NYC Public Transit

Is terrible, because it takes about a minute to get where you're standing:

I'll Just Disappear

My name is Isaiah Lewis, and I was 17 when I first turned invisible. I'm sure a lot of 17 year olds feel like they're invisible, either to girls, or guys, or both. (It's a confusing age.) However, I mean actually invisible, as in unable to be observed, translucent man, photons need not apply; I was possibly the first brother in history who could walk out of a Klan meeting with a piece of pie.

Don't ask me how I can still see without anything bouncing off my retinas. I didn't have a PhD in Optics back then, and I haven't earned one since. I have learned enough to know that what I can do is impossible according to how we currently understand light. Not vision, mind you, light; I don’t show up in pictures or on video either. It's the whole deal.

To read the rest, go to this page.

Next

Did you know that there are ten ways to separate a man's head from his still living body? There are probably a lot more, but I've only tried ten ways so far. They'd probably work for a woman's head too, but I haven't tried with any women. They are:

1.) Knife

2.) Hacksaw

3.) Hatchet

4.) Circular saw

5.) Piano wire

6.) Wood chipper

7.) Bear trap

8.) Zamboni

9.) Machete

10.) Cleaver

As you can tell by the list, I'm prone to both whimsy and nostalgia.

To read the rest, go to this page.

It's the Pits

I haven't done any comedy in awhile, but this image macro instantly created itself in my mind:

The Northwest Corner

Jack had just sat down to dinner when he heard the light knock, so light he wondered if he imagined it. He was in his late sixties, hair gone sheep's wool, and sounds had started to play tricks on him. Not that he'd admit that to anyone, although the folks in town suspected from the way he asked the waitress at Shirley's to repeat herself during the breakfast rush.

Town was what they called it, although a couple of buildings clustering together as if for warmth deserved the title less than anywhere else he’d seen. Granted, he’d not been many places. Jack wasn’t a traveler. There’d been a time when all he’d thought about was getting away from the county, leaving it and the farm behind; however, he’d given up on that part of his life. Now, he had roots in the soil, deep gnarled things that wouldn’t easily be pulled up.

As he worked his way to the door, taking care to avoid the carefully stacked newspapers, he wondered why a stranger had come calling. County folk didn't knock. There was no mistaking them. They rapped, or pounded. There was something about living so far from your neighbors that discouraged shyness when you finally came to call on them. Even the children – especially the children – knocked like a charging bull.

Everything about the place was familiar to him. This was the house he was raised in, and it had become his when his mother had passed, same thing with the land around it. Jack had never saw the point in marrying, so the house looked much the same as it did when his parents were alive. When something broke he replaced it, but that was the extent of the changes. No, he thought of himself as a caretaker. He’d see to the house, and to the land. The land required special looking after. 

To read the rest, go to this page.

The World I Used to Know

It happened nine years ago today. Nine is an odd anniversary to celebrate, but none of us actually think we'll make it to ten. Why would we?

It was my generation's September 11th, our death of Kennedy, our Pearl Harbor. Everyone remembers where they were when it happened, or at least where they were when they found out about it. Of course, the difference is that no one's story is that "I was there." All those people are dead, which might be a mercy.

I remember where I was when the world changed.

To read the rest, go to this page.

Charlie Thomas's Almost Life

The soccer ball hit my crotch, going at - a conservative estimate - a thousand miles an hour. I knew that was going to happen from the moment he kicked it, but I couldn't move fast enough to get out of the way. If I was a better athlete, I'd be a better athlete. What kind of a stupid system is this, anyway?

As I collapsed to my knees, I wondered if any of the guys in the Old Testament had this problem. In between seeing fiery rings made out of eyes, did Ezekiel ever predict that some donkey was going to kick him in the crotch? If he averted the ball kicking, would it make him a false prophet?

To read the rest, go to this page.

Family

My mom used to talk about the gutters like other parents talked about soccer camp, or family vacation. She'd start out of the blue, on the way to school, or the grocery. Sometimes she'd turn a conversation about anything else into one about the gutters. She never talked about them when anyone else was around - just her and I in the car.

"That's what happens to people who don't try, Bryan. They end up in the gutter. With all the trash and filth." Sometimes she'd point to a man or a woman who was holding up a cardboard sign at a four way intersection. “Think they tried?” she'd ask me. When I was little, I'd just shake my head silently. Other kids were probably afraid of clowns or sharks or something. I was afraid of ending up on the streets.

"Know what happens when you tell your son he's going to end up in the gutter?" I want to shout at her, back through the nightmare of the intervening years. “That's where he fucking goes, you stupid bitch. Awesome parenting.”

To read the rest, go to this page.

The Pursuit: A Letter

Dear,

I've been thinking a lot about hammers. It's been my secret, but I'm ready to share now. 

No, I haven't taken up carpentry as a hobby, and I didn't quit my job and end up in construction. You know I'm too in love with books and air conditioning for that. However, it's books that are the problem. I've been reading a lot lately, and I can't get these ideas out of my head. (Is it mine?)

I can't stop yawning, which means I need to hurry this up as much as I can. You'll understand why soon enough. I hope it's me that makes it to the end. 

To read the rest, go to this page.

The Dark Lord

My father was a scribe, and his father before him, all the way back to the days before the Dark Lord. When our grim master came, he forced our letters and our learning underground; this was literally, as his spies patrolled the air and land. I learned how to read and write in a damp crevice my father carved out with his own hands, after a hard day of farm labor.

We were all farmers then, and fools or ignorant on top of that. That was the Dark Lord’s doing, to keep us subject to him. I worked as hard to hide my learning as I did to acquire it. All the same, it was hard for a bright boy to cover his light with a basket. There was a close encounter once when I called the bullheaded miller’s son on his “obstinate insolence.” I barely covered with “Aw shucks, thimblehead.”

Not even my wife knew of my birthright, nor the secret history I kept in a cave. I would teach my son of his legacy, however, my wife’s womb was as barren as our hopes. I was convinced the small rebellion of keeping a secret history would die with me.

To read the rest, go to this page.