Rogue Element: Life Spasm A

In The Realm Uncertain

Gone are the breezy moments, where driftwood is a dream catchable; and where the carefree steps making up a sprint are the easy sounds of sand and pebbles displacing under bare feet.

“You gather the supplies, I’m making the camp.”




K. Shawn Edgar | Steel | Gravel | Ceramic

In Brief: Why Voting Third-Party is Viable

From my news blog, “The Olympic Record”


In Brief: Why Third-Parties are Viable

 

Oft-Heard Statement: “Don’t vote for a third-party candidate because you’ll waste your vote.”

This tired statement is false, and here’s why.

The reality in the U.S. is that no vote is wasted, unless you cast it based on fear and ignorance. A great example of a fear-based vote can be seen in those voters who fall for the trap of “You have to vote for the lesser of two evils.” The Democratic Party and the Republican Party use this false mantra to stifle support for third parties by always setting up this imagined “polar opposites”, sports analogy-based fight between themselves. They repeat the false logic of “If you don’t want Clinton to win then you have to vote for Trump, or vice versa.

We must break free of this trap. Your vote is your voice. Speak up clearly.

Voting for a third-party based on best representation of your values, needs and ideals serves two main purposes.

First, your independent vote sends a strong message to our one overpowering party duo —D/R— that they do not speak for you, and you will make your own decisions by looking at all the issues and all of the parties for each election.

Second, it helps establish and build credibility for the candidate and party you choose to vote for. Always vote your conscience, because no well researched and honest vote is wasted. All votes help to render a clearer picture of reality.


K. Shawn Edgar | Goth Thinker | Cog Masher | Libtard

Compound Disinterest

These days

all ° events =

layered cakes

crumbling ×

sweet morsels,

digestible √

some agreeable,

some disagreeable

leaving a body

needing more

substantial

intake > than food

π•


K. Shawn Edgar | Milky | White | Agitation

Short Story: Out & Back

From my ongoing “Gravity Chains” collection, a short short story of questing and rejuvenation.


Out and Back

You are here † [He did not copy symbol to page for you alone]. And moving forward, your bootprints will replicate themselves. As the music duplicates the beat between our smallest participants [these being but copied and reshuffled segments of the linear us], it follows, then, that the green dotted line from the Crescent trailhead, repeated by way of naturally occurring speakers, will lead us to the final waterfall, and show to us the wrecked Life-ship hidden by its tumbling, sharp white flow.

It’s clear on the map. † See?

Graphically clear, if you know the symbols. Intricate for their size, the map icons show a long, narrow rope bridge at the halfway mark. If an inch is a mile, then that’s about twenty-three miles along the trail to this end of the bridge called Oracle’s String. We make our way there for better or for worse. The oracle will show us how to proceed.

Mile fourteen. Fire in the lungs. Hinterhaven Crags climbed.

On the trail, the soft rain we appreciate for its cooling touch on the backs of our necks, is a harsh pounce of hell hounds for the insects of the wood. Picture drops, the size of your head and upper body.

Malicious, truest friend, what tell your cards?”

Cards? Cards?! You think living flesh, simple stiffened paper cards…?! Symphonic Hammer, you test me with your choice of words. Test me no further! The flesh sayers need oxygen.”

No, Malicious. My words are but motivations. Only a show of pure flippancy would arouse one such as yourself to speak fully and with passion.”

I see. The flesh has spoken softly throughout the day’s exertions, painting muddled landscapes of what might be. At the crossing of the bridge, the Oracle’s String, all will harmonize with the flesh tellers, and we will know what needs knowing.”

And what of Christa Päffgen … will she be there? Will your flesh say what I long to hear?”

At the bridge, Symphonic Hammer. At the bridge, it will become clear.”

Mile twenty-three. Take us out of control, Oracle’s String. Turn us to poet donkeys in clay. Show us how to yield, so we might learn a new dance from our helplessness. String. String. String. Bring!

At this newest outburst of the cards, Symphonic Hammer turns to Malicious with a slow shudder; his shaved face turns pale eggshell slack. The air is water. Breathing it in is like pushing honey through the rear ventilation duct of a 2026 Saturn Helium-NINE. Warm and sticky.

Blurting out, “My father was a lowlands metalsmith, his hands strong and relentless.”

A crystal whip brings blinding light, elevating all senses and all time, till irises close. Bridge ropes and wood slats become crossbeams and turnbuckles, as the Ship of State materializes around them.

And from the highest mast, Christa Päffgen calls down: “Welcome, Symphonic Hammer, welcome and be welcomed always; the kingdom of Azores is reinstalled.”

Bridge at St. Remains

Notes and Rants from YouTube Comment Section


2016

True, but I think many people do maintain a high level of integrity, and we should encourage everyone in that regard. However, it only takes one dishonest voice to start an avalanche of disinformation. As for it being even worse “the opposite way around,” governments and cultures that have strictly controlled speech and assembly by overtly censoring and brutalizing citizens don’t tend to last because that kind of control forces the people to act, to rise up, rather than just talk.

Hamlet: That I, the son of a dear father murder’d, prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell, must, like a whore, unpack my heart with words….

There are a couple of exceptions to the failure of that method, of course, like North Korea. But the best control is the babbling brook of excessive freedoms without due responsibility and regulation.

K. Shawn Edgar | Florid Fellow

Unoccupied Creatures


A Recreational Character Exercise


it's a picture stupid

MegaChain by Woodheavy Brown

Salience is untethered. Pointing, pointing, pointing out from the lashes, all the avenues of regress and narrow slipways of escape. Follow these five unoccupied creatures through their paces, in which games are played for the purpose of fitness. Occupy them as you will, they are but vacant cameras. Vessels to slip into and motivate:

  • Desdemona Tippling
  • Brilliant English
  • Landed Gentry
  • Casandra Awkward

K. Shawn Edgar | Devoid | Lonesome | Foes Bane

The Griminals: Part Four


In case you’ve not read The Griminals: A Separation Story Part One | Part Two | or Part Three 


And here’s the conclusion:

Of course, Chelle knows ravens are a different bird from the crow; or at least she thinks they are. But, really, she’s not even sure these invaders are crows—long obsidian feathers, all shinny and sharp make her feel they’re crows. But either way, the name Ravenbend just sounds better. And there’s a lot of them flapping around. Big and black, noisy and posturing, like nightmarish pigeons, they stare at her. Intently. And she wonders how so many large birds can exist in one place at one time. What do they eat?

Oh right, she decides, it’s the bodies. All the bodies, and there’s all the garbage that’s piled up. She hasn’t seen the building super for days. Although, there seems to be more bodies now than 24hrs ago. And more garbage too. Not less, as she’d expect, that’s for sure. Shouldn’t there be fewer bodies? How many pounds of flesh can an average crow eat?

Someone has to remove some of these bodies. The smell alone is ruining Chelle’s sense of adventure. And her appetite is nearly gone. If she were the building’s super, she thought, where would I be hiding out? If my job description had just recently changed from fixing leaky pipes and re-hanging planter boxes, to disposing of dead bodies and fighting off evil crows, where would I disappear to? Anywhere but here.

Chelle now thinks her boyfriend isn’t coming home. Ever.

He hasn’t even called. And when she pictures his face, all she sees is a plate of raw meat. You know, like one of those cheap steaks served with a baked potato at a dive bar. It’s pink with the threat of blood. But not bleeding. Just lined with false potential.

In her head:

I’m having doubts. No super, no power for lights, and no Internet. But lots of garbage. I can’t wait here forever. I don’t know what I’m waiting for. Chelle, what are you waiting for this time? You’re a lonely hatchling in this darkened nest of birds and bodies.

Oh, my parents would say I should wait for help, for the authorities to come, for a savior. But my parents aren’t answering their phones. Two damn cellphones and no answers. No super. It’s just me. I haven’t even had to change a lightbulb for myself in three years. Now I’m faced with this loneliness, and I think the bodies have been moving around. Dead bodies. Moving!

I’ve become too scared to go downstairs for a closer look. But from the fire escape outside my window everything looks like those police drone videos of protesters all bunged up, shoulders hunched, just struggling against each other. A single purpose with multiply avenues of completion, and even more avenues for failure. But they stand up, and they take a risk. No matter the beatdowns taken, they push on. Push on.

I’m going to die here alone if I don’t make a move. I have to put some things in a bag and go out there. This waiting isn’t working out.

Eaters Without Boarders

Milton Fife and I are in the mall’s foodcourt. “Hard people full of soft potential,” I say, as he’s stacking heavy objects against one of two entranceways to Snack’s Snack Emporium.

The lamia came for the children,” Milton Fife replies between grunts and over the sound of his work.

I ignore his comment because I’m now more interested in Snack’s unused bounty of individually wrapped, chocolate-dipped corn chips. Salty and sweet, that’s my kind of meat. In these times of decay, we nomads have refined our understanding of nutritious meals into three commandments. “Stay hydrated; eat proteins when available, and above all else you have to enjoy the pleasure of consuming snacks with long shelf lives. Thank you, Hostess.

Mini Muffins for days! And days. And days.

It’s this thought—Ho Hos: A Bad Thing Turned Good—which keeps me from noticing the sudden sound of music booming from unseen speakers, until it’s cranked to 11 and quickly reaching out to all ears.

All at once, the commanding voice of Barbra Streisand breaks over me as Milton Fife slaps my backside and swings his sledgehammer onto his shoulder in one fluid motion. “New question,” he says, “can Eaters tell the difference between live and recorded audio?”

And all around us, Barbra Streisand electrifies our foodcourt stadium with a rousing rendition of Second Hand Rose.

Better question,” I reply, “will the Eaters be repelled or attracted by Barbra’s voice?”

By way of an answer, Milton Fife hones in on the scent of something, a smelly vibe I guess, telling him the answer to a more important and unasked question: Where’s the music coming from?

Chelle Preaches Vengeance

As we run in search of the voice, a new threat comes to us in the form of an amplified, disembodied question: “Are you dead or alive?” … secondhand pearls … I’m sick of secondhand curls…

Now. How does one answer a oneway transmission in space? Maybe, one lands one’s spacecraft on the doorstep of the inquisitor and says, “Yes, I’m alive. How kind. Thanks for asking.”

If you’re Milton Fife, on the other hand, you sledgehammer the office door of Poppy’s Pumpkin Palace and scream, “We’re the living, and you’re going to be the dead!” And yes, he screamed “going to be” and not “gonna be”. Milton Fife is formal even in a fight.

Now, the question becomes: How does one respond to an In-Your-Face challenge from a stranger on her doorstep? With a true action movie hero one-liner, of course: “Buddy, I’m gonna press your suit with a cold, dirty iron.”

Chelle slides a big pistol of unknown make and manufacture from under her jacket, letting fly an awkward shot that slams into the wall just to the right of Milton Fife’s head.

Milton Fife, with a slight shakiness in his voice, “Bed your make, sleep in it!” Accompanied by thunderous sledgehammer gaveling on the floor in front of Chelle.

It’s no wonder I feel abused … I never get a thing that ain’t been used …

That’s when our false front of bravery breaks down into the gushing of laughter and tears. Absurdity and fears. We—the only truly living human beings left—drop all our defenses, falling bodily to the floor in a release of loose, casual humanity. For a moment.

Our chuckle orgy lasts an eternity of about four carefree minutes. Time doesn’t like to stand still, however, and its momentum makes Chelle pull us back to the moment. Rising, with a flash of heat and anger. Without disclaimer, she unleashes an oral barrage. One, I can only conclude, that had built up in her over days of lonely struggle until our presence called it forth.

I have lasted in this sick crow and garbage infested horror town as long as you! And without aid from others, I’ve been completely alone.” And from Barbra… Life is juicy, juicy and you’ll see I’ve gotta have my bite, sir….

She continues; her voice building with Barbra’s: “I’ve killed those dead things. I’ve put them down for good. And in the short time since I left my apartment at Ravenbend, I’ve grown more than in my entire previous, shitty life. I was a baby. A baby waiting for death.”

Chelle reloads her pistol. She eyes us with a brutality beyond her years.

Together, we will destroy them all. Reclaim humanity. Or at the very least, we will take back our city. Stand now. No progress without vengeance. No future without a fight!”

Everything is Coming Up Eaters

Have you ever misplaced a chunk of your day? An hour gone, no imprint. A day in the week, just blank. Or an event, years prior, that someone swears you attended. You know you didn’t. Maybe?

Oh fluid memory! It’s a juicy gossip. It’s a tale of conjecture. So my retelling of the next few hours may not be true. Sit back, and look for the warnings.

Chelle is not an imposing figure. She is small, like 5’3”. But with a pistol in one hand and a machete in the other, she’s a reverse biblical crusade of miniature fury. Fuck Knights Templar! And that is our fighting word. Every cry begins with it.

Fuck! Fuck lard! Fuck the dead! Fuck the Eaters of human flesh! Fuck viral incongruities! Fuck greed!”

On and on we go. Killing and crying. Milton Fife sledging anything that moves, quivers, shakes, or drags a lame foot. Fuck the lame!

Oh … right, and fuck the hundreds of Eaters from the rotunda that have heeded the ongoing call of Barbra Streisand because in our excitement we forgot to turn off her saucy voice. Fuck amplified music!

He touched me

He put his hand near mine

and then he touched me

I felt a sudden tingle

when he touched me

a sparkle, a glow

He knew it

It wasn’t accidental

No, he knew it

And suddenly nothing is the same. Oh, Barbra, your words are prophetic. Touched, and it’s over. But that hasn’t happened yet. The fight is on.

As Barbra’s recorded voice sings, “Life’s candy and the sun’s a ball of butter,” we chop and curse; we fade and regain our energies. We feel the unrestrained freedom again.

And then there’s some other lyrics, not so important until this: “Eye on the target and wham. One shot, one gun shot, and bam!” Chelle is Barbra incarnate. Milton Fife and I are simply her backup singers. We repeat her lines and double tap our way forward on her wings. Bloody wings of vengeance. We kill and kill.

And then, she’s there. Wife. Ex-wife. My once living love. Yes, the one who left me. Her outsides matching the twisted insides I hadn’t understood soon enough. Only glimpsed in missing time and contradictions.

Her true self, it seems, has been let out to play. Well, good. Seeing her lame-footed dance now makes me wonder: Is there a feminine for Conquistador? Maybe it’s Eater? Oh man, can she eat. When I spot her, she’s noshing on some mall cop’s tender bits. Another survivor? Not now.

My ex-wife has been touched, torn, stripped clean of social structure. But it is her. Something in the eyes, or the big white teeth, this is definitely her, all her. An Eater, as I had thought she would be. An Eater I used to know.

I miss her still. Even like this. Inside I’m reaching out. Outside I’m riding on the bloody wings of Chelle’s vengeance. And mine, too. For the lies and the blame. For the unwanted separation. This is why I survived. Bad timing turned good.

I take a moment. I slot an arrow. I draw it back. Goodbye, old world.

Thomas Cleans Out His Closet

But, truly, back in the office, as Milton Fife charged with his sledgehammer, Chelle shot him twice. Once in his shoulder, and once in his stomach.

free again … back in circulation now … time for celebration now … a party

She hadn’t missed. We hadn’t charged off to fight for vengeance. No wings. No ex-wife.

Milton Fife stumbled forward, hitting Chelle’s arm with an awkward sledge swing. Her pistol fell. I slotted an arrow. I shot it through her neck—right in the center. No thought, no consideration. Just the sound of Chelle and Milton Fife hitting the floor mixed with the voice of Barbra hitting the high notes.

At that point, I crawled to him, and I lifted him up, head and shoulders, onto my lap. A most loving gesture it felt in the moment. He was still breathing. And there was a happiness in its sound.

As Milton Fife bled, he talked: “I guess, Thomas, we’re grim criminals in the end. Not heroes. Not poets. Only commentators and thieves. We stole a little extra life. The turd pool would eat this up. I can hear them tapping away, and clicking away. Be alright, my friend. Stay strong. Use blood if you have to, but write this thing out. Write it out of our existence. Thomas? I should’ve stayed under my rock.”

The Barbra Streisand Fortress

I think this is where I will stay, in the pumpkin palace. The food is preserved beyond recognition, although the water tastes a bit like cancer. Familiar and final. Also, there are Sharpies, ball points, and pencils in every drawer. I have my blood, too. Plus blank pieces of paper in the office printer. And at the end of the day, even the music conforms to the situation:

People

People who eat people

Are the luckiest people in the world

Where children eating other children

And yet letting our grown-up pride

Hide all the need inside

I feel a true peace coming on. I greet it. I become it. Thanks, Hostess.


K. Shawn Edgar | Thanks for reading | Hope you enjoyed it | Ho Ho’s