkers, but that's not the reason I'm writing this.
The reason I'm writing this is because of a strange dream I had last Thursday night. Ok, I guess "strange" isn't appropriate, since most of my dreams could be called strange, so this one wasn't any stranger than most. At least it was coherent and not one of those really strange bits and pieces dreams that flash before my minds eye and just don't make any sense at all. Sort of like a collage of bits and pieces of film someone cut up and strung haphazardly together in random order.
No, my dream last Thursday was very vivid and quite cohesive. In fact I thought it was such a great dream I made note of it and decided, when I may find the time to, actually try doing it, but maybe on a much smaller scale. I don't have that much money!

The Dream on Thursday Oct. 18, 2007

The dream started in an apartment I once rented on North 7th Street in Allentown PA back in the mid 60s. It was a big apartment as apartments go in that part of town. Three bedrooms a large living room with three large windows over looking 7th street, a long hallway leading to the dinning room and a good size kitchen. Not only was it cheap; $75 a month, but it was on the third floor and had a big back porch with a great view of the city.
When the sun came up in the morning and shown through those three great windows, it lit up the whole place, right back to the dinning room and kitchen.
The only problem was it wasn't furnished, and having just moved out on my own, I had no furniture. Nothing! But that didn't bother me so much since I like the 'sparse look', and did I mention it was really big and really cheap?!
I went to the Second Hand store and picked up a bed, a chest of draws and old wire cot bed frame with no mattress for something to sit on in the living room. All for under $25!
That was the only furnishings in the apartment all the time I lived there; which turned out to be only a few months. That was the apartment I left when I headed to California.
That's the true part, and not part of the dream, but gives you some idea of where the dream took place, if not the why. The Why may be a little harder to fathom.

So on Thursday night I had this dream. I was back in my old apartment on North 7th street and it was exactly the way I had left it, except I had this inspiration and started covering all the walls, the ceilings and the floors with all kinds of mirrors. Big ones, small one, round ones, square ones, and pits and pieces of broken ones. I covered every square inch in mirrors, and fashioned them into a collage depicting all the characters from Alice Through The Looking Glass. On the ceiling I made a mosaic with mirrors of the Sun, the Moon, the Stars and all the planets. On the floor I did a grand rendition of the rabbit hole swirling downward to Wonderland. I had a huge mirror ball hanging from the living room ceiling dropping down from the Sun that changed colors ever so slowly and bathed the whole place in all the different colors of the rainbow.
Then, just to keep anyone from cutting themselves on the bits of mirrors, I covered the whole place; walls floors and ceilings with great plates of glass.
It was magnificent!

So what does this dream have to do with Jan Wolkers?
Well like I said, I very seldom read the Obits, and except for liking his face, I didn't know a thing about him. So why I read his I wasn't sure. But what really sent goose bumps up my spine and had the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end is when I read the very last line of his obituary.

"His best known work as a sculptor is the Auschwitz monument in Amsterdam, built up of broken mirrors under a glass plate."

Jan Wolkers died on Friday.      
22 Oct. 2007
Title: Re: Prose (Dudeku/Annual)
Post by: cckeiser on February 01, 2011, 11:04:07 PM
Hey dudes! Found another one for ya all!

Dreams of Dogfish Future.

Can someone PLEASE tell me where my frickin' dreams come from??
I just wish I could make stuff like this up on purpose!

Ok, here's the dream.
It's late at night and I'm hungry so I walk into this joint that looks like a very large brownish red wooden shed about 40 feet long and 15 feet wide with a 12 foot ceiling. The boards forming the walls don't quite fit together real tight and can you can just about see through the cracks. There are two large 6 feet wide by 8 feet high openings on the street side of the shed about 5 or 6 feet apart and you can walk in either one you wish.
The inside felt open but not all that airy and the whole place was lit by a half dozen vary large white paper hanging lanterns.
There were a dozen or so tables for 6 staggered along either wall, but most were empty and only a few customers sitting one or two to a table.

I sat at one of the tables across from the two doors that was placed between the two openings and looked at a yellowing laminated cardboard menu. It looked a bit old but the edges were still intact.
It was a Middle Eastern type place that only served one dish.
A tall thin Indian looking waiter who spoke broken English through excellent teeth called it Neshabi, which was sort of like a Poo-Poo platter where everything is dipped in their special secret sauce, cooked over an open fire and served on the same foot long wooden skewers they use to cook them with.
The platter comes with a stick each of pork, ham, chicken, a strip of steak, a vegetable of the day; which looked a bit like celery and was also dipped in the sauce and cooked on a stick, and something they called a dogfish.

None of the servings were large, maybe four or five bites each, but damn they were really really good! They were actually damn delicious, except for the dogfish.
I don't like fish as a rule and this one looked a bit strange to me. It was about 6 inches long and maybe 2 wide at the middle. It was a silvery fish but it was now a brownish golden yellow from the sauce and having been cook over the open fire. But what I didn?t like about it; besides that is was a fish, was it still had its scales and looked like all the cook did was stick the skewer through the fish, dip it in sauce and cooked it whole.

I had eaten everything else and was looking at the dogfish with a suspicious eye when the waiter
who had been watching from a distance came over. I guess he could see my reluctance from across the shed and came to offer encouragement with a smiling "Good-good- dogfish good-eat-eat!"
Still a little leery, but feeling somewhat assured, I took a bite right out of the middle.
It was awful! The most hideous thing I ever tasted! And to top it off I bit right into an egg sack which had slimy greenish yellow fish eggs squirting out the sides of my mouth and all over my cheeks and shirt.
The sight of which only seemed to delight my now excited waiter.
"Look-look! You very lucky! You got eggs, that caviar! You eat eggs-you see future! Eat-eat!"
I wasn't quite so excited about this wonderful opportunity. In fact I felt like I was about to barf. I tried spitting it out, scrubbing it out with a napkin and washing my mouth with water, but none of it helped. The gawd awful taste just seem to grow worse swelling into my nasal cavity trying to make its way up to my brain.
Now I knew I was going to barf!
I started scrambling from the table telling my still elated waiter "I'm going to be sick!"
"Yeah" he said. "That same future everyone sees!"

Dec. 18, 2008

By the way, I checked google and there really is a dogfish and someone named Neshabi!
I never heard of either before my dream!
Title: Re: Prose (Dudeku/Annual)
Post by: cckeiser on February 07, 2011, 03:40:09 PM
Oops! Found another short story that had previously been "published" that you dudes might find interesting. All the stories here so far have been published on the internet somewhere or other.
This one I call "A Future Earth" was actually a short story meant to be the basis for a screen play. Never got around to it though.

I was hoping a few of you other dudes who write would grace us with a story or two of your own so this thread doesn't look like it's all about my writing.

Title: Re: Prose (Dudeku/Annual)
Post by: cckeiser on February 07, 2011, 03:42:20 PM
A Future Earth

By all accounts 2084 was "The Year". The first year of the new world. The first year of total world unity. The first year of one Faith, one Church and one Government.

Of course there are those who will debate the date, pointing out there were still pockets of Fundamentalist fighting against the Unification, and there still existed Heathen Scientist hiding in a secret base in Antarctica, but for all intent and purposes 2084 is hailed as Year One of the One World Order.

After all, that is the year all other Faiths signed their covenant and vowed allegiance to The Unified Faith, and that is the year the last of the holdout countries capitulated and consecrated Islamic Christianity as their official Religion. And that is the year every nation on Earth was being governed by a duly elected member of the Unified Coalition's political arm; The Faithful.

2084 is celebrated as year One, but it would take another six years before every last soul on Earth would be christened into the One Faith. The Heathen Scientist fleeing Earth for refuge in the remote regions of the solar system left The Unified Islamic Christian Coalition the only voice of Truth on Earth.

The true scholars studying that time period are still amazed a Unification was even possible, considering the conflict waging between the two most populous Beliefs. Blood was spilled on both sides, and Bad Blood existed between them for decades before then. A coalition combining the two faiths seemed an impossibility just a few scant years before.
The irony of the Unification is that it was a repercussion to the growing world Atheism. And the irony of the widespread Atheism is that it was the result of spiritualist poem with the ambiguous title of "42" written by a little known philosopher at the turn of the century.
As with most faddish cults it started when a university student of past philosophers found the poem in the restricted Internet archives of the first part of the century. The poem was soon being passed from university to university on the SubWeb to avoid the censors, and before long was being dissected, debated and interpreted around the world.
It didn?t take long to establish a cult following and spread beyond the walls of academia, stimulating the already growing discontent for established beliefs and propagating Atheistic thinking far better than the direct frontal assaults being staged at that time by the Heathen Positivist's.
It was this growing Atheism that forced the major religions to abandon their feuding and unite to fight a common enemy that threatened their very existence.

Finally free from any interference The One Voice of Divine Truth began to eliminate the last remnants of the evil laws from the past. Abortion, birth control, Gay Rights and Woman?s Lib. were the very first of the evils to be eradicated in the efforts to set things right and righteous.

By the turn of the next century the abomination of Homosexuality was all but eliminated and carried a penalty of Death for any practitioners. Common-Law Marriages and sexual contact outside of marriage were outlawed, and  anyone caught in a relationship not condoned by the One Faith was subject to Rehabilitation. Repeat offenders were subject to Corporal Punishment. The severity of the Corporal Punishment was left to the discretion of the local church. Castration for men, and stoning for women were not uncommon depending on the province in which the offense was committed.

In order to insure relationships between the sexes were not in defiance of the One Faith, all social functions needed the approval of, and were overseen or conducted by a Church Guardian. To avoid enticement and seduction, schools were segregated, with higher education limited to males only.

The first four decades of the Twenty-Second Century were the glory years for the One Church. The entire planet was under their control and there was no opposition to their authority. All other political and secular organizations were deemed unnecessary and a violation of Divine Truth.
With One Faith, One Government, and One World, finally world peace had been obtained.

It looked as if the peace would last forever until internal corruption and power hungry elitists began to eat at the foundations. Internal strife, along with the new environmental crises, threatened to undo all that had been achieved, but it was the unseen that almost destroyed the Church and civilization as we know it.

When the last of the Heathen Scientist fled the Earth, they took with them most of the world's advanced scientific knowledge. Science and The Church having long been at odds, the only science allowed was that science which supported and enforced church doctrine. Heathen Scientist having been the primary opponents of Divine Faith; all science beyond the basic science needed to support necessary physical functions, was deemed the work of the devil. During the years of The Divine War, anything associated with the Heathen Scientist was destroyed. Few records of scientific advancement remained, and few remained who could read and understand them. Fewer still were those that would admit they could.

Pharmacology was reduced to producing aspirin for headaches and herbal remedies for backaches and flatulence. Rashes and diseases were a sign the sufferer had transgressed against, and earned the wrath of God, and could only be cured by penitence and prayer. Ill health was a sure sign of a sinning soul.

The first consequence in the elimination of abortions and birth control was a sharp increase in the world?s population. Overnight the birthrate in the industrialized countries overran the birthrate in the Third World countries. By the time the second generation born in the One World came along, resources were stretched to their limits, and overcrowding plagued every city and suburb. Things were just at their breaking point when Mother Nature stepped in.

Jammed shoulder to shoulder, and with little preventive medications or vaccines available, the stage was set for the rabid spread of new diseases. Starting in Panama "Satan's Plague" spread unchecked across the globe.  The Commanders of the Church were among the first to be especially hard hit thus proving without a doubt the Plague was an instrument of the Devil and the past Desecrations of the Earth by Heathen Scientist.

It required almost ten full years of fervent prayer by The Church and the Faithful to finally defeat Satan's Plague, but by that time the world's population was barely a tenth of what it once was.
It was never to recover.

Few escaped contamination, and those not killed outright were made sterile. Others were left so terribly mutated their offspring, if not stillborn, were born sickly and malformed. Few children lived into their teenage years. Many who had at first seemed immune to the plague soon discovered they had also been marked, as their progeny were also affected and left stunted and anemic. Only a handful of men and women escaped untouched. Far too few to repopulate the Earth in sufficient numbers to insure the survival of the Faithful and The Church.

The second half of the twenty-second century was the Age of Repair. The Church quietly began clandestine expeditions. Searching its secret archives and unearthing the demolished and buried remains of institutions it once condemned, in an attempt to recover the records and the techniques for artificial insemination and cloning.

The first half of the twenty-third century was the Age of Recovery. The handful of untouched were declared Living Saints who had been protected from the plague by the Hand of God. With the Church's Holy Clinics now in full operation natural conception was prohibited, and all woman of childbearing age were required to submit to insemination by The Holy Spirit of the Living Saints.
When it soon became apparent artificial insemination by the semen of a Living Saint into any women contaminated by the plague; even a second generation offspring, was not an improvement, it was discontinued in favor of insertion of cloned eggs. Holy Clinics all over the One World were busy birthing a new flock of Faithful, everyone of them the progeny of the Living Saints.

The Children of The Holy Spirit were cared for and raised by The Church. Church nurseries, Church Schools, and Church Dormitories were erected to protect and segregate The Holy Issue from the rest of the plague infected population. The Holy Issue were to insure the continuation of the One Faith and The One Church and The One World.

The middle decades of the twenty-third century were the Age of Desperation. The cloning was only partly successful. The cloned children met with the same fate as did all the clones attempted in the first part of the twenty-first century before the Religious Fundamentalist of that time successfully lobbied to have any further attempts outlawed. Though looking normal at birth, they all aged prematurely, many dying before puberty. Those who did reach childbearing age were unable to carry to full term, or were just as sterile and barren as those exposed to Satan's Plague. All the records the Church had in their archives, and were able to recover, were only those that had been made public before the ban on any further experiments. The more advanced data and techniques, that were carried out in secret labs, were now forever lost on Earth.
The Church?s only hope was that the Heathen Scientist carried the secrets with them when they fled the planet, and they could be induced into helping the Church.

There was no need to search for the Heathen Scientist, the Church always knew where they were. The scientists who fled the Earth established themselves in the asteroid belt and on the moons of the outer planets. They had an outpost on Earth's Moon, but it was not sustainable without constant resupply and soon was abandoned in favor of the asteroid belt where raw materials were abundant. With their advanced technology, everything needed to sustain existence was free for the taking in the asteroid belts. With no gravity to contend with, and unlimited solar and nuclear power to provide all the energy needed, they converted the raw materials of the asteroid belt and small moons into food, shelter and anything else they wished. Bio and nano-engineering converted the barren wastelands of the belts and moons into livable if not lavish accommodations. Spartan as the accommodations were, crammed into every nook and cranny was every contrivance they ever created. Nothing was ever wasted or discarded.
When the Scientist left they took copies of all the scientific knowledge gained on Earth with them, leaving a database of stored knowledge safely hidden in their last stronghold in Antarctica for future generations of Earthlings to rediscover. But the stronghold no longer existed, having been destroyed after their departure and the remains long since buried under a frozen sea.

When finally free and unencumbered by gravity, or the religious right, the Scientist pushed forward investigating every mystery of the universe at hand. But soon found they themselves were in danger. Not only from the cosmos, but from their own experiments.
The freedom from gravity has it advantages, but it also has it price. After nearly two centuries of near zero G existence the limbs and muscles began to atrophy, leaving the extremities weakened and stick-like, but what they lacked in strength they gained in dexterity. Hands and feet no longer needed to lug themselves around, were utilized more efficiently by controlling  machinery and robots. Leaving the hands and fingers elongated and nimble. The overall effect giving the head and cranium an out of proportion appearance. The transformation was accelerated by serums and coupled with the vitamin and mineral supplements they needed and the metallic ointments applied to their bodies to protect against radiation, the Scientist no longer resembled creatures of Earth, but bore a remarkable resemblance to the fictional Aliens popular in the ancient past. They became gray little creatures with oversized heads and bulbous eyes unable to exist for extended periods under the pressure of one unit of gravity.

If the Church had known what the creatures they were about to ask for help from now looked like, they would have been horrified, and further convinced the Heathen Scientist were the minions of Satan.
But desperate times demand desperate actions, and the call was sent pleading for assistance.

For decades after their escape the Scientist kept a watchful eye on Earth from their base on the Moon. But as the years passed with no sign the new government of the planet would pursue them into outer space they relaxed and turned their attention to what they did best; unraveling the mysteries of the universe. The Moon base was abandoned, leaving only mechanical sentries behind to keep a watchful eye on the planet and send periodic reports to their home base in the belt. After a few more decades even those were all but ignored as their attention was demanded on more pressing problems. By the beginning of the twenty-third century Earth as a planet lost any attraction to the scientific community. Its history long forgotten after the last of the original contingent ceased to exist. When the distress call came it startled the community as much as any signal from an alien species could have. Everyone dropped what ever they were doing and tuned in immediately. Hearing the voice of their fellow beings after all these years triggered an inner memory and a longing for their Mother Planet.
For the Community of Scientist the call could not have come at a more inopportune time. They were just on the verge of conducting a first test on the Holy Grail of Science. Every mind and every resource that could be spared were all redirected to this single project. Opening a hole in the Universe. If the experiment was successful they would have a Wormhole generator and no where in all creation would be beyond their reach.
Title: Re: Prose (Dudeku/Annual)
Post by: cckeiser on February 07, 2011, 03:42:54 PM
But when the call came, there was no question but to put the experiment on hold and lend any assistance they could. After two centuries there was no one left in the scientific community to remember the old hostilities, and as far as the present community was concerned, they had never existed. This isolated and closed community dedicated to science never experienced the mistrust and hatred of a fellow human. When answering the call they did not know their fellow creatures still despised and scorned them for their ideology. They were completely unprepared to communicate with minds that not only rejected scientific study, but rejected the basic tenets of science itself The Scientific Community was about to get a history lesson.

The Heathen Scientist themselves could not enter the Earth's gravitational field, which was just fine for the Church who feared contamination of the minds of the Faithful. The Scientist did descend to Earth orbit and sent communication equipment and robotic emissaries to gather samples and analyze the cause of the problems. These were quickly isolated and sequestered in a the most remote clinic the Church could find.
The Scientist were dumbfounded to learn there were no new antibiotics developed in the last two centuries, and simply astonished beyond belief to learn there wasn't a single scientist; yet alone a scientific community on the whole planet.
The Scientist made their first mistake by voicing their astonishment which was to set the tone for the remainder of their expedition. The only explanation they received was a series of lectures, bible readings and sermons on the Glory of God and the virtues of converting to the One Faith.
It didn't take but that one incident to realize their mistake, but it was already too late, and from there on the communications were limited to the solving of the problem itself. Though many in the scientific community questioned the significance.
What started out as a rescue mission with exuberance and excitement at reuniting with long lost brothers and sisters quickly degraded to a simple, and sometimes distasteful, lab experiment. The Scientist felt they had pledged their assistance by answering the call and establishing communications, but the initial thrill and enthusiasm were gone. They treated the problem as a scientific investigation and were impatient to have it completed and depart. They had a more rewarding project awaiting there attention.

It required several months of analysis and a few more months of experimenting with their own cells to conclude there wasn't anything they could do for the citizens of Earth. Satan's Plague had been more devastating then had been presumed and there wasn?t a viable genetic specimen left on the planet. No one on Earth had escaped contamination by the plague, and the genetic makeup of the scientific community had been so altered as to render them incompatible with the plague contaminated population. All cross inseminations and embryo implants were treated as infection by the body and rejected.
It was concluded that nothing on Earth could save the last dying people of Earth. Their disease has progressed too far for any cure to be effective.
The human species on Earth was terminal.
There was one last hope, but it was a long shot. "Nothing on Earth can save them" was only partly true. Nothing on their "present" Earth could save them, but there was something on the Earth of the past that could. Fresh, unpolluted, human eggs and sperm. The seeds to start a new generation of humans. But to get them it would be necessary to take a long shot, a very long shot: the newly developed and untested Wormhole generator!
Not only could a wormhole take you where in the Universe, theoretically it could also take you when in the Universe. But that was only the first of the very long shots. The other, if the wormhole time warp actually works, is taking a risk of changing the past and altering the future. Maybe to one where no one survives at all, or even to one that was worse in the eyes of the Church; one where the Scientists rule the Earth and The One Faith and The One Church no longer exists.

The Church was very distrustful of the intentions of the Heathen Scientist, but the Scientist assured them they had nothing to gain by changing history either. Changing history was as dangerous to their existence as it was to the Church. It took a lot more convincing to satisfy the Church the Scientific Community had no interest in re-inheriting the Earth. The Scientist no longer had need for any planet, and it was in their nature to leave and explore the Universe. It was also pointed out the Scientific Community did not need the Church?s permission to carry out the experiment. They were quite capable of doing it anytime they wished.
The Church was faced with a dilemma and could neither condone, approve of, or prevent the actions being attempted on their behalf. But they could not do nothing and leave the whole thing in the hands of the Heathen Scientist.
It was already agreed that to insure the best they could that nothing the scientist did would change history, those going through the time warp must not reveal the nature of their mission to anyone in the past, or have any contact with anyone but preselected targets who were to be sedated and kept in the dark as much as possible.
For their part the Church would search their records to find the right people to harvest the genetic material from. Still mistrusting the Heathen Scientist, and for some reason believing faith was hereditary, The Church would only accept the genetic material from their own God fearing ancestors. They would not accept any material from the Heathen Scientist of the past.

When the Church began to search the history for their own ancestors they stumbled upon the confirmation the Wormhole time warp worked, and the experiment was going to be a success!
During the mid to late Twentieth Century just the people they were looking for were all listed in a file of Alien Abductions!
They would not have to search for them after all. Their names, dates, and places of abduction were all listed in the files!
Their mission must have been a success and they will not change the past or the future. They were already living in the future that they had created!

Title: Re: Prose (Dudeku/Annual)
Post by: cckeiser on February 08, 2011, 10:30:15 PM
Hey dudes, I found yet another short to share with you all. This is actually the second short I wrote shortly after Medicine Man. I wrote it for a writers forum I joined back in 97 after I was ensnared by The Muse. I liked the story...the writers forum not so much.

Another Freak'n "F"

One more freak'n hour to go and I could get the hell out of here. Seventh grade English with Sister Mary "Ejaculate" was the LAST place I wanted to be on a Friday. Math or Science I could have tolerated, but English!? What the hell did I care about diagraming a sentence? Who would ever diagram one and what the hell for? Besides, I had more important things to do. BIG things. It was the 1960's already and the freak'n Russians had a Sputnik in outer space. What did I care about freak'n English? I had Big things to do!

It took me all week to cure the rocket nozzle. It was a new formula that just had to work this time. The other formulas just couldn't take the heat or the pressure. They would either swell shut from the heat and cause the rocket to explode or they would crack from the pressure and blow out the end. This time I was sure I got it right. This baby was going to FLY!

One more freak'n hour and I could light the fuse. That is, if I could live through seventh grade English with that freak'n nun. I knew she hated me. She hated all boys; but me in particular. I hated spelling. I hated composition. I hated punctuation. I hated reading and I hated writing. I hated English class and she hated me. One more freak'n hour!

That is what I was thinking before it happened. Nobody ever told me about things like this. How was I to know?

I was just sitting there at my desk seventh row, right at the end. Right next to the window. You would think a window seat would be a blessing. But when you're in seventh grade and want to be anywhere but there, it isn't; it's torture. She must have known what I was thinking. She always did. That is why she did it. I'm almost sure. She announced that we were going to write a composition, an essay on "FUN." Oh, the cunning cruelty. I had to hand it to her, she was a master of inflicting torture.

There I sat. Pen in hand, paper on desk and nothing in my mind. Nothing. Nada. Zip. I was accustomed to it though, I always got an "F." Summer school here I come...Again.

My hands were clammy and I could feel my stomach turning over. I was going to fart. There was no doubt about it. That is why she seated me in the back, right next to the window. I was always farting in her class. I couldn't help it. That freak'n nun gave me gas. My head began to feel dizzy and I thought I was going to throw up. Man, if I could only get her to come a little closer. I'd give her a freak'n "composition."

And then it was over! She was collecting the papers. The Freak'n hour was up! I lived!

I looked down at the paper and I swear to you, I never touched a pen to it but there it was. Filled with writing and in my own misshapen, half scribbled, half printed scrawl. But it wasn't mine. Hell, all the words were spelled correctly, even the words of more than three syllables. No way could I have written this. She is going to think I copied it or something. But I didn't. Maybe if I told her an angel made me write it. But no, she wouldn't buy that for a second. A devil maybe, but she would never believe an angel. Now I know I'm going to fart.

I started to read the writing when it struck me. The paper, the writing, it was a poem! A Freak'n POEM! OH NO! Boys don't write poems. Only the "cootie carriers" write poetry. I'm dead. If any of the guys find out I wrote a poem . . . Shit, I'm Freak'n dead. I will never live it down. They are going to murder me, tear me to pieces. Maybe if I hide it! I'll give her a blank sheet of paper, no one will ever know! Oh man, too late. She took it. I should have eaten it. Well there it goes. I farted. A really loud one too. Well it's not like I never farted before, get over it.

That weekend was one of the loooongest of my life. I didn't go out of the house. I couldn't take the chance that someone already knew. I hid in the basement and built more rockets. I was going to beat those Russians to the moon, even if I had to do it all by myself. Maybe if I got to the moon, people would forget I wrote a Freak'n poem?

Monday came. I couldn't hold it back. I was resigned to my fate. I slowly shuffled my way to my execution. Go on, somebody say something, I'll punch your lights out.

To my surprise, nobody knew. No one said anything. It was going to be ok. The only thing Billy said was "Hey, nice fart." If he didn't know about the poem, nobody did. Well nobody but Sister Mary "Ejaculate." Just what she might have planned for me had my stomach turning all over again.

It didn't take long for me to find out. As soon as I got to her class she called me to her desk. With sweetness just oozing from every pore, she told me she liked my poem so much that she was going to have it published in the school newspaper. The implications of this hit me like a punch to the gut. Not only would my classmates know, the whole freak'n school would know. The whole neighborhood would know. Hell, the whole freak'n town was going to know. Even my sister was going to know that I wrote a poem. You guessed it. I farted. I told you she was a master.

To add insult to injury, she handed my poem back to me. Right at the top in nice red letters she wrote, "poetry "A", composition?"  Yep, another Freak?n "F."

A note here. Actually a confession; this is not fiction. It's autobiographical. The events actually did happen, exactly as I described them. I did change the name of my best buddy. I didn't want to embarrass him by using his real name.

That was my first experience with writing and what a change it made in my life. After the poem was published in the school newspaper Sister Mary Immaculate (yes, that was her real name), and I became the best of friends. I became the BMOC, and had the respect and admiration of the whole school. All the girls wanted to date me and that beautiful redheaded girl ask me to autograph her copy of my poem. And best of all, I never farted again. it qualifies as fiction.

Title: Re: Prose (Dudeku/Annual)
Post by: not_exactly_a_lightweight on February 09, 2011, 12:13:58 AM
I like how the rocket ties the nun and ejaculation together with the rocket as a symbol of what you thought you entered into her nunness, (gotta love the swelling rocket nozzle) the weekend as the three days dead and the sputnik link, what with the lenin connection and then hiding the papers, I dont know whether to call this biblical as in Alexandria burning, or Nixon-like with the missing tapes and changed names, and now you are resurrected, not only back but better, in a dilemma of did I get an A or an F, which is the real question is she a nun without sexuality, or a woman underneath, that the whole town knows you desire, red pen indeed.
Title: Re: Prose (Dudeku/Annual)
Post by: cckeiser on February 09, 2011, 12:26:05 AM
LOL! And let us not forget...not forget...the composition...inside the city against...well you know what I mean dude!
There is no such thing as just a cigar(?) ;D

Thanks for your opinion rev not_exactly_a_ lightweight dude! 8)

(Added the question mark. It should have been a ?)