Edward Tooth

Edward Tooth

Shoot this gun, he said to me. Take this laser pistol and shoot a laser beam at some aliens coming after us, you see them! Take the laser power!

I had never taken the laser power before, yet the aliens were persistent in their appearance. Pew Pew! I said.

I mean, I shot. I shot the laser pistol.

No, you didn’t, Grandpa!

Sure did. Ate those aliens for breakfast this next mornin’ on Fomalhaut 7.

There is no morning, Grandpa, the sun does not rise like that.

That’s right. Quick eye, you little scamps, why don’t you run along now and play.

I’m inventing a time machine that can replay your memories from Earth, Grandpa!

Great. Do that. Meeting adjourned.

Grandpa ended the commiseration of various talents and personalities that comprised his dear, loving children and moved on. Probably. Once the time machine was cleared to go from the Time Officials, everything was in the clear and Grandpa went back into the past and had to start all over again, maybe, but this time would be different.

Check it out for yourself.

talkrealcloselikethis

talkrealcloselikethis

Beam was a high energy person. He liked to shake hands and talk real close. then one day the whole fucken world changed and just like that poof! he collapsed in a terrible column of smoke and hailstone only to reappear later as some kind of cleaner figment of our imagination, maybe a guy that wears a hat and nods at you real important-like, in the middle of the streets in broad daylight and everyone’s pistol is out but you don’t care because you’re an NBA Basketball star or some other real athletic person who can flick marbles with their fucken fingernail all real deep and shit like this with their thumb which side will it land on oh wait it’s a fucken marble

I don’t make the rules. He flicked you a switch, better get to crackin’ boys.

Don’t wish to me various ailments, get a move on!

fine him

fine him

“Listen, buster,” he said, placing the light down. “Beyond the honeyed little catacombs of death, destruction and sweet oblivion, darker than the blackest sea, way down deep in the blood of deadly cold somehow alive creatures, the very bottom of the bottom, the crud, crust and caked up hellhole of bitter tears that make up the end of it all, you’ll find me, passed out, and probably hella hungover from way too much alcohol or other vice, and when that death grimace comes to finally string me up by the neck, I’ll look it straight in the eye and kick it in the fucking teeth.”

He grinned.

“Or, you know, whatever it uses to get around and eat on. Living souls?”

He paused.

“When the darkness comes to bid me to my final rest, consuming all that I am into utter nothing, you had better fucking come find me. I will miss beer.”

He was adamant about it. He was so unafraid of death that he considered it a near-eventual event to be taken up by his peers, who, if had not died yet, better find him and bring him back to the land of the living where all of this was supposedly taking place. Everyone sure acted alive, but he had his doubts and didn’t want to introduce the idea to people who might not even be aware of it, for fear of irresponsibility to some governing force such as himself, mass delusion or maybe some really strong magnets, if you think about it hard enough.

Up to you. Here lies Jim, gone but not forgotten.

ed winter

ed winter

A fresh, steaming pile of meat, raw with blood and honey and spices, crackled among the burning, hissing sap of logs, bros. Toss that shit up with some tongs, or other fiercer material than fire, like steel, but for a limited time or only so much, temperature is not so analog but digital, friends.

Listen. There is an explicit temperature in which one state of matter solidly changes to another, it happens at a specific temperature dependent on the material.

Science? Fuck you. This is technology, imparted from the ages, echoes in the cosmos that speak with truth. You see two sticks, I see two sticks, we agree on the truth, let’s move on.

This ain’t no shit for no fucken pansyboy truth seeking is it real type bullshit. We have fathomed the deeps, we have cut our teeth on a rock of real, boy. You got problems with this, you best move on, get in that line, find yourself some truth and bring it back and we will trade.

I offer you three magic beans for your truth and what it brings, my lad. Why don’t you runneth off now, and play, thee?

p.s. years later this kid came back and we traded our beans and what was given to me by the lad. he later went on to fell a giant and also capture a golden goose as some other, more possibly fancier tales go. check your local thesaurus, I’m out.

PEAICE

le

le

It does ’em. Guac fackle. Make made up words that symbolize things in the mind. I’d be lying to you if it was any otherwise. This is a story, however. It’s the tale of le.

le was beside a reflection in a lake, peering to abyss below. There was the occasional phantasm of shape or sound and nothing else. A calm, silent night laid echoes into chambers of the heart. A figment of emptiness, a notion of and idea of a distant bowl of rice krispies. You know, snap crackle pop. Boom.

le doesn’t eat rice krispies, no one does in this story, but I’ll work that in like this:

A group of people were playing a card game. One asked another whose turn it was and they roll the dice to see who goes last. This is where things got exciting:

Not one particular reason or another was found to be under scrutiny. Hide in plain sight, they say.

Laugh. I did. I laughed. It was funny.

Don’t do this. I can’t really remember how this was supposed to end, but the end was like, don’t do any of this stuff at all, ever, don’t even try to remember or go back.

Thanks.

The End

Great! We did ’em!! I give this essay a solid B+++ really catchy jingle at the end.

-love, Ed

kip supra

kip supra

Let’s just let all these rivers stream through the green foliage, indescribably timed to the drip-drip-drop of running water, from leaf to leaf, plinking into the next incandescent diamond-colored pool and tumbling to the very next below.

A meandering staircase of tiny tidal waves, ripples and splashes of gravity and some energy exchange of polarized icy coldness, all ion neutral, even kissed with the lips of a honeydew, and perhaps was purchased near racks of candy, or high-tech grocery store of your choosing, because reality had given you a pass to drink it, somehow, in some keen way, and you possessed it.

You might have paid cash. You may have just walked in the building and drank the water you found, but deep down inside, you swan dived into the eternal, boundless waters, as deep as they went, with no end, as there was nothing on the other side but more.

The rain was falling upwards, back into the clouds, soaking into an endless sky, and you were falling with it.

Eventually, you landed at your feet. “Ta-da!” you said. You went about your business after this, you literally went back to work or doing whatever it was you were doing.

The End

tin bullets

tin bullets

The wonderful and exciting world of falling raindrops. How astounding! How pretty! Individual and glimmery tiny little beads of joy. Splashed to the earth and eventually soaked thru to oblivion, incandescent splatters of mud and tires and goodbye.

So long! Sayonara, folks! The lunacy of lost matters.

Oh the raindrops are still there, playing lightning metal guitar in frozen time, but dangerous objects, fighting the tides against the water, such as air and fire come to dry them out with loose blades to their necks, the water dissolved to the earth, no more, finito, their whispery, crackling red and orange fingers leaving a scorched trail on the faces of these raindrop spirits in memory and they dissolved to chaos, rupturing the paradigm of a cognizant and buoyant system.

the bubble popped. they ceased to be, giving the effects of their atomic structures to other, more principled matters.

Be that as it may, thank you.

What was left of these ashen tongued monstrosities, tasting the bitter dust of dried out bones? They dispersed within lightning cracks and thunderous chasms.

thousand forty 3

thousand forty 3

“Mysterious Jack,” he said and paused. “That is what we will name him.”

Now, you might be wondering who is naming things? You might possibly be wondering what is this or wat is dis if that’s how you talk in your head.

Don’t ask me, I’m not a judge. I don’t usually use my first name inside of my own brain. I don’t refer to myself as ‘Keith’, cuz that would be weird. I refer to myself in the 1st person. I call myself I. But you can use your mind to do just about anything, isn’t it just flippin’ true.

You can believe whatever you want to believe. So can I.

Believe this: Mysterious Jack was a creation by a sorcerously mad and brilliant logician, who possessed an intelligence that could only be described as otherworldly, and he died before he could finish the process of Mysterious Jack’s complete transformation into reality, and he died because he had forgotten to learn if he would die the day he died.

See, this logician had the secrets to all of fate entwined in the threads of a ball of yarn, which, upon careful observation, would reveal the inner workings and machinations of events to unfold in it’s, or any, reality.

His great sorcerous powers took hold of him the night prior, and he had more-or-less forgotten specifically which series of events were to lead to his imminent death, or what time of day it would be, or whether it happened in the morning, or what exactly the circumstances were regarding his demise.

He plum forgot the details by the time it took up with him. He had looked into it earlier, when exactly he was to meet the end of fate, but the days grew into weeks, the weeks grew into months, and the months grew into years and then splat, he dead. Totally unexpected.

Mysterious Jack is dead, now, too. He was vanquished, or otherwise defeated, by some heroes at some point in time in some alternate realm, I just really haven’t bothered to look up the details yet, but I am confident everything will work out fine.

Cheers!

a better for

a better for

Sure. I read that. I read this, too. I read that Alaskan Inuits have 53 words for snow, it didn’t phase me one bit. I didn’t flip inside out, wearing my emotions on my skin like some electronic, battery-powered skin design describing the future to itself.

Instead, I was mesmerized. I was cornered, cowering in the light, entranced by shimmering beauty, a likeness to something so deep, it almost hurt to remember, barely could it rise from the depths, a honeymoon song to a world so far away.

A place. A designation. An address or coordinates on a twice-dimensional X,Y plane.

I’m kidding. The earth is a globe, look it up!

After you’ve done that, sound the alarm. Ring the fucken bell, Diplothos, and let’s get out of here.

Who the fuck is Dipolothos? A guy I just made up. He’s created from fire, he drinks water like punches in the face, and he tells us what to do. He says, “Get the fuck out!”

I slapped my knee, I said. “I will,” I tell him, or you do. We leave.

Big Box Bandits

Big Box Bandits

Acid rain poured down on enclosed habitats in some mythic ‘Earth’. Fire rained from the skies, let’s say, but as water would, burning everything in it’s path aside from the protective electric shield that diverted these death ray drops away from it’s center.

The center of this existence was where the living beings were. We’ll be them. I won’t describe this alien race, but you and I will assume the form of two of the beings.

You’ll be Marva, I’ll be Kent. It’ll be interesting, because these beings do not call each other by name, at least, aurally. These beings radiate color from their eyes, and it was very intricate and detailed, able to communicate such subtle nuance as an individual’s color, the color they were called by. There was no sound in this Universe, because these beings had a different interpretation of their senses, leading to a different understanding, perspective and consciousness as disparate elements of a larger cooperation.

I mean, there was sound, they had advanced enough as a civilization to produce instruments of detection that was able to render a soundwave visible, but they couldn’t actually hear things, because they had no ears, and so they really didn’t care on what they were missing out.

Since soundwaves were mapped out visually for these guys, their greatest songs were multi-dimensional paintings that could be appreciated for their symmetry, wildness or cultivation.

They didn’t sing them.

The End