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You talk about a lie

talk about a fiction

I don't even know if this is truth

or misdirection

 

Sit up, while you face

the pencil line you trace

All of this seems a good cause for

endless exploration

 

Watch as it falls

the clouds that slowly cover

Watch as it rains

the pain

like no other

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@Master Radishes and I were writing this together a while ago. The project kind of fell through. I hope he doesn't mind my sharing it here.

 

Chester White was a low-key really cool guy who didn’t like to attract much attention; he wore a black hoodie without a logo and paired it with jeans nobody would second-think. His sunglasses,—aviators,—gave him a look of seriousness that would have been impossible for someone of a different figure and slant of jaw. Brown hair and eyes had never been a bad look for him. Some people called him high-falutin, usually because he didn’t seem as cool as he was, but of course they didn’t really know Chester. He was good enough to just be down-low about things, but when you got to know him, you were rewarded with a solid friendship with a pretty great guy. And he made efforts to get to know you if you hung around the same places a lot--worked together, neighbours, whatever. He knew people and liked knowing people, and they liked knowing him.
He stepped—sort of, but low-keyishly—into a bar he wasn’t sure was a bar but wanted to check out because he heard a particular sub-genre of dubstep being broadcasted inside as he passed by on the sidewalk, smoking, and it reminded him of his days in the academy. Sitting at the island, he ordered a shot of cherry vodka and watched the weird hula-dancers dance their cosmic parabolas, him and them harmonizing somewhere in abstract space as the straight fire of the music ignited in him passion, and he ordered more drinks. By his third, maybe fourth, drink, he was reflecting. Like a mirror, he thought. A dusty, vintage mirror. He nodded slightly to himself, adopting a look he hoped was of deep contemplation, just in case the bartender was staring. He tried really hard to think about something serious, but everything made him giggle.
Chester had used to hate his name. At five years old, fine—kindergarteners didn’t give a &^@#. By ten, he felt a little self-conscious, being the only ‘Chester’ under the age of 60. By fifteen, he had tried out a variety of alternatives; ‘Chuck’ had lasted a month, ‘Chet’ less than a week, ‘Chess’ less than an hour. But by twenty he had come to appreciate it. He had Googled famous Chesters and found out many existed. His favourite was Chester Binnington, and truth be told he didn’t remember the other ones, but one was enough. He started echoing his name to himself when someone had just said it, after he’d walked away from the conversation or the other person did. It felt right on the tongue and in the lips: two syllables, spoken with harsh movements. It was soothing to say.
He ran his fingers through his short brown hair, contemplating another tattoo—wait, how’d he get to thinking about that again?—and sipping on his fifth drink, a... reddish one. What had he ordered? The alcohol and the bass rinsed his mind of his troubles. Whum-whum-whum went the beat, washing over him. Or was that just his heartbeat? Or maybe they were the same? He relished the tingle of his skin, the buzz in his head, the bartender’s nose ring, the row of designer liquor bottles perched on the top of the drinks cabinet, the dim and smoky atmosphere of the bar, as low-key and cool as he felt, as he was. He remembered the first dubstep he heard. Life-changing. His friend Walter—they had bonded over their old-man names—introduced him. He had learned quickly from Walter that Skrillex was child’s play, that he needed to listen to Excision and Ajapai and others like that. This bar was playing some good stuff. Chillstep. Yeah. Yeah? He glanced around the bar—it was fairly empty still—and nodded to himself again. Yeah, that’s what it is.
He glanced at the time. $&!#. How long had he been here? How had he ended up here? Am I supposed to be at work? Well, too late for that now. One more, then he’d head. He needed to see his girlfriend tonight. Or was it a friend’s birthday? He had somewhere to be, he was sure of that. He always had somewhere to be, being the popular guy he was. He was John Jacob Jingleheimer-Smith, basically. Whenever he went out, you knew someone was saying hi or going in for a major brohug. Chester just courted that kind of influence and reputation.
He caught the girl’s eye.
—Another, please.
Her hands reached behind the bar.
—Same thing?
Chester couldn’t remember what that thing was.
—Yeah. Thanks.
The young woman, brown hair cropped close, worked on his drink in what he could only describe, in his inebriated state, as a flirtatious manner.
—So do you come here often, he flirted back.
—Hah.
It wasn’t much of a laugh, but then it hadn’t been much of a joke. He worked hard on his next line but couldn’t find one before the glass was in front of him and she was walking down to serve some women who had just walked in. He had never had much luck with the ladies, if he was being honest with himself—which he was, now on his whatever drink it was. That’s why he didn’t have a girlfriend and hadn’t in some time. A friend’s birthday, he concluded. Which friend? It didn’t matter. They’d all drink and sing merry.
The lights flashed and kept flashing as the clock’s longer hand ran its predetermined path, quickly or slowly, he couldn’t tell; but both hands seemed sinistral, and Chester lost himself in pure animalistic instinct. He got up, becoming the Malcolm X subject and breaking into ecstatic, primal dance. A scream, or the feeling thereof, hit him. Everything shook softly like the flutter of a bug’s wing. People, stuff, things he’d remembered,—or thought he’d remembered,—flew through his mindscape: intrusive thoughts, the hammering he was familiar with—bang, bang, bang, until the surface broke, he was through the transition, and he existed in light-spectrums and dance again, as if emerging from the waters to sunny beaches. And everything was a oneness. There was no Chester as demarcated from the external world; there was no him discrete from everything else—but it was only Chester the universe, or Chester as the universe, cast as the world itself on Shakespeare’s stage… Chester, all the characters; Chester, every role; Chester, all the spirits; Chester, don’t let go… And the beat dropped like a mother&^@#er right then. There was a lightning-flash in his being, a grand and fantastic, cosmic rupture in the part of the Aether closest to Chester, and the sounding of a great church-bell to announce the Church of Chester being open for the Sabbath, it now being a thing. Yes, today was the Sabbath; what else can a tradition spring from than feelings as strong as these? He blinked rapidly and swung his arms down with his body in a low arching groove, swaying with the vibrations of the song and the mathematics, physical science, and soul from which they were sourced. Time was slow, time was fast, time didn’t exist, and then it was back again. The clock no longer showed it correctly. He kept casting advanced illusion spells at everybody else in the club, really &^@#ing with them, but nobody was catching on. He was too good. After a while, he sat down again. The bass swirled in his brain, the snare smacking his senses about. For some time the music consumed him, blanketed him. Words fell away, thoughts were interrupted still half-formed, a haze rolled in around his peripheral vision. He felt chill and entered some sort of quasi-meditative state. Sounds became colours and all became love; the moment was as if an antithesis to the fall.
He said after a while and not necessarily to anyone:
—Systems within systems: that’s all anything is. And sets within sets.
A nose-ring came back into view. He said something. She shook her head, something about barking up the wrong kind of tree, he wasn’t her type if he knew what she meant. Was it his dancing? He didn’t understand. That was one more thing to ponder, at best or at worst. The haze became thicker, the music louder, the smoky air warmer. He closed his eyes and rested his head on the cool floorboards, the stool tangled between his knees. The voices breezed over him, the are you okays ruffling his hair, the grasping hands stroking his cheek, his neck, his forehead, feeling for something, some sign of life. The red and blue flashing lights blended into the evening sky and the concerned faces—and the doors of the ambulance shut, and so did his eyes, and all he could see was them, and he screamed, and that was that.
—No, doctor, that's pure &^@#ing artistic genius right there, actually.
Why did he say that to her? He didn’t remember by now. There was a pause, his eyes slowly stretching. He realized something.
—Do you get it now? The observation affects the results.
What? No, he didn’t get it, then. Like, she wasn’t wrong, but that wasn’t what he ‘got.’ Observation changes results. Yeah, sure. She continued, but his attention trailed off somewhere, and he didn’t remember the in-betweens:
--… the new generation of hipsters losing sight of what the old ones were all about… the symptomizing is a symptom of our decay... Grief: is it feeling or emotion or state? It’s not a blip, the prick of a needle through the skin, but it lingers like the aftertaste of coffee and cigarettes—stuck on your tongue as distress in your head and soul. The pleasures in life last for their moments and aren’t remembered, but the agonies will always be your geist.
She knew something about him. Did he tell her? He must have. He took a moment and examined the room. He was in a bed, IVs in his arm. Machines were pinging, and he ponged accordingly. There was something disconcerting; was this where people usually died?--surrounded by the unthinking, dead sounds of strange devices plugged into the veins, becoming us and us them? We’re all cyborgs by the end: nature though products of the machine. ‘Codes’ were being communicated over the infocom system, denoted by colours, and the environment was mostly white, although without marked stateliness. She kept going on, asking him questions, and he replied without thinking too much, finding answers easy right now. He was freestyling; $&!# just came to him. A blanket covered Chester, who found himself cozy, and she was going to ask another question when he stopped her:
—What’s your name?
--I’ve already told you. I am Dr. Gershuffle.
--It feels like you’re shuffling things around.
--You’ve already made that joke.
--It wasn’t a joke.
--Pun.
--I still meant it.

    She changed course and started asking questions again.

    --What is the last thing you remember before I woke you up, Mr. White?

    Chester swallowed saliva, producing a lot.

--Lights. They were red and blue; green, yellow and purple; amber, violet, magenta, fuchsia and lime; either bittersweet or begonia,--it was difficult to tell,--and of several other varieties--perhaps even mahogany--whose combination, I guess, made everything feel like the inside of a prism shot by white. I was in it; I was on the scary half of the cheese crescent, but it was beautiful. There were sounds, too… delicious dubstep… and a woman. And electricity. I remember feeling like currents. I think she was a lesbian. Then sirens and different lights, like of an ambulance. It must have been an ambulance. Then I don’t know. I think I fell down. It was wild.


 

    —Democracy is rule of common sense. It's the laugh track making decisions of policy.

 

Like, psychoanalytically, he knew it was bull$&!#, but he still didn’t know for sure.

 

Was it countertransference?

 

--All right, Mr. White, I think you’re good to go, so you’ll be discharged. A nurse should come by with your belongings and send you on your way shortly. Stay away from social gatherings for a little while and don’t go exercising your radical freedom. Have a good day.
She walked away. Chester’s roommate, [name], arrived before the nurse did. It was early: 07:16. She came when she woke up to a voicemail, she said. [name] worked at a movie theatre because she liked movies. Her eyes were hazel from her father but glowed somehow histrionically like her mother's, like they wanted the attention everybody gave them. Chester would stare at them when she let him, but she usually wouldn't. He half-thought this was her way of manipulating him: putting up eyes which pulled, speaking out words that pushed, doing this secret dance whose steps he couldn't learn, to confuse him--wearing stripes one day and dark colours the next, other stuff... she had motives for things she just wouldn't share sometimes. How was he sure, again, that she wasn’t a cop trying to sting him in some sort of frame deal? He muttered something paranoid, muttering because he wasn’t sure of it. He was ‘paranoid’ but not insane. At least he had dignity enough to not talk about it in front of other people. She expressed concern:
--What happened? They told me over the phone you collapsed, that there was blood.

On the drive home, Chester kept looking at his hands--how they moved and bent and twitched on their own occasionally, asking himself whether the palmreaders were right about something, how his fingernails got so dirty, considering them as mechanisms or machines or parts of a system: assemblages, somehow meaning something of a person. Tough hands meant a life of labour, soft ones something delicate or high-statusy… His thoughts ran into black holes, and he could only be in the present. Wasn’t that what Buddha was on about? He realized he was hungry and said:
 --Let’s get McDonald’s.

    Chester started spitting verses, just from his head:
Raised on crack and cracker-jacks;
Got smack syntax, see me master that.
Loose bling chains ‘round my neck,
Check it. Laws of physics? I’m wrecking ‘em.
My mad-&^@#ing-lyricism like poetic gold mysticism.
I’m a mesmerizing word-casting, sound-blasting,
Plastered, Delorean-driving, non-Epicurean,
Expert time-travelling, styling, never-gonna-be-poor-again,
Former nobody. I came from dirt and disaster--
Anti-establishment, now-famous rapper;
From a dystopian homeland, a passionate heart-trapper--
Black magick tomes-chanting, thug-to-the-bones,
More potential than a young Seth Jones,
Fire and dapper youthful strapping lad
Whose blacksmithed tongue now soothes them mad--
A bigger star than any in Andromeda,
Sharper bite than an anaconda.
All I seek is high pleasure you know,
The greatest of all time are to whom I measure fo’ sure,
But ain’t never can any of them beat me in hookers and blow.
I write $&!# on par with the ‘50s-era French-trained painter’s best--
Listen: more than inklings, I’ve got pain I’m living in, like the rest;
I’ve got the shot-in-the-head, dying-of-burning-alive-type strain,--a test,--
But still my songs are popping, rocking, million-dolla, lauded and famed,
Non-knockoff, original Salvidor Dali equivalents of today;
I’m like Muhammad Ali--will without limits (hey hey),
God recognizes my aesthetic merits.
An album within the platinum remit,--
Every category,--
Watch me go even harder, harder, G.
The beat behind my lines is a synthesis designed in mind--
with--
The surreal reality to which my verses align:
War around the corner, climate change near,
Oppressive forces, greed, surveillance to fear.
My rap aloud smells like fresh-growing lavender,
Speak somehow I give words an odour like perfume;
Hear my sweet subtle flow and graceful form, you.
I stitch sick rhymes and sell bags for dimes;
Concerned about my legacy and singing sublime.
Don’t got spare hours for people with no power,
All I do is make money and turn fiends sour.
(Yeah.)
When the bitches hear my music they all lose it.
Just don’t turn it up too loud our your brain might contuse.
(Peace.)

--What the &^@# did you take?

She had a parrot she had taught to say ‘My life in this cage is an allegory.’ His name was Ruffus, although he always called it ‘an indignity.’ Chester didn’t know if this was also instructed. He enjoyed crackers and bopped his head when he was happy.

 

    Lanon read the newspaper: ‘Documents Released From McCarthy v. State,’ with large sections being quoted directly. Usually there were more ads.
    On the twentieth day of that year, at eleven-thirty AM, in my study, with papers and pens and documents of engineering strewn on the desk, I committed my mind to the object of interest, graphing it in blue ink and noting what details I thought to be of the greatest interest, writing my thoughts as they crossed my head and using what affinity I had for mathematical thinking to represent in equations the emissions referenced above. In describing its features, I dedicated a good few paragraphs to its irregular, bumpy shape and numerous stickish protrusions,—I feign call them antenna for I do not know their precise purpose, although with reasonable certainty I do not think they have anything to do with radios or other waves, at least as our scientific literature knows them, for reasons inferred from my observations and which I will outline later,—each one of a peculiar length and differing also in other characteristics such as colour, texture and apparent constituent materials, with no obvious indication as to whether they worked collectively together to do one job or if they functioned independently to complete many. In all, there were six such like extensions from the main body, whose dimensions were difficult to put in exact geometry given its rocky surface. In plain language, however, it would be most properly called loosely spherical.
    —It’s goddamn &^@#ing hysterical, Lanon said to the empty room. He played a little guitar riff in his head and smoked some pot before working on his physics.

 

He left to go to work, walking to the bus stop, letting out a cuss or two under his breath on the way out. It was September and rain fell indiscriminately, striking the pavement to produce puddles of varying depths across the city, dotting windows and securing its odour in the air. Umbrellas were out, some broken and discarded improperly, and the sky’s area was run with high and dark clouds pierced not even by the city’s tallest towers. Twice quickly, Craig Lanon turned his head, touching his cheek to his left shoulder, glancing back at nothing in particular, and then returned his glare to the cold comfort of the wet ground of his immediate future. He pulled his phone from his right pocket and checked the time: 06:34. He wasn’t late.
Directions in Santa Barnato were always given in the verbatim form of ‘that way,’ with a quick point of finger to indicate. If you missed the gesture or misunderstood, you were $&!# out of luck—like a Nazi at Nuremberg, or someone who brought luggage to an airport. The city was a labyrinth. It seemed like the streets and their names changed every now and again, but the changes were gradual and subtle enough that you didn’t really notice, and if you did, you just assumed you were misremembering, that you were the pathology. You always knew how to get places if you’d been there a while, if you owned property or were just a vagrant bum who slept on the streets or in the shelters. But sometimes you wouldn’t know how you knew, and the walks and drives always felt different. Trees transmogrified into different species—Lanon recalled a birch he had particular affection for becoming a willow somewhat overnight to his dismay—and the weather forecasters never anticipated well.
    Where in God’s green earth was his pen? Did he leave it at home or did it drop out of his shirt pocket? He wouldn’t have time to go home and not be late. He nicked himself shaving earlier and was still upset. The blood symbolized something, maybe; and the sting of the blade, against his neck, seemed to look forward in a way. It anticipated; symbol less than omen, then. Portents. Unnerving. Lanon felt unnerved. There was a sick chill against him when the wind sped up.

    --Golly gee willikers, said Lanon. Holy &^@#.
 

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White picket nightmares

Only the prettiest can be framed 

Only the most infamous hockey Mom's can fight the PTA

Not every print

is fit to be hung

Not everyone can have the perfect son

 

Cut from the same cloth as the most elaborately done up

Those &^@#ing Peterson's don't even mow their own lawn

It's a big flaming fart in the face of the people who strive to be better than all of their equals

When rich kids from old cash sit on their ass riding the backs of the people they claim to be providing    

Jobs for

 

They call them poor

 

The clone army was unleashed

It marched through the streets

Fighting for equality in blundstone boots

 

Beaten and ground down

wading through white picket nightmares 

Well practically drowning

Hypertensive, a sensitive alchoholic

He only needs one arm to swim 

Seems like a perfect time to throw him another kid

 

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On 2/9/2020 at 11:21 PM, luckylager said:

White picket nightmares

Only the prettiest can be framed 

Only the most infamous hockey Mom's can fight the PTA

Not every print

is fit to be hung

Not everyone can have the perfect son

 

Cut from the same cloth as the most elaborately done up

Those &^@#ing Peterson's don't even mow their own lawn

It's a big flaming fart in the face of the people who strive to be better than all of their equals

When rich kids from old cash sit on their ass riding the backs of the people they claim to be providing    

Jobs for

 

They call them poor

 

The clone army was unleashed

It marched through the streets

Fighting for equality in blundstone boots

 

Beaten and ground down

wading through white picket nightmares 

Well practically drowning

Hypertensive, a sensitive alchoholic

He only needs one arm to swim 

Seems like a perfect time to throw him another kid

 

My man.

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  • 8 months later...

what is a penny worth? not much anymore but when i was a kid in the 40’s you could buy 10 jawbreakers for a penny.

i use to wonder how much those 10 jawbreakers cost the seller. we could go to the show, buy popcorn and a coke for 35 cents. 

a different time, yes, but where will the spiral going up, stop? 

they use to say, a penny saved is a penny earned, what would we say today?

Edited by smithers joe
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  • 7 months later...
Netflix sucks, here's a short story I made.
 
A Farmers Tale.
"Shoot" He cursed. The Metal prong laid dangling by a thread of cheapy formed aluminum. He inspected the rake more closely. " I better clip that," he thought. He readjusted his hat, simultaneously wiping his sweat with his sleeve. With a frustrated grunt, he started towards the shed. His lungs worked laboriously and he wheezed every time he made a step. Years of smoking the pipe were not kind to the veteran farmer.
 
The shed had seen it’s best years already. The lone window was boarded up, and it was well past due for a fresh coat of paint. When he grabbed the door handle, he remembered that he still hadn't gotten around to replacing the frame of the door. The brutally cold winters over the years warped the wood as the earth thawed every spring. He put his shoulder against the door and pushed, his belly doing joined in with his efforts. “Rrreeeek” the door cried. He stepped through.
 
Inside the shed, it was dark and musty, the cobweb in the corner vacant of its owner for years. He stepped around his smoking chair and slid open his tool chest drawer. It was neat and orderly all his tools had their place and were always promptly returned to their home after each use. "God Dang kid" he grumbled. His Grandson asked to borrow his pliers last week. "Missing" He sat down in his chair and packed his pipe with tobacco. He lit his pipe for a few seconds and had a moment to rest. He finished his smoke. He opened the shed door and banged his pipe on the frame before heading towards the house.
 
“Jake” He bellowed “Jake, get in here”
“In a minute, I’m almost finished”. Jake whined.
“Jake... you better not make me come in there!” He replied with tempered frustration.
“OK, OK I’m coming!,” his grandson said with urgency.
Jake peaked his head out the door “What?”
“Come into the living room and sit down.”
Jake jumped into the love chair. “Really!?! How many times have I told you? Jake squirmed to get comfortable in the old chair, “sorry gramps” he said, nonchalantly. “Jake it’s about time I showed you how I used to make a living, You promised remember?
“Okay Grampa, tomorrow though. I’m playing in a tournament today.” Jake bartered “That’s not gonna do, I’m 30 minutes behind because I have been looking for my pliers” his grandson flinched “$&!#, I forgot to tell you, they’re on the counter”
“Well... change into some jeans and a shirt, come out to the shed, and don’t forget the pliers” he said sternly.
 
Jake returned to his room picked up his headphones and spoke into the speaker. “Gotta go guys, sorry! See you tomorrow ” Jake took off his pajama pants and threw them into the corner of his closet. He picked out his favorite jeans and quickly put them on. And made his way to the shed.
Jake flew through the door nearly running into his grandfather. “Here!” his arm outstretched with the pliers laying in his open palm. “Jake, what did I tell you when you got here? “Uhm, You sure are getting big, then…” His grandfather had enough sternly cut him off “No, about the rules when you stayed here this summer”
 
“You said, Don’t get into trouble” His grandfather crossed his arms “I gave you 2 rules. Don’t go running around getting into trouble, and put things back as you found them. So, put the pliers back and quit your running before someone gets hurt” Jake stepped around the chair in the corner of the shed and put the pliers back in the tool chest. “Now” the farmer paused “We're going to town hop in the Truck” pointing towards the old Ford. “where are we going?” Jake asked. “For supplies, we’re going to fix the door”
 
“Buckle up” His grandfather instructed.
Jake buckled his seatbelt which made a satisfying “click!”
“Now jake, they don’t make rake’s like they used to” Jake looked at his grandfather with a puzzled grimace. "I remember I used to have to rake The acreage by hand. But, back then the rakes only had 6 prongs because the handles were made of solid Oak and Iron". He paused as he slowed down for the stop sign at the end of the farm road.
 
"The handles weren't too long and weren't too short neither. And that was a good thing, they weren't light. They were nearly as heavy as a sack of potatoes, Not a regular sack, but the sacks they used to sell in Morinville... He paused. "I wasn't quite fond of them actually". He coughed and spat out the window. "But back then they were only a nickel... and they always gave you a bit of twine if you bought multiple sacks, Which I did." Jake sighed and pulled out his phone.
 
“Put that away” his grandfather snapped. “It’s time you learned about what it was like back in the day.” Clearing his throat he continued his story "Now the twine was useful, I'd take that twine with me and have it in my pocket, everywhere I went. His grandfather laughed. "This reminds me of the story of my farm dog Rusty. We named him Rusty because he was the same as the color of the rust on the rake...."
“Now back then dogs had jobs too, do you believe that? and Rusty was no different, his job was to carry the shovel. He'd carry that shovel in his mouth Happy as a pig in $&!#". He said smiling.
 
"His tail waving back and forth, like the weather vane on a windy day!.. Carrying the shovel was an important job and Rusty was dependable, always by my side. If there was a gopher hole to fill he'd be sitting beside it waiting for you to notice. He sure was a good dog that Rusty.” Jake started playing with the power windows, opening and closing them. “Vriiip, Vruhp, Vriip, Vruhp” the old windows complained.
“Stop, That! Leave it open or closed” Jake left the window slightly open letting in a cool breeze on the hot summer's day. "Now... where was I? The Twine! He exclaimed. "Now I told you the twine was useful. After a big storm and a sunny day or two, I'd walk around the bush line picking up the brush that broke free from the poplars. I'd use that twine to tie up the branches, that was nice because it would stack... Darn it!
 
“What?” Jake asked. “I forgot about the Friday Train, it's nearly 5:00 o'clock, we’ll go into town tomorrow. I hate trains'' His grampa complained.
Jake pulled out his phone as his grandpa turned around on the narrow road. “I’ll finish this story tomorrow, and put that phone away! It’s your job to watch for deer
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On 11/13/2020 at 6:59 AM, smithers joe said:

what is a penny worth? not much anymore but when i was a kid in the 40’s you could buy 10 jawbreakers for a penny.

i use to wonder how much those 10 jawbreakers cost the seller. we could go to the show, buy popcorn and a coke for 35 cents. 

a different time, yes, but where will the spiral going up, stop? 

they use to say, a penny saved is a penny earned, what would we say today?

Hey @smithers joe  read this short story, “Penny in the Dust”.  Nothing more valuable to a little boy than a shiny new penny.  

https://bhgard.files.wordpress.com/2010/01/penny-in-the-dust.pdf

 

 

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"I was strolling down the park one day, in the merry, merry month of May. I looked upon the sky and what did I spy? a god dang space laser-shooting direct into my eye. But I wasn't very scared, Because I always come prepared. in 1 second flat, I adorned my tinfoil hat and merrily continued my way.

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On 7/12/2021 at 9:23 PM, Petey_BOI said:

"I was strolling down the park one day, in the merry, merry month of May. I looked upon the sky and what did I spy? a god dang space laser-shooting direct into my eye. But I wasn't very scared, Because I always come prepared. in 1 second flat, I adorned my tinfoil hat and merrily continued my way.

Based on a true story?

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HF Canucks,

 

A site full of posters who probably deserve rabies,


nothing but a bunch of a whiny piss babies,

 

they whine and complain,

 

I think they’re insane,

 

Incel virgins who will never get ladies.

 

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Note: A Palindrome, by definition, is a word, phrase, verse, sentence, or even poem that reads the same forward or backward

 

 

 

Roots

 
Roots of tree now grow and survive.

Shine in green, leaves photosynthesize,

Breathe and live long.

Shade providing foliage blocking, sun,

So it absorbs rays of warmth.


Warmth of rays absorbs it so,

Sun blocking foliage, providing shade.

Long live and breathe,

Photosynthesize leaves, green in shine.

Survive and grow now, tree of roots.
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i was going home one day last winter, can't remember where i'ld been,

when i saw a little hobo child, with sad eyes and dark, dark skin.

the temperature was around forty and it was clear the kid was cold.

but she was shaking from deep down inside her soul.

she looked at a piece of dried old bread, someone had thrown for a bird.

then she grabbed it and ate it down, without saying a single word,

i tried to speak to her, but my words kept choking in my throat,

then she turned and ran, when i tried to offer her my coat.

i ran after her but she must had hidden in some dark spot,

ever since that day, i can't stop thinking of that tot.

now every time i bite into an apple or eat a piece of bread,

i wonder just how much, to eat that little girl has had.

and at night when i cover myself with a clean white sheet,

i think of her sleeping out in some cold, dark street.

and at christmas time, when my kids open up their presents,

i think of her and christmas doesn't seem so pleasant.

so dear lord when the day comes, you think she's suffered enough.

i'ld like to speak for her, kind of help to fill her cup,

so maybe knowing that someone cares, may help, put a smile on her face.

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