Caller ID by Ryn Cricket.

                

                                                Caller ID
                                           by Ryn Cricket


I know who you are.
I know what you’re calling for.
I won’t answer the phone.
because I got nothin’.
You want money?
Get in line.
My pockets are empty
until the 15th
and most of that is already accounted for.
Yes, I know you’d like
your paper edited today
because you just finished it
and it’s due tomorrow morning,
But I have a lot of stuff to grade
you know, for work.
My friend needs a resume,
My editor keeps calling
Oh and these two little girls
who are always running around me?
They need my attention once in a while.
You want my mind?
Get in line
But for now,
I think it needs
a worry-free vacation
–it’s never had one.
I know who you are
and I know why you’re calling.
I’m not answering
because I”m tired of explaining to you
–and the others
that the cancer
and my psychopathic ex
sucked every sexual impulse
out of me.
You want my body?
Get in line.
If I ever get the slightest inclination back,
I might call you.
I know you prayed for me
while I was sick
It was important to you
and I appreciate it so much.
In fact, it probably worked
but I don’t think I need
organized religion –again.
I’m not anti-God
I’m just anti-pigeon-holing.
My spirit is a little freer than that.
You want my soul?
Get in line.
But I gotta tell you,
I”m all tapped out.

By Ryn Cricket 08042011

In regards to Disposable Humans, I must add my thoughts.

                
                                       By Mark William Darus

　
　
        Wasn’t this the same kind of corporate behavior, perhaps even nonviolent psychopathic in nature with its lack of remorse, emotion and regret, that caused Unions to develop in the United States many decades ago? Lack of Job security, threat of you being replaced for cheaper labor? I am not saying that Unions are the end-all and be-all, but before the Reagan Admin crushed them , they did mean something. Of course, this didn’t stop GM from trashing Flint, Pontiac and other great cities of Michigan to build plants in Mexico. Sure, we’re not stupid. This move looked real good to those that clutched GM stock, didn’t it?
         Didn’t our steel companies get sold out? Didn’t few, like Dennis Kucinich lobby Washington to bail out the Steel industrial power of the United States? I think, the steel industry was looking for a bail-out of like 700 million. I could be wrong on this figure. Sorry, but didn’t Dennis and others get tossed out and even laughed out of Washington DC?
        Yet, through the BUSH II administration, we bailed out the Airlines for the second time for billions? Same administration: didn’t we bail out the banks for 7 billion dollars?
       Through the Obama admin, we saved GM, Chrysler. Why did we allow this? Just about half of GM products are made and assembled in other countries, and most of those parts that make the vehicles were and are still manufactured on foreign soil.
      When GM got the bail out bucks, didn’t they shut down dealerships across the country? Why is that relevant? Well, anyone that bought a GM product will most likely have to drive a heap ‘o miles further down the road for warranty service. Sure, to those of us that live in big, or excuse me, shrinking industrial cities, that may not mean a great deal. One the other hand, this could amount to many miles in the Heartland of the very country that gave billions in tax dollars to sustain them.

        Major thanks to the FORD MOTOR company for not accepting nor wanting any part of that madness. They survived many recessions and the big depression in the United States.

       Keep this in mind: The American Steel Industry: One of the of the few remaining things that can proudly state: Made in America, has comeback from hibernation. Areclor Mittal Steel. Founder: Lakshmi Mittal, India.
      Honda: American plants beginning in Marysville. Japan based.
        More recently: KIA motors. South Korea. Plant in Georgia, USA 2009. Currently heading toward their phase II, expanding beyond their Sorento and Optima, they expect to have most of their vehicles made here. Funny how the percentage of KIA vehicle parts are double that of so-called American car parts.

       Let’s look at the vast array of jobs in the USA. Service sector, phone work, retail stores, dying malls, online sales, shrinking government employment, State, county, city jobs getting cut or phased out.
       As the US’s economy went ‘Kerplunk’, didn’t Wall street get a bit antsy? Didn’t the share holders call, and still do, the shots companies would follow to maintain confidence?
       It was like Elitist, On-High board members said: SHIT? What are we gonna do? Our stock is tanking?
       Some smart junior exec said: I have a solution! Let’s hire a butt load of people just above minimum wage and train them. Yeah, this will cost in the short-fall, but build confidence in the 12 month stretch. We spin it like this: “We’ve hired X-thousand employees in the last 12 months!”
     Grumpy, last decades CEO asks: “how’s that going to do anything but cost us more?”
            Beaming, looking for either huge bonus or a senior exec spot says firmly: “As the newbies get trained fully, we just find ways of terminating employees of long standing and high pay and do not make this known to public. We can learn from such financial disasters like Circuit City, cutting tenured yet offering placement a month from chucking them. Perception is reality: We hired this many! No one ever asks how many we shit-canned. We can get two for one in today. Perhaps take this further with part-time help that won’t qualify for health care! Think about it!”
         Most on the board smiling at this, agree at the suggestion. They implement this.
        And a snowball grows across the United States as our economy goes further downhill.

       Yes, I believe it started that simply. Like a virus, it spread out in profound proportions. It continues to do so. It will continue until some radical event occurs in our country.

      It is my belief this ‘radical event’ will not occur, but it is my sincere hopes it does.

      Just some statistics of the lands of this Earth….


       How long have these recognized countries been around?

　
       China: 211 BC. 2233 years in existence.
       Ukraine: 882 AD, with villages going back to 4500 BC.
       Japan: 660 BC. 2672 years in existence.
       Germany: 962 years
       Canada: 447 years.
       Rome: 753 BC. 2765 years in existence.
       India: 7000 BC.
       South America: 990 BC.
       Mexico: 7000 BC
       Russia: first Tsar: 862.
       Iceland 874 AD.
       Ireland 1606 AD
       United States of America: 1776 AD. 236 years if you do not include the Native American Indians time before Christopher Columbus landed here.

      In the scheme of things, we in the United States are but a group of angst filled teenagers. Heaving about with protruding chests and an armed ability to waste the globe with our military power.
       Should we as a people be proud? Absolutely!
       Should we disregard other nations and their opinions as they differ from ours? We SHOULD NOT though we often do. We like to buy our friends and preach to them to wonders of freedom and Capitalism.
      The very same Capitalism that has been embraced by our government and fueled by Wallsreet as it further infests and propels our economic structure to ship more jobs overseas.

      Statistics lie America. When we talk of unemployment, know this: When you lose your unemployment benefits you are no longer part of unemployment statistics. This means your lack of working, feeding yourself and family DO NOT COUNT and are not recognized.

      How many of you have lost jobs that you have had tenure, years with, because of either plants moving out of the United States or them finding reasons to terminate your employment as they hire many to cover your position as a fraction of the wage you earned?

　
                                      My investigation begins.

Mark William Darus 08192012

12 Letters, by Ryn Cricket.

                                      12 Letters
                                  by Ryn Cricket


“Can we call him?”
“He doesn’t have a phone, sweetie. He lives in a small room with just a small bed and no window.”
“We can’t type on the computer?”
“Nope, there are no computers.”
“Can we visit him?”
“No, he’s very far away and you aren’t allowed to see him.”
“Well, can I send him a picture?”
“You know what? I don’t know. I think maybe you can. Let’s look it up….Yes, there is an address right here.”
“Can you send him this one? It’s a mermaid with wings. Can you tell him what a good swimmer I am, but I wish I could fly. And tell him I miss him.”
“You got mail!”
“I did? What does it say?”
“I miss you too my beautiful daughter. I think about you everyday, my beautiful daughter, and I love your beautiful art. I taped it to my wall. Your beautiful mother tells me…”
“Mommy? Why does he keep ‘apeating himself?”
“I don’t know. That’s just the way he writes.
“Mommy, I want you to tell daddy that we are moving to Thailand, and tell him that we have to fly on a plane for a long time far, far away, and it will be very hot there. And when it’s morning for him, it will be night time for us. But I don’t want to send him a picture this time.”
“Ok. You don’t ever have to send him a picture, and you don’t have to write if you don’t want to.”
“I know.”
“We got a letter.”
“What does it say, mommy?”
“It says that he is happy that we are going, and that we will have a good life there, and that it will be every good for us.”
“Where’s his letter to me?”
“I guess since you didn’t send one, he didn’t send one back.”
“I want to send daddy this picture of a prison, but look, you’re in our kitchen in Thailand making potato soup, and the police smell the soup, and they leave the door open to come here, and daddy escapes, and he comes here too because he can smell the soup…see? But I don’t think you made enough soup for all of those people!”
“That is really sweet! But let’s find a picture of what prison doors look like. You can’t just escape.”
“I was just pretendin’”
“But it was a good story though.”
“This time I want to send him a picture of my birthday. See, I put 5 candles on the cake. I don’t think he knows it was my birthday last week.”
“Sweetie, he was there when you were born.”
“Oh, really? Do you think he just forgot, then?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, send him this one and tell him I had a mermaid pool party and it was fun. Tell him I love Thailand and I can swim everyday, but I still wish I could fly. My fairy wings don’t work. They are just pretend.”
“We got a letter from daddy! I wanted to call you at work, but Pi Mon wouldn’t let me…What does it say, mommy?”
“…It doesn’t have any part for you this time. It just says that he doesn’t want to write anymore, and goodbye.”

By Ryn Cricket 04252012

Disposable Humans. by Mark William Darus

                                      Disposable Humans.
                                       By Mark William Darus.

　

       Waking from sleep abruptly as her twin alarms screamed aloud in contrasting pitch and speeds. 7:30 AM EST. Sitting upright at first, taking a deep gulp of air to heave herself toward the clocks. With experienced hands, she nails both ‘snooze’ settings and drops back to the couch she embraces her nights. Eyes still closed, going back to the land that lay between sleep and the fully conscious world, she takes time to say her prayers.
      Aloud, she says: “god, take good care of my family and friends. Both are the same to me in my heart. You know this, lord. Please take care of them. Please take care of everyone. Watch over the animals of this planet and the plants and waters and clouds and sky. Call me selfish and asking you to work overtime, I ask you to tend a lot! I know this. But if it’s any consolation, forget me to do what I pray! In your name, I pray.”
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!
BUUUUUUUZZZZZZZ!
      Hitting the snooze again, she drifts off.
      Like every morning for many a decade, she gives herself a mere twenty minutes to prepare herself for coming day.
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!
BUUUUUUUUUUUZZZ!
      A final snapping awake, she rises. Forgetting to wipe away sleepers from tired eyes, she stands in yesterdays t-shirt and undies. Let the dogs out. Feed the cat.
      Doing those, the dogs doing their business and bringing them in, she takes removes clothing and takes a shower. Feel of warm water enveloping her, she plants shampoo to her brown, thinning hair, lathering it. Taking left hand covered in cleansing foam, she washes her pubic hair, now grey. Body wet, hair areas covered his frothy white, she begins to wash herself off.
       After coating herself in various soaps for both hair and body, she steps into the flowing water and rinses it all off. Leaving her in city water spraying from the old 40 year old shower head, she wonders: Why do I shower in the morning when each day leaves me with feeling so unclean? Why don’t I shower this shit off before I go to bed?
      After drying body and blow drying hair with a 20 year old Conair 1500, Melanie gets dressed.

     Melanie had worked for just over 8 years with a major insurance carrier as a call center rep. In that time, she had received many an accolade from many of her shifting bosses in her tenure there. On more than one occasion she had been a ‘High Performer’, it meaning she was in the Top 10% of the thousands of call reps. She showed a profound ability to assist other reps and Coaches. In her company, Coaches were somewhere between phone reps and managers, like Millwrights were to Steel Workers in a time before. When trained in areas of the company before the Coaches, that would answer questions for their team, were trained, she would gladly help them in fielding questions. She made this willingness to aide known. When the Coaches would have their weekly meetings, Melanie would, with the gratitude on her manager, be the teams, as well as other teams, be the ‘go-to” acting Coach to assist.
      Over time, proving herself most worthy, she even covered the various teams she’d been on the ‘Pended Activity Reports’. If those reports hit a certain number of days, they’d fall on the shoulders of processors. When hitting processors, the manager would get an email not kind, though not judgmental, about a particular persons not keeping up. She would dutifully send team members either reminders and offer help if needed. She would also cover them when either on vacations or leaves. She did these things without being asked to do so. She did this with several managers blessings and gratitude over her time there.
      Slender months before this August, after she volunteered to write for a company newsletter when announced, with the leaving of a fellow team member, she was announced as a new person to this two-person team in meeting of her peers. Her manager apologized for putting her on the spot. Melanie happily accepted this and told her manager she’d be happy to help.

      Granted, Melanie’s last twelve months had not been easy for her. In this time she had begun treatment for Hypertension, went into rehab for alcoholism and was found to be bipolar in late 2010. All those things she looked back at with a child-like vision of learning to lose training wheels and ride straight and even. This was late 2011 and early 2012. She’d missed a lot of work, but FMLA covered her.
      Through this process, learning to walk again, she found a need to be a member of something from her past. Bowling. She’d learned this from her father growing up. She’d been on several first place teams, had a perfect 300 in 1998. She’d lost interest a year after the perfect game. Going back to her second home, Brookgate Lanes, now known as AMF Brookgate lanes, in August 2012, without a team, knowing no one, she joined a league. Thankfully, the secretary of their Thursday night league found her a team. It was with this team she would spend every Thursday for the next twelve plus months of her life.
       In July of 2012 she purchased a Kodak digital camera from a Big-lots. Always enjoying photography, loving the freedom of not having to pay for developing photos, she posted many a shot on FaceBook. After just over a month, a co-worker gave her a much better digital camera. She loved the pics this took, though uploading was extremely troublesome. She went to Dodds to trade it and after spending a meager some, held a Fujifilm S4200.
       Taking shot after shot, so humbly grateful for what she would be given the chance to film, without huge fees to see final results, she moved forward.
       Early March of 2012, when her psych meds leveled her, Melanie started a Blog. On this blog, the subject of psychopathy and mental illness, she would in less than 6 months have over 5600 hits and nail over 50 different countries with her 70-plus entries.
      Between the bowling team she had come to feel a kin to, a profound sense to read and write again, she felt a huge ability to be useful at her job again. Not to mention a fiery passion for photography once again, she was most hopeful.

       Melanie missed a few days just over a week ago. When returning the following Monday, she did her timecard.
       Apparently, she made a mistake.

       Melanie, now driving to work on a bright Friday morning, arrives at work after a day off. Pulling into a vacant slot in the enclosed four level parking in a suburb of Cleveland Ohio, sipping her coffee and wondering how busy this day would be as the lot is very empty at 9 AM.
      Finishing her cigarette, looking into mirror while adjusting her Gander Mountain hat, she leaves her SUV.
      Gazing about one of the fewest of places one could see green grass in this rainless of summers, she walks toward nearest entrance. Entering, swiping card at microchip reader, greeted with female automated voice, “Please enter the door.”
       In, walking toward the bank of three elevators, pressing the ‘up’ arrow, waiting.
       Arriving on floor 3, exiting to her right, greeting fellow employees with usual enthusiasm and pleasant tidings, pausing for a moment to look at the artwork this place holds most proud. She often wondered why her company paid so much for things that made little sense while her ex husband was a fantastic artist in all regards.
      Sitting in the chair of her cubicle, opening systems needed to work. She was some 15 minutes doing so before her shift would begin. Normally, Melanie would be at work some 25 minutes before her shift would begin. Her systems, the company systems opened as slowly as ever, hence her reason to arrive early. Checking emails, she noticed she had a meeting scheduled that day. Such things not that uncommon after a day off. Melanie also saw emails of future trainings and an enthusiastic email about being chosen for yet another of the companies Pilot Programs. This latest about a dual monitor system.
       This was about 5 minutes before her shift would begin.
       Seeing her manager, she decided to visit her with enthusiastic questions regarding this new Pilot. Greeting her manager, her manager smiling back, they talked. They discussed the pilot, exchanged regards to the health of one another. Melanie asked her, with embarrassed face, where the Primate Habitat room was. Given direction, she was also given her managers wish to clear/clean her desk to grant enough room for the second 22” monitor to be placed.
      Checking the time with her manager, Melanie said she had to log into the phones. Her manager said she might be a bit late for the meeting.
      Melanie, being cautious after reading a corporate email about cubicle theft with purses and such, grabbed her camera bag and went to the meeting room.
      Sitting in the conference room, alone, she began to wonder. Sifting through wallet, she found her doctors note. Wondering further, as no other team members arrived, glad that she had shared with her manager about her calls to her psychiatrist about the side effects her current regimen meds were causing.
      After several minutes Melanie was no longer alone.
      Her manager and their manager walked in and sat down.
      Wow, this meeting is based on me, she thought idly.
      After passing greetings, the meeting progressed.
      “Melanie, we have something to address with you. That being your timecard.”
      Nodding, Melanie let it continue.
       “Your manager had adjusted your timecard and you went into the system and changed this.”
       Looking at the triangular conference phone just left of the center of the table, Melanie feeling a huge sense of unease said: “I completed my timecard.” Stumbling for words with meaning, “this explains why my (bank) account showed more than it should have.”
      Female voice, be it her manager or their manager saying: “This is serious-”
            Melanie, cutting them off, stating: “No, this is VERY serious.”
        This leading to some other infraction of similar events in July.
       “We are suspending you without pay until investigation is completed.” Pausing, they said they’d call her with result.
        Melanie, somewhat stunned, said: “okay, wow. Should I go back and log off?”
        They said: Okay.
       She bid them a good weekend as she walked from the conference room.
        As she logged out of the their systems for the last time, a coworker asked her how she was doing. Melanie responded: I’m out of the office.
           As she rounded the end of her isle, she heard laughter from the office of her managers managers office. Knowing it and its direction, she walked on. Going toward the massive neoprene art forms she aimed right for the stairwell.
                                                  Knowing it.
          After playing phone-tag til the Tuesday following, finally connecting, she was told she was terminated.
         Later that day, Melanie received an Overnight Mailing. This multi-page document, that for some reason was lacking a ‘page 2’, was most well thought out.
         The letter of termination stated: Our investigation findings validated that your falsified your timecard.

         Just over 10 years there, embracing everything this company through her direction and meeting it head on.
        Misty, teary eyed, but knowing how this company has treated comrades with enough seniority like hers in the downward economic spiral.
          Melanie, reading this again, her dogs barking in the yard, wondering how many others with the company have fallen with singular infractions, decided to launch her own investigation.

                    Disposable Humans? How many after 10 years of employment have been chucked like me since the crash of 2008?

The End.

　
-Mark William Darus 08172012

Emergency Exit: by Ryn Cricket

                                            
                                                Emergency Exit.
                                                 by Rrn Cricket


                  Kelly needed a quick excuse to get out of there. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t understand how balloons and crepe paper could be so stifling. She thought it would all be ok, but she wasn’t ready after all. She found an emergency exit door at the back of the reception hall, and the fresh air and sunlight hit her like smelling salts, waking her up and allowing her to breathe again. The heavy bass of the music was smothered behind her.There were two people standing by the wall smoking, so she flashed a quick smile at them.
          Pacing back and forth, she tried to decide what to do. Could she go back in there or should she just stay outside in the bright sunlight? She could see Joey coming out of the back doors. He shielded his eyes from the sun to look around the parking lot. As soon as his eyes spotted her, he walked briskly in her direction.
           He looked so good dressed up like that. They had never been to anything formal like this before. Mostly he wore t-shirts and jeans, but he looked really nice in his dark suit. His hair was combed and he was shaved nicely. He could have been going to work in an office. The idea of it almost made her laugh out loud.
       “Hi, Joey.” She said almost shyly.
        “Hey babe. Whadda doin’ out here?” He asked.
        “It was just so hot and crowded in there, I couldn’t breathe. I barely know anybody, so I came out for some air.”
          Yeah, it’s not my kind of scene either, but we should get back before anyone asks for us.” Joey said grabbing her hand.
         “You go ahead, I’ll be there in a minute or two. Cover for me.” She smiled.
          He turned around and headed back. One of his friends handed him a can of beer on the way in, and they started laughing.
She liked the way her dress sounded like cellophane when she walked. She liked feeling like Cinderella. But walking in those shoes in the gravel parking lot was hard. Her ankle kept twisting if she stepped wrong, so she walked up to the sidewalk and pretended like she was a model. Cars honked as she passed, and she waved like a princess out on a stroll.
She had almost forgotten that she had tucked the money her mother had given her inside her bra since her dress didn’t have any pockets.
She saw a taxi parked across the street at the bowling alley, so she walked in to find the driver. She found a man sitting at the food counter drinking a Coke.
          “Sir, is that your taxi?” She asked pointing towards the door.
          “Yes. Why?”
          “Well, I was just thinking that the freshest air is by the ocean. How much would it cost to have you drive me there?”
          “That’s at least 130 miles away. It would take over 2 hours. I’d have to charge you about $250.”
          “Ok, then, I’m ready to go,” she said pulling a few bills out of her bra.
           He got up and grabbed his hat off of the counter just as she realized she didn’t have to hold the bouquet anymore.
           Maybe she would call Joey later.



By Ryn Cricket: 06052010

I Hope: by Kara H. Montgomery.

　
　
                                                       I hope.

                                                       <Poem>
                                         By Kara H. Montgomery.

　
Kill my alarm as it splits my brain to bits and pieces
Half hour before sunrise
Roosters crowing
Dogs hungry for chicken
This world starving to eat me

Not done yet casting sleepers away from eyes
Coarse and tired hands of labor
Scratching my face, red cheeks aof many sunfilled days
Red and blistering
Hurting
Popping
Soon infected
If not cared for.

Breakfast.
In cooler:
1 piece of bread
1 egg
Tiniest amount of whole butter
Container of steak seasoning: going back to times better

Mixing those to splendid harmony
Eating in small amounts to fool the stomach
Relishing every bit
Swallowing with water

Poverty
Only acknowledged by those that give up
Fail to try
Those lacking hope
And those who cannot be happy for anyone else.
Poverty belongs to those that give up on all.

I am not one of those
I help without regard of self
I try in all aspects
I hope the best for everyone

I hope.

　
By Kara H. Montgomery: Child of South Africa.

Reader Comments III. Across the globe.

                                   

                                    From all over the Earth.
                                      Reader comments III.

　
      Let me start by saying how happy I am with the responses I’ve received since Psychopathy: Another Life switched gears a while back. You have no idea how much I appreciate your words and time for emailing me.
      This means much to me. I have been working on this for just over 5 months now and it is your emails, comments and support and feedback that keep me going.

       Well, on with the words of others from all over on tiny blue ball in the sky.

　
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       Fantastic turn you’ve taken, Mark. I look forward to the sick world you share so freely.
        About Tommy: Directors Cut given 08/02/2012, shall I say: Finale Redux?
        The rethought edited version made me gush from my eyes and caused me to cry YES!
         I have no idea what you were sent, raw intel, whatever. Doesn’t matter, you gave this story a life.
         You weaved a tale most full. Start to finish, Alpha and Omega. The music you used, visuals, smells: You gave the reader total scope of what was going on each step of the progression Tommy walked.

         Tommy? Like we don’t know the stream this name bubbled from. Don’t take me incorrectly, not insulting you in tiniest regards, but the last song in this tale brings it all home to me as I am sure it does others.

            I look forward to all you wish to share.

Tasha from Guam.
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                             Mark’s life, <Aug 5 2012>

                Football, baseball and Frisbee things expressed by you hit me. Video games in our world take many away from things physical shared.
            I have read enough about America that I am glad my children will never see its shores. My children are content with things given them. Simple hand made toys, eating together, watching them play hide and seek. I have seen enough crap from YouTube of friends setting up those they call friends to know your country is massively twisted in priorities. How the children raised.
              Having read enough of your words, I do believe this story ended the way it did.
         Credit to you, Mark.

Sig Haugen from Norway.

　
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                            Hello Psychopathy Another Life!

            Writings of Ryn pushes me to look at myself with brighter light. Once dying of cancer my Lord cured me froms, Identity Crisis to living Toys from man of small standing when sun shined on him to be noticed a werewolf.
         Ryn and Mark, thanks to you.

Emily of Laos. I was stupid and am now living here after marrying a bad man.

　
　
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             Mark, you write what you write.
       You cannot tell any of us that you are not this new comer named Mark S. Kourge.
           Pen name? Sweetest of hearts, we understand this if it true.
             I comment on the 69 entries posted so wholly.
              From Intro to now, you express things not popular in any audience but that of the cinema or books.
             Friends and I loved your work: Three words given to me, 16/07/2012.
            Your giving a snapping turtle a valid place in this life, God inspired/controlled by God. Seeing this in gifted being a child of God, you see things imagined few take the time to waste.

           You are this song, Stardust by Crosby, Young, Nash and Stills.

           Given much of yourself,
             Happy reader with friends,

Hanna. Iceland.

　
　
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        Yeah, bleed the freak, cunt! My sis killed herself because of crap you right. She killered herself like four yearss again. I hope t find you and wasste you. You gone tow far. I hait you, btich!

Charlie, Chicago Illinois USA.

　
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               Love the photographs new on blog! Sets mood higher. You do good, Mrak!

               Thoughtfull.

Selina, proud child of South Africa.

　
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              Thank you for sharing me recent events that hit your life, Mark.
               Knowing It:
                 Love the grasshopper on Knowing It: part one. Hoping best for you and your thinking on this, you will be okay. Do as God tells you to. Hitting so many Nations words alone, pen, perhaps grander than sword. You know this things, less you would be frightened and stop. Not you and write.
             Mark, you hold me like some tiny dancer. Ever hear Elton Johns Tiny Dancer.
         This is you.

           Hopes for you,

Bae, North Korea

　
　
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            Fuck, man! You rock and slash! Take no prisoners.
           Sweet to see some believe in our failing Constitution of free speech as Homeland smacktards squelch most!
           Keep that ass of yours spilling thoughts, bro!

Sracey, Bedford Hts Ohio, USA.

　
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           Taking your blog in its entirety I can express this. You have gifts. Reading you for months now, watching you delight in posting photographs to your words, amazingness place. Mark, pleased you should feel on this.
              I have no favourite post entry of you. All you express is fine and good.
Ulfa, daughter of Iceland.

　
　
　
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This one was sent to by Audrey. It appears as a comment on 60 Countries Visitors.

           Dear Mark


          Thank you very much for the lovely reading you are sharing with us. It is very lovely reading and keep on sharing as you are doing very good work.
Congratulations on having so many readers from around the world as this shows that your work is appreciated.


         Take carer and keep safe
Audrey
Malta.

Authors Note: No, Audrey, it is I that thank you!



Authors Note: Thank you!

　
　
-Mark William Darus 08122012

60 Countries visitors. Giving me hope in humanity.

               
                 In the Spirit of writing and sharing:


               As Psychopathy: Another Life grows I cannot go further without thanking the people of lands I had no idea I would reach. You have taken time from your lives to read what I and others have shared.
            All of you have done more for me than you will ever know. I stand now and salute all of you! In my own country some have emailed me, namely Catherine, Jonathon, Abigail, and wished to share their lives with us. Funny how I have only received four comments from the USA when they can post such anonymously. Paranoia much runs higher here in the USA.
         To the people of 60 Countries that have taken the time, I give you the greatest of thanks, sweat and diligence to your time given me and words expressed to me.

        This is to you!
        You have made a difference in my life.

　
       To the readers from:

USA
Russia
Ukraine
United Kingdom
Mexico
Brazil
Chile
Germany
Malta
Canada
Bulgaria
Sweden
Israel
Croatia
Greenland
Thailand
China
Malaysia
Belize
India
Norway
Latvia
Afghanistan
Slovakia
South Korea
Vietnam
Guam
Philippines
Japan
Cuba
Cherokee Nation <not sure how that worked>
Wales
North Korea
Switzerland
Austria
Trinidad and Tobago

　
Venezuela
Ireland
France
Scotland
Greece
Laos
Taiwan
Serbia
Finland
Algeria
New Zealand
Poland
Hungary
Guinea-Bissua
El Salvador
Democratic Republic of the Congo
Singapore
Yemen
Oman
Nepal
Iceland




         At no time in my life did I ever think I would have such a broad audience. I never thought anyone cared enough. Thank you for smashing the down side of my thoughts of humanity into the fucking ground.

         Amazing readers: You take me higher as I post.
         You of many lands, hatreds and bigotries you were raised with, you must think beyond this to email me and go further. That, to me, is big on your part.

         I hope I have kept my word. I always want to stay objective.
         I continually wish to give you all a safe haven to express your words, hopes and comments.

       I hope once again for all of us.
        Like some Beauty Pageant Contestant: I really would like world peace.

        Note this: You have all made me shed tears for your kindness in visiting Psychopathy: Another Life.
        Perhaps emotion is coming back to me after being long gone.

         Thank you!

Mark William Darus: 08122012

The Widow's Morning: by Ryn Cricket.

                                

                                       The Widow's Morning.
                                             by Ryn Cricket





        I can’t believe he’s dead. There his body lay in the coffin so peaceful, a little mangled, but masked well. I could only stare in disbelief and wonderment. It was so fast. One minute everything was fine, and then he was gone–just like that.
      “You know, he was such a good man.” a woman whispered in my ear. I didn’t know who she was, but I nodded.
     “I’m so sorry for you and the children.” I heard over and over.
      “How are they holding up?”
      “Lisa keeps thinking he’s outside mowing the lawn or working on the car,” I would reply. “But Lily is so young, I think she may have forgotten him already.”
      “It will get easier with time.” I heard more than anything. Did these very well-meaning people know how cliché they were? I mean I guess there isn’t much you can say in this situation. And I guess I didn’t know what I wanted to hear either.
      He was on his way to do “research” at the library when he had the heart attack. I wasn’t with him. He thought he just had the flu, but he also thought he was invincible and insisted on going anyway. He was always doing research, but never had anything to show for all those hours.
    “Who’s that girl?” I heard someone whisper to someone else. I looked around. I didn’t know her either. She looked to be about 17, but with brown frizzy hair, lipstick in a completely unnatural shade of pink, and blue eye shadow put on like someone in their 60’s. She didn’t look at me. No direct eye contact with anyone. She went straight to his body, cried like a child, and ran out in a scene.
      Whispers flew, like wild darts across the room. I didn’t know what I was supposed to say. Right then, it wasn’t my job to figure things out; it was my job to cry.
     “What is all this research about?” I asked him one time. “What is so important that you would rather spend these hours with your computer than sleeping with or talking to me.”
     All he replied was, “It’s none of your business.”
No one was surprised that his teenage son didn’t come, they haven’t talked in years, but when his teenage daughter arrived, with two close friends, she wouldn’t go near the casket. Maybe she was sad or scared. Maybe she didn’t want to see him like that.
      I was too busy getting hugs, and hand squeezes to go over and talk to her just then. She talked and giggled with her friends in the corner. Was she that removed from him, did she just not know how to show respect? I watched her through the people around me who were reciting the same things I had heard a hundred times already. All I really had to do was nod.        She still laughed and giggle and texted on her phone as if she were in a school hallway. Then she stopped for a minute, walked directly to her father, and it looked like she spit in his face. I couldn’t be sure. I wasn’t that close, but then she walked past me with her friends right behind her, and nodded at me. I wanted to tell her I would call her, we would get together sometime, but I felt confined by well-wishers.
     As I looked around, I saw all my friends and family around to support me, and be here for me, and there was no one there that I knew, just to mourn him. Most of his family or friends didn’t even come, not to mourn anyway. It seemed proof enough for me that the thallium I put in his coffee that last week together was a good idea. At least my girls were going to get something.


Ryn Cricket 06052010

Knowing it: Part I, by Mark S.Kourge.

                                        Knowing it. Part I.
                                        By Mark S. Kourge.

　
                Sometimes you just know a storm front is heading your way. The signs are always glaring to those with wits about them and senses wide open. Instincts should always be heeded, yellow traffic lights mean ‘stop hard,” and a totally unexpected visitor standing on your car whom you haven’t seen in decades means something.
            Leaving Walmart after picking up dog food and other sundries, he got into his car and fired her up. AC responding to slice humidity. Somewhat dizzy from standing too quickly after tying left shoe lace, forgetting his blood pressure meds, recently increased, could cause sudden drops.
        Clearing his head before engaging the transmission into drive, he pulls from the slot after looking both ways.
        It is after turning right he notices the visitor.
        He hasn’t seen one of these in decades and was floored at its presence. Hadn’t he just shared with both girlfriend and the best of neighbors his concern for their lack?
      Pulling into vacant parking space he grabs his camera, seizing the moment.
      Leaving his car, standing too quickly, head fills with whitish grey shades of fog. Shaking head from right to left with free hand pressed firmly against the side of his ride, the darkness and overhead lights develop clarity once again.
      Slowly climbing on the hood, aiming camera, he begins to take photos of the this wondrous event. The reddish beam from his Fuji S4200 nails it, flash quickly follows. Moment captured. Repeating this process further, snapping shot after shot, progressing.
       He thanks the grasshopper for showing him they are still alive and climbs back into the car.
       He begins to drive. Thanking god for this opportunity, he moves down the road toward I-480. Heading to the Sav-A-lot for milk and other needed things some 6-8 miles away, hitting 60 mph, hoping this visitor would find a nice future as wind sweeps it to other places.
       Minutes later, leaving 480 on SR 94, he wonders about the grasshopper while Twila Paris’ God is in Control plays through the speakers.
      Taking a silent knowledge of what this even means to him and how he interpreted it, smiling as he sang: God Is In Control.
      Thoughts sidelined momentarily as he sees some fool in a tricked out Royal blue Honda Civic run a red light at the intersection of Sr 94 and SR-176. Red and blue splashes appear from nowhere: Busted. Brief pursuit ensues. With little doubt, he’ll say he was sorry. It will be up to officer if he gets a ticket or not. No doubt, he made a mistake in judgment.
      Turning left, minding his ‘p’s and q’s’ <and where the hell did that term ever come from?> he keeps the speed limit in the half mile to the store.
        Hitting the overly bright fluorescence's bouncing off newly waxed flooring making pupils shrink to pinpricks, walking slowly down the small produce isle with red and green peppers, single onions and potatoes, celery and heads of lettuce. Not taking a .25 cent cart, willing to carry items with hands or a spare box, yet again, his eyes adjust to environment.
       Hip shot from absent minded shopper, pulling sideways, the brunette with long blue highlights quietly gasps in a voice like Amy Grant. "i'm so sorry..."
       Smiling, expressing no harm done, he compliments on her hair.
       Smiling back, she says her name.
        Saying his, watching her child anxiously shift about in the cart, he walks on.
       Milk coolers, taking 2% in right hand, remembering the Q-tip clones he needs to buy, he heads to that isle. Down an isle containing dog and cat food, kitty litter, leading to feminine hygiene products, deodorant. There’s the Q-tip type things. Taking a box of several hundred, strolling and bidding good night to all he encountered.
        He is Marmaduke, dog-walking to the registers, swaggering from side to side, happy face and contented.
        Single register open, getting in line…
         “No! You don’t not correct my kid, cunt! You bring this shit to me!” a blond with obvious signs of PIDs and low cut wife-beater top, bra-less, yells at a conservative lady in downtown suitable garb.
         “Sorry, you’re child  was climbing over the railing and standing on the Bud Light stack. “She could’ve gotten hurt! You didn’t notic-”
         “I got game on this, bitch! Don’t tell my kids a fuckin’ thing!”
          Stopping, turning, walking slowly to the screaming bleach baby momma.
          “Okay, seeing as how you told me to do so. How close would you like me to bring this to you? Four feet or three? C’mon, Ms Attitude, what do you want?”
         Haggard looking manager with wrinkled light blue shirt approaches, asking what the issue is.
         Confident in her stance, hand in her purse, pulling out and showing the manager her badge: it reading: Marilyn ********, Cuyahoga County Child Services.
       Another child of four begins to climb into the ice bag freezer as another tries to roll around the Encore frozen Turkey and Beef Patty $1.00 meals.
       He exchanges a glance with a man behind him, sharing words about things new and laughable. This man looks a tad worried.
        Thinking of the grasshopper and this occurrence, he begins to laugh with full voice straight from the diaphragm. Throttle open completely, as he’d learned from singing as a youngster in a Methodist Church choir, volume increasing, gaining notice.
         Diverting attention, dropping the gallon of 2% to shining floor, as he laughed louder and louder.
         Paying the tab with an Ohio Directional Card, hastily splitting to her rusted and ragged Plymouth. Kid services worker following like a hound from Hell, perhaps gathering license plate number, writing on 2 x2 inch yellow stick-its and white-blue plumes exit exhaust.
         Yeah, like that wouldn’t fail an E-Check he quips allowed, causing laughter.

         Getting an fresh gallon of milk, paying for it and the generic Q-tips, he leaves the store. Secondary doors open, warm, humid night air meets him. Horn of a train sounds behind the San-A-Lot cries aloud, focused conductor, in faded overalls and brown collared cowboy shirt, left hand on the Dead-Mans-Switch, thumping it when needed, moves a million tons of product on.

　
                                         End of Part I.
                                    Mark S. Kourge. 08102012

　
==========================================================================

Don't be ignorant. This is Tennessee whiskey in Lorain Ohio.

                        Tennessee whiskey, drunk and Lorain Ohio.
                                           By Mark S. Kourge.

　

            Still flashing lights as the last band, Phantom Whore, smashes through the last chords of a song that come sunlight no one will remember. Feedback screeching from Peavey stacks, skinny lead vocalist cries: “YOU’RE MINE! I’LL KILL ANYONE BETWEEN US!”
           Over amplified and sounding miserable, the song finishes as house lights quickly take over.
          Instant sobriety collides with the eyes of the drunk. Dizzying, pupils going small, stunned. Mixed with massive amounts of embarrassment as the wooing see their fucked up minds view as a nite-mate crashing to dismal foolishness, so far away from their fantasy. This fantasy a result of bull-talk with friends and the hopes to get laid my hottie.
        Coin turned, 180 degrees, eyes of the ladies fully see the asshole that they have let buy them drinks for hours. Shared sweat and kisses on the blurry dance floor and bar area, too close to bathrooms with nonexistent ventilation. Smelling urine and shit, not minding as booze changes immediate priorities. Sucking on tongue, holding, telling lies.

        This bitch is a cow!
        Damn! His face is covered with zits.
        Was that tattoo a rose before she gained 150 pounds and it stretched?
         Are those purplish blisters on his arms Aids?

         Under the light that only the truly desperate experience at the closing of a bar, when all is as exposed as strolling nude through a shopping mall during Xmas shopping season. Like one who sheds all clothing during a Baptist revival, yelling Look at me!

       He looks at his friend Mike. He hair black and tidy, resembling Charlie Sheen in Wallstreet. “Where is she?”
      Mike, looking bewildered, asks: “Man, which one? You nailed two or three tonight?”
       Mike visibly upset and even he does not know which is worse: Being upset because his best doesn’t remember the one he wants him to find or that his friend got laid three times and he didn’t. Hasn’t in the last three months. Failing.
       “thuu one wit the hairrrrr,”
        “Fuck wad, they all had hair!” Grabbing his last shot from the bar, a quadruple Jack straight back, he places an arm around his bombed friend. Taking a meager swig, loving the taste of the Tennessee whiskey as it courses his tongue flowing down his throat.
         “This way, all closed. You go home now.” Ivan drones. Bouncer, 6 foot 2 inches, massive biceps and angled face adorned with jet black hair. Motioning, arms stretched, corralling, herding stragglers to the entrance/exit. Wanting them to leave quickly, he thinks of where he’d rather be. Safe place, tiny appartment with his wife and two small children. Place of love and quiet. Place without drunks to control. Place of peace.
         “fuuuuuuck, brah! Guh-geyet yurr meat-hucks offsa me, bitch!” He said this to the bouncer cornering him and aiming toward the door.
        Raising wasted arm to the massive body that held a shirt with a single word: SECURITY on chest and it being brushed off like a moths against a single candle-lit night.
       “He’s not himself, “ Mike said, barely able to hold his friend upright as well as himself as the bouncer countered. Stumbling, wondering why he still does this over and endlessly for this friend. He covers him.

        Leaving this riverside bar near Lorain Ohio, coursing a hood where peeps get blown away for much less than a bus-pass, walking arm in arm. Street lights overhead, every other one of them out: growing sodium glances on faces slowly with each footstep, rising and diminishing to shadow.

         People die here. They do so on such a regular basis that the Lorain Police call this region the Hall of Gods Justice. Kind of like: If you died here, you somehow deserved it. Maybe your past life, Karma, whatever: If you were fucking here and caught a bullet, you must’ve deserved it.

      “Wuhhhhrissss-sheeeeee?”

       “Give me fuckin’ minute, cunt!” Mike, getting closer to his car he spots her.

      She is standing there. Tall, leggy slender, alley glow from orange fluorescent casting erie glow. . Tight halter covering upper realms highlighting erect nipples and short butt hugging closure barely covering twat and such. She holds the strength of a crackhead desiring a fix, eyes attempting to lock and never able to do so, body shifting about quickly. At knifes edge, Tweaking.

          Mike approaches her slowly and asks her: “you want to party?”

       “Damn, whitebread! Whip the dick and show me you ain’t no 5-OH!”

      Doing so, sobbering, Mike caught the fragrances of this place: Foul odors of the massage pallor, spoiled broccoli and the small Chinese restaurant and the raw uneaten things they sold as tibs.

        Humid night in the city. All things seemed odd and most disgusting with echoing voices, horns blaring from ore freighters and crying children as a result of negligent parents.

       Mike, fly unzipped, displays his wimp penis, as he’d done times before.

      “Home’s, you got Vi-fuckin-agra?” Twisting hips about, casting needed, hungry, wanting expression at Mike.

      “No, uh, well, not for me. It’s, uh, shit, for my friend here.” He, right arm moving behind his friend, taking him toward the whore for her.

     Standing cocked, staring at the thing Mike showed her. I need double rubbers to do this fuckha.

      “what’s his name? Gotta know this, homes, I won’t take less than two-fiddy to do him.” Holding herself back momentarily, wanting to back off from this. Not knowing why. Feeling of unease filling her.

       “His names Julian. He wants to meet you. He’s asked for you,” Mike croaks. Shoulders drooping like many times before.

        “Show me the dollars, cocksucka!”

           Mike unfurling twenties and fifties like a fisherman casting to a great lake.

         She leads them to her realm. Well kept place south of rt 57 of I-90.

          Crossing the parking lot, Mikes friend oblivious to anything, he hears music of Thomas Newmans score from the Less Than Zero soundtrack. BOOPING the alarm on his imported mid-90’s Nissan Skyline with right hand drive. Walking over black-top, hot summer nights work steaming smoky breath after tiny rainfall, thinking: here I go again…

         Venturing into her apartment slightly off rt 57, she takes Mikes friend.

         He undresses and hits her bed, waiting for pleasure.

            A single minute passes in the oddest of time for her.

           Leaving her ground floor dwelling, looking for Mike. Eventually finding him laying his sweet car.

            “he passed out, that or he’sruckin’ dead, shit, fuck. Dead. Drag his ass away from here… I got kids and don’t wants chiiiiiidrens fuck to lands on m’ azz!”

       Pulling out his camera, Mike takes photos of his friend and various sexual poses he demanded of her for him to keep silent.

          Both parties succumbed, Mike holding the digitals.

           Maintaining cash flow.

            Taking his friend back to his wife, explaining once again how he’d had too much to drink. Her accepting this.

            Mike, with a line on many.

            Went about his way.

            Making a huge sum in their wakes.

            Blackmail?

          No, only the uneducated called this so.

          This, my dear, is called extortion.

　

　

            Written by Mark S. Kourge.

Coffee: by Mark S. Kourge

                                                    Coffee.
                                            By Mark S. Kourge.

　
            She stood before with a 10 inch Butchers knife and can Dairy Whip. Carrying an evil smile, slowly exposing her teeth as her ruby lips curled higher. Dressed in black latex and Kiss-like tall boots.
           She kicked me in the chest to further waken me. Hurting me, my eyes shot full open.
         “Which would you prefer? The knife or the whip cream?” Head cocking sideways, short blond spiked hair backlit as the eastern sun splashed through my bedroom window.
         Groaning slightly, “I cannot decide without coffee. I need coffee.”
         “oh, no, darling. You decide now!”
         Brain barely showing signs of thinking, I muttered, “whip cream then.”
        Unleashing the can, spraying me, not to mention my bed sheets, smiling greater still.
        “good choice, I’ll save some for later.

        She liked games like this. She was most sick and messed up in mind processes.
        She’d been abused at a very young age that never left her mind for periods greater than a few days at a clip. Not only growing up with abusive father, she had a seriously perverted aunt.

         Leaving my bed, whip cream dripping down my chest and face, I walked toward my kitchen. Shaking my head, wondering how long I would let myself deal with this, I put on a pot of coffee.
        Following me, as if on remote control, she hesitated briefly at the entrance to the kitchen.
       Sitting on the stool by the island, looking at her. Light beginning to grow full as it filtered through my windows, bracing myself for what I knew would happen next.
       Looking at her feet, shuffling slowly, pouting.
       “I LOVE YOU SO MUCH!” she screamed, tossing the blade behind her putting yet another cut in my hardwood floor. Pulling off her latex suit, giving me full view of her amazing body, raw.
      Throwing herself at me, connecting firmly, knocking me off the stool, her arms clasped tightly, we hit the floor.
      Her lips pressed against mine, her breath giving tells of Eclipse Spearmint gum, covering my face with wet kisses.
       “you love me, don’t you?. Tell me you do. Please, PLEASE tell me so.” Panting, her body clamoring over me like a rock climber desperately reaching for Earth as they begin to fall. Her left hand finally grabbing at my groin.
      “of course I do. Don’t you know this by now?”
      “I so much like the taste of whip cream on a man! Tastes so much better than blood, don’t you think?” Her voice sounding more happy, less needy. Her body, her hands, moving less like a lunatic and more like a passionate lover.
      “Oh yeah. You know the only time I like to taste blood.” Kissing her slowly, eyes fixed on hers, my arms reaching around to hold her close.
      BINNNNNNNNGGGG! The Jonson-Freed coffee sounded, letting us know it was done brewing. Truly, this is the best coffee maker to ever hit the YBAOT Channel. The YBAOT standing for some obscure products company based in Canada. I thing the YBAOT stood for: You’d Buy Anything On Television. Even with contempt in my heart, it did make a great cup of joe.
      Standing, her panting, gasping, new wetness coursing down her great thighs. Fully erect, she extends me hand. “Let me help you up, my wonderful husband.”
       Up and having yet another bruise to add with the many others on me, looking at her beaming face.
      “I need a smoke, Izzy, “ I said. “you got any?”
       She turns and walks to the cupboard above the sink. Taking them with shaky hand, turning, she hands the Players with a Bic.
        Lighting, taking a huge inhale as I add the sugar to my coffee…
       “WAIT, LOVER! DON’T YOU EVEN MOVE!”
       Like a skipping record, I know what comes next.
       Shooting my cup of coffee with Dairy Whip, gleefully saying, “here’s your cream, honey.” Stepping back slowly, her glorious body causing me to have fullness of throbbing member.
       “Thank you, darling. You are so thoughtful.” I take a sip of my coffee. Tasting perfect, I gaze back at her with fond heart and sore bones.
       “Do you think I need help, my husband?” Showing a face of sincere concern she questions.
       Izzy is not my wife, but that’s okay. She thinks she is.
      “No, you’re fine. I love you just the way you are.”

       Author: Mark S. Kourge.

Toys: By Ryn Cricket

                                             Toys:
                                      by Ryn Cricket.



             Halfway home from work, I looked at the clock in my car. It screamed “4:45!” I was never going to make in time. Was he going to be pissed? Maybe he wouldn’t even wait. Fuck! I tried to get out of the office faster, but all these new employees decided that was the time to bombard me with questions.
            “I really have to go!” I finally told them. “I have an important appointment.” To which they all apologized as I literally ran out the door. Of course I wasn’t going to tell them it was an appointment with “Jack.” But then I never divulged my social life outside at work. That only caused problems. You tell them one bad thing, and it’s the only thing people remember, and then dwell on. Anyway, Jack was different. He held on to his own mysteries and only divulged small pieces of them like little pieces of chocolate that I was always honored to receive.
              He was a writer. So amazing with words. And even though I’m well-read, and well-educated, Jack would often use words I would have to look up when he wasn’t looking. He always picked the most precise words. I loved waking up to his little gift of words to start my morning, and talking to all hours of the night. Even on a work night, I didn’t want to stop or tell him I should sleep.
            My job was so full of pressure, and asserting myself at home was just tiring. There was no reason to exude confidence, when I could just let the power be usurped. It felt good to not have all that responsibility and just relax into a complete lack of power struggle. I certainly couldn’t do that with someone I didn’t trust. But he loves me. He shows me all the time. I could feel a smile coming over my face just thinking about his words, telling me how beautiful and perfect I am, telling me how much he loved and desired me. Maybe he had told other women that in the past, but he told me I was the one who was everything he had been waiting for.
           I am not going to make it! DAMN! I really will be the one he is waiting for if I don’t get home in time. I hate letting anyone down. And I will be so disappointed if he’s not there. Nights without him seem so dark and quiet. I wonder around looking for something to occupy me and sleep early waiting for the next day that he will enter.
          He sent me all this obscure music that I fell in love with, I don’t know if because I felt it was such a beautiful gift or if it was because I actually really like it. I made a CD collection and put it on my iPod, just so that it would provide me the soundtrack of my days.
          Finally! Pulled into the driveway, a little faster than anyone really should, left my bag –I’ll get it later. Ran in the house, went to the bathroom so I wouldn’t have to pee when I was with him, checked my hair and face, ran a brush through my hair, put on some lipstick. Ok, just the way he likes me. Went back into the living room, opened my laptop.
          “There you are, Alyssa!” he said.
          “I know. I was late. Work was crazy!” I began to apologize.
          “It’s alright. You’re here now.” He smiled.
           “Yeah but I hate missing any minute with you!” I said. He smiled at me again.
           Then he laughed. “We have our whole future together. What’s a few little minutes?”
          “That’s true.” I smiled and laughed back.
          “I know what you need, you understand my needs. We have quite a future, don’t we?” He said. “You’re blushing!” He caught me.
          “When can we actually meet?” I asked him. “I want to feel you so bad!”
          “Hold on a second, please…Ok, I’m back. A train ticket from me to you is just $69. I can be there anytime you purchase one. I see an interesting irony in that number.” He laughed.
          As we continued talking, I secretly worked on booking the seat.
          “You know, I could wait all day to talk to someone who is intelligent, beautiful and knows herself the way you do.” He said. I blushed again. I tried to look normal on the cam, so he couldn’t see what I was doing, or how happy I was about it.
         “I think, my lovely dear, you have charmed me into loving you!” I blushed again. I had the two screens open at the same time. I even got out my credit card, without him seeing.
         “It’s done. I bought it. You’ll be here Thursday at 8:30 pm. You’ll be here! WOW! In just a few days. That’s….78 hours, and 42 minutes! WOW! I’m so excited!”
          “You never cease to surprise me!” He laugh again, at what I thought was my over zealousness, but really, it was because he had had this exact conversation before. This was the eighth time he was able to convince someone to send for him this summer. Not only would he get laid, he’d win that $500 bet with Mark. Hell, maybe he’d even get to see that movie everyone’s been talking about.

Author: Ryn Cricket 2010

Marks life and world: Wish me luck! my story part two.

 

                                   

                     Where I live: part two.

　

                     Zombies dwell in my alley, often urinating and defecating behind my fence. Living in homes left after breaking through thin ply wall for a place to lay their heads, places with proud signage of Hanna Smythe Kramer Realty.

                      Crickets halted in their chirping as gunshots tear the night in half. .38’s, 9mm’s and hearty .12 gauge blast. Echo’s of the screaming bounce from houses on Scranton road. “Duck!” “¡golpee la tierra!” “땅에 파업!＂ in Korean.
                      The United Nation stating: Hit the fucking ground!

              A call to 911. The learned caller using the words: SHOTS FIRED! Knowing its quick response time from Cleveland Police, sirens heard in the distance. Coming from W. fourteenth, West 25, on Scranton from Metro General Hospital. Growing, growling as they grow closer. Stopping at the bleeding bodies on the sidewalk.

               Take statements, take pictures, take the bodies to the morgue.

                 Emotionless, doing their jobs and why not? If the had emotion, would they not go insane in their jobs?

            Fire crackers popping. Dogs barking, smells of car exhaust mixing with rap music threatening to blow a trunk lid with its bass volume.

           Let’s take a walk, you and I. My eyes, smells and sounds: Your story to read.

             Full dark.

         Opening gate. Night calling sounds of screams, moans and screeching tires and engines revving proud.

          Female form, gaunt, sunken eyes, dirty once pink halter smeared with coats of white, faded cut-off jeans. The smell of sweat and Wild Irish Rose. High cheek bones, ribs standing out, inner thighs exposing bruises in illumination from single alley street light.

         “Wuh-anna pardee?” A voice the worst of B-movies asks. Sincere though, her mind is gone. She is seeking another fix, remedy, temporary cure.

         Stopping on unsure feet, swaying, she yanks her halter up, desperate smile beaming, tits exposed. Advertising.

          “She be a sweet ride, bro!” a man speaks from the shadows of black locust trees. “She does it all! Mouth guzzles, cunt smack, anal. My bitch does it all!”

         “Fuck you, then!”

         Walking away further up my alley, away from pleasures found by others, cash for snatch, walking.

          Laughing and splashing in a pool, guarded by 6 foot fence. Living a shielded existence yet sharing the same space and doing it well, eyes wide open.

          Pot and bbq grow this night, granted it is Saturday, intoxicating scent.

             Passing a yard with semi stripped Buick Park Ave, crushing a fly on my left thigh, breaking stride.

            “Hungry, man?” a woman asks. Wearing a filmy translucent pink dress, slender right hand extended.

          Stopping, looking, taking extended hand in mine. Happy to be lured.

          Sure, be happy to!

         “C’mon, baby!”

           Mana live smashing from Peaveys. Good sounds. Known music.

            “Welcome!” “who d’fuck is dis?”

            “Shut the fuck up, assholes! I saw him. I take him into my yard. “

              Parking my ass soundly to a plastic chair, I smile at her. “sit down, relax.”

            Watching her, her body shifting in the dress, barefooted, strong calves showing rising from tiny feet.



             Handing me a plate of food, smell hitting me, hunger taking hold, I say: Thanks.

         “No sweat, baby. You’re not like the others. You have mind left to you.”

         Spanish rice, veggies, chicken.

          “You like to dance?” she asks when I am finished. Best home cooked meal in ages.

             Yeah, I do. I like Mana live.

            Swirling embrace, tastes of the night meeting breath, Mana, Helicopters and sirens. Meeting of the bonkers. Feeling her against me, mind spinning furiously, smelling rose fragrance in her hair. Dizzy.

          Welcome to the life on Scranton Rd, Cleveland USA and it bowels.

         Shoving me shot of Jose Cuervo, Holding it, waiting for her speak the toast.

          “¡Uno del camino!”

         “¡Sí! ¡Bebemos! '“ they shout.

          I down it flatly, raising empty shot glass. Greeted with handshakes and high-fives. Hugs from men and women alike.

          Gracious!



          Walking down the alley once again, leaving the comfort from new friend and hers, watching the growing shadow of me on asphalt interrupted abruptly.

           Skunk! Smelling skunk.

            Stopping, halting, ending movement.

              Sounds of chomping, licking chops, farts and belches.

              Eyes turning to the left. Feral dogs. They are eating their capture, that being a skunk.

               Diverting senses, sounds from above.

              “OOOOWWWWW! Give it TO ME!” female cries out open window. Reaching breaking point, orgasm or a convincing lie. “give it to me! Give it! FUCKER, GIVE IT, MAN!”

            A Cleveland Cop Car wails as it heads toward Metro Hospital.

            Looking upward: Stars meagerly shine through the light-pollution of this place, hazed.

             Moon clouded, its near full face showing us its grace.

            Rounding the corner of the alley, a place that once shined of sunflowers and hill billy car parts, now holding signs of the downtrodden.

          Facing some temple, it’s 7 foot galvanized steel fence, turning right again.



          To the field on the left with a huge steel pole that rose about two hundred feet up.

         Memory taking hold of me and this place.

          Oh, how we played tackle football here. This field of dirt and gravel. Dressed for protection: Wearing about two sweatshirts over two to three t-shirts and think jeans. Butting heads, arms reaching, sometimes stopping. Bloody noses and blackened eyes from impact. Sides facing off ferociously. Pounding each other to the pavement with each play. Beating the living shit out of each other.

        Those were the best of times.

          A time before a bloody nose meant assault with intent to over protective parents with a lawyer in their hip-pocket. Giving some kid a record and worse, a branding that would follow them.

       We of the field would band together.

         When we played baseball in this field, occasionally, a window would get broken. That being the single house at fields end. Owner, forever furious as another baseball smashed into his living room, charged us as we would say in tiny, before puberty voices high in pitch: “sorry, mister!”

         We’d pony up our change and walk with this man to Wojechs Hardware on Meyers and West Twenty Fifth to pay for it. Window replaced. No hard feelings. No sorrow. No lawyers.

            I have no memory as to how many times we did this, but we did it many times across many a wonderful summer day, across many a summer.

           Taking in the here and now of this place. Not much different now than it was then. Well, this is perhaps untrue. Children today play football and baseball in the video world. Forgotten are the real-world sense of the neighborhood kids hitting balls and smashing each other about. Safer, sure, no argument but what did that do?

          Maybe the best of football and baseball players today were the ones that chose to mash and thrash and say ‘Fuck it, Let’s rock, bitch!” In the last thirty years, I think this might be correct in the USA.



       A note that strikes chord to my heart: When I see kids, adults even, throwing a football or baseball, even a Frisbee, I gaze in awe. I park and watch and remember. Occasionally I approach them and ask to toss about with them. Touch of things firm in memory, touch of things past, touch of sanity long before everything spiraled out of control and got nuts.

         Garlic bread, melting mozzarella, melting butter, the stench of piss and shit, willingly greet me.



         Home.

　

          Cornering right onto Meyers avenue, passing a house and Vetranos. Strolling past the alley, heading to Tony’s Store. This place has always been known as Tony’s. I cannot remember how many nationalities have owned it over the last 4 decades.

         I used to buy Bazooka Bubble gum at a penny apiece when I was about 7. I’d get Cherokee Red pop, and they carried dots. < a wax strip that had multi colored dots, about an inch and half in width. I cannot remember how this was sold: foot, yard?>

        This was, when a younger conniving kid, would set up some new kid with Monopoly money and send him to the store to buy us candy.

         Back when, you would call this initiation to the pack.

         Today you’d label this conspiracy.

           Tony’s. One of the few places in my life that has not changed much.

            Yeah, there have been violent hold-ups, leading to homicides, the dying ending life on my neighbors front yard. Crimson, iron stenched snow cones on a snowy cold December night. My Woman, administering CPR, kneeling does she did as a nurse. Trying. Forgetting herself. Emergency Medical Services arrive, but she is dead. This woman just small months before had given birth.

          Going to my house, stopped once again by a hawker.

       “You n-never had a b-low like me, huuuney!” Stepping out from behind Tony’s dumpster the palest of redheads comes forth. Anemic limbs covered with tattoo’s, stepping into street light full.

            Nipples fully erect in wet white wife-beater, aureoles dancing underneath it with each step she takes.

           Her hair, at least washed in the last several hours, catching light, displaying signs of life and vibrance. Breeze catching it, tossing it about, mating with illumination given.

       “Waddya say?”

          How much would you charge to just talk?

         “whuuuuu?”

        You got a pimp? How much to talk?

          Blank look, stunned, caught off guard. “no pimp. No man cn-trling me!”

             You hungry? You look like you are.

            “starving….”

           To my backyard, firing up a small grill. I cooked as one did for me hours earlier.

　

         We talked until the sun came up.

          Early morning birds doing their thing, small dew gracing the ground here on a rainless summer morn.



            Seldom changes here. If you keep an open mind, god does give some things most special. Sharing on the most human of places.

           I have been here for many decades. Having said that, even I need something more. I have been in this place far to long.

            Wish me luck!

Mark William Darus 08052012.