And There It Was I Should Surely See / The Sky Had Painted O'er Itself For Me

Let me tell you about Gerald Fietzer.

He has a terrible job. He works in a food court at the Callestown mall - a terrible wreck of a building, slowly falling apart, filled with closed down stores and an aggressively hostile crowd of children. He flips burgers all day, on a dangerous, grease covered stove. His wardrobe contains not a single item free of stains.

He has no family. Well, he has the one cousin that moved to Miami, become a hot-shot lawyer, and refuses to acknowledge his existence. But he doesn't count, he's a dick. And the rest of Gerald's family? Dead. Most went naturally. His uncle was murdered. His brother died in a freak protein-testing experiment. But yeah, the rest went naturally.

Gerald is 43, has a crappy life, no prospects, no friends, no family. He walks home everyday and spends the evening watching the one crappy television channel he was able to steal reception for, before falling asleep in the couch, where the next morning he will wake up late as usual and fail to take a shower before running (wheezing) to work.

There is a single moment on his walk home where he pauses everyday. He passes over a rickety, broken down bridge that no one else uses. All the other paths it leads to are dead ends. All the others who live out near him own cars, and drive along roads. He is the only man in two decades to walk that dusty path, and the beaten grass and fallen litter are evidences of him alone.

He reaches that bridge every day at the exact moment of sunset. The sky paints itself as a work of art. One some days it will draw the light across a hundred drifting clouds, filtering a golden weave abreast the horizon. On some nights it will score the sky in blazing purple hue, a wave of darkened color that still holds out promise of another day.

Tonight the sun will be as fierce as it ever was, and Gerald will spend a moment shielding his eyes before he is able to look at the brilliant red halo that unfolds across the land.

Tonight, like every other night of his life, he will smile at the sight that he alone bears the right to see. And then? He will continue his daily path home. He will turn on his rusty television, and pull out a quickly cooked slab of meat. He will settle down into his stained but comfy sofa, and there he will sit, mindlessly watching the crackling static, content beyond all questioning at his lot in life.

The Many Lives and Times of Sam Saturday: Porn Star

Given that she was brought up, fatherless, by a perpetually drunk mother and a series of 'live-in husbands,' it isn't any surprise that Samantha found a job in the adult entertainment industry.

What did come as a surprise was that she had the smarts to know that simply jumping into whatever flesh film opened its doors was no way to make a career. No, you needed to play it smart to get ahead - so Samantha decided to specialize.

We aren't talking about any sort of perverse sex acts or the like, either. Nah, that stuff is strictly minor leagues. Samantha decided to make a name for herself as the star of Western pornos.

There are a lot of benefits to coming in at the top of a niche genre like that. Once you are in, you are pretty much guaranteed positions (no pun intended) in all the films in the field. Many of them are produced by the same folks, so you get to make a lot of friends in the industry while you are at it. You get to work with popular male stars like the famous John Wang, star of such masterpieces as The Good, the Bad and the Sexy, The Lone Banger, and Riding on Texas Cowboys.

Unfortunately, despite a promising career and countless fans, Samantha will be retiring from the industry early. After falling madly in love with co-star "Chief Thrusting Bull," she will be devastated to find out he isn't even 1/64 Cherokee, and will retire with her millions to open a small knick-knack shop in Florida, and die at the ripe old age of 97 with many happy memories.

The true tragedy is that, for reasons far too inscrutable to discuss here, this will herald the downfall of the last great age of cinema in America.

Five Men Came to the Smiling Stone

Five men came to the Smiling Stone, lost in the sea of Quay.
They found it cast out from the tides; upon the sandy beach it lay.

The first man was a learned king, full of legend and lore.
To the other men he told the tale, heard in the days of yore.

"The Smiling Stone of Rimerst Fain was a gift from gods above,
He who holds it and gives his name shall know his deepest love."

The second man was a valiant king, swift and strong of sword,
He slew the first and claimed the stone should go into his hoard.

The third man was a social king, whose words had won his crown,
He drew the rest to his side and they cast the second down.

The fourth man was a sly king, full of tricks and lies,
He caught the third's attention and then stabbed him in the eyes.

The fifth man was an idiot king, from birth alone came his throne,
As the others scuffled, he bid the stone should take him home.

Three kings lay dead upon the shore, the stone was lost again.
One king would wander homeless, one king became a better man.

The Dame of Sylvan Rue

Within the vale of Sylvan Rue, there lay a dame most fair. Enchanted by the forest's blooms, she had lain upon the clearing's floor, and there she to slumber fell. She came from a simple farmer's folk, and knew not to beware the flowers there.

The seasons passed, the sun and moon, and time passed by and touched her not. She slept on, still fair and fresh, beneath both wintry bough and summer's height. Her land of birth did fade away, her family gone, her friends forgotten. Within the vale, by flower touched, the dame still lazed away, dreaming of her past, and her youthfull days of play.

As time did pass and magic faded, the forest shrunk in size. A village grew into a town, and from therein did hunters arise. They delved within the forest's haven, and passed beneath the weathered trees. They found the central clearing there, and laid their eyes upon the Dame of Sylvan Rue.

The walked away with legend in hand, and told the tale of that sight. And many men and many princes went in search of her, but she was not found again.

Time passed on and still she slumbered, and in her dreams she saw the changing of the world. Amazing lore and learning grew, and cities were born upon the plain. Great buildings rose, and cars and guns and many things, and the world was a far different place then when she went to rest.

But she saw all this in only dreams, and still she slumbered on. The locals knew her well, and told her tale, though the words changed with every passing year. But one thing still stayed the same - she was a dame most fair, they said, and slumbered still within the vale.

In time the cities crumbled, and in time the people died. The earth continued on its course, and she still kept close her eyes. Her dreams fell into darkness, and the troubles of the world, and her sleep was restless - and yet, it continued still.

In time the land was bereft of man and of mankind. Cities were left to animals, and the forest reclaimed its own.

And in the Vale of Sylvan Rue, the dame still slept away. And ages passed, and eons swept by, and all that was, was changed again a time or two.

And in the passing of the years, mankind rose again. The cities long forgotten, the many marvels forever lost, they began once more anew amidst the turning of the seasons. And in time there came to be a simple farmer folk, and they lived a life most pleasant.

And on that day the dame arose, and passed from the forest's touch. Her mind was fuzzy for a time, filled with dreams and wonders beyond compare. But she was a simple farmer's daughter, a fine young lass of common sense. And so she put the dreaming from her mind, and found another home.

And there she lives to this day, a blessed life from all accounts. No princes, no cities, no wondrous dreams. But it is more than many are given, and it is far more than she would ask for, for far better to live as a simple farmer's daughter, then dream her life away as the Dame of Sylvan Rue.

The Many Lives and Times of Sam Saturday: Inspirational Speaker

Samantha Ophelia Saturday was possessed of both a blessing and a curse.

Her services were famed across the world. She was known for being skilled of speech and soul - in nigh unto any situation, she could find the perfect words to speak.

When faced with a child mourning the loss of his mother, she would give consolation. She would give the promise of a brighter tomorrow, and the heartfelt warmth of a life well-lived, and rewarded with eternal heaven.

When encountering a young man in his early twenties standing six stories above the ground, jobless and heartbroken, and seeking an end to all the pain... she would give determination. She would give the thirst for new life, new love, and the insatiable urge to challenge the world regardless of what hurdles it may present.

When brought forth to a luncheon held by one of the up-and-coming members of the Fortune 500, she would give her listeners motivation. She would give them confidence in their jobs, and awareness of how they are helping to make a better tomorrow. She would give them drive to continue their work to their fullest capabilities.

When Samantha speaks, people listen. She understands their worries, their concerns. She sees their hidden goals and desires, and knows how to draw them to the surface, and give them life.

Yet as she wanders the world over, granted fame and fortune by her talents, she remains dissatisfied. She cannot tell what her own hopes and dreams are, drowned as she is in the countless yearnings of others. She knows she isn't happy with her life, but cannot see a way to change it.

She is friend and confidant to all the world, but her own heartache can find no sympathetic ear. She knows not how to express it, how to show it - and she knows that she must keep any sign of turmoil lost away, lest it taint her speech, her performance.

She is a gift given to the people of Earth, but her own existence brings her nothing but sorrow. That is the tale of Samantha Ophelia Saturday, and it has no happy ending.

The Sign of the Duck

There is a small town in Ohio called Nottin, but it is more commonly known by others as "Nothing."

The name is appropriately given - there is little of note in the town. A handful of proper god-fearing folk, their houses and crops, a general store and a church of exceptional size.

The townsfolk of Nothing don't celebrate Groundhog's Day. Most other holidays the preacher man lets pass - but Groundhog's Day, they say, is a rite of the devil! Worshipping a critter what comes from underneath the earth, putting your faith in such a beast to foretell the weather, as though its power outstripped that of the Lord Himself! And worst of all, doing all this during the most unnatural month of the year! Blasphemy at it's finest, ladies and gentlemen.

No, the Nothingfolk follow their own little worship ceremony: The Watching of the Clouds. Every January 30th, come hell or high water, snow or sleet or blistering heat (the last is not too common), they gather to see what signs the clouds may show. The clouds, you see, are a sign from G-d Above, and as such, perfectly fine to devote a ritual to.

Should the clouds form the shape of an ant, it will mean hard toil and work to survive the remainder of the season. Should a bear be revealed, it means the land will be covered in months more of ice and snow, and all they can hope to do is bed down and weather it. And Heaven help them should a marmot be revealed...

What they pray for, though, is the sign of the Duck. The blessed Duck, the lucky Duck, the one that means the season's blessings will shower upon them like mana from on high.

And this, my friend, is the problem with the roast duck you ate last night, while passing through town, and taking up a family on their offer to give you a place for the night.

I don't even want to know why you were carrying around a whole roast duck in your bag, nor how you managed to preserve it so succulently, nor how you downed the whole thing while the villagers watched in horror.

All I want to do is help you understand exactly why it was absolutely vital that the villagers had to pin you down beneath the roving clouds and ritually sacrifice you, one bone at a time, like any proper, god-fearing folk in their circumstances would do.

Sorry, son, but you don't fuck with the Duck.

More Terrible Poetry!

There once was a man jailed on a peninsula
Cause he was crazy and lacking his amygdala
When along came a lady
Who was also quite crazy
And his heart was flipped as if by a spatula!

Percents

Timmy had an unfortunate life.

It started when he was ten. He was in school, doing his damndest to ignore the teacher, when he started coughing. And coughing. And coughing, long and hard, until he collapsed upon the ground.

The next few years were a blur. He was diagnosed with one illness after another. And allergy after allergy - they numbered in the triple digits. He was allergic to foods, to clothing, to living things, to inanimate objects. Plants, animals, minerals - a countless swarm of mundane lethality that threatened to end his life should he be exposed to their humbling banality.

And so it was he was kept safe and secure in a special medical center (his parents were wealthy), learning from private tutors and bereft of friendship and fun.

Life went on... and Timmy was miserable.

Some say that those in Timmy's state have a choice. They can choose to let the danger of the world confine them to safety and sorrow. Or they can choose to confront that danger head on, and brave all the suffering it entails. Some 5%, perhaps, that choose that route shall survive intact, and more than intact - they shall emerge purified and cleansed of weakness. Stronger, superior - made ready to achieve the impossible. Made ready to embrace life at its fullest.

Of the rest, some 90% shall die entirely to dust clouds and pollem and bee stings. But they will at least have faced their fears, rather than sleep away their existence behind the doors of a cage.

Timmy had heard this theory. And slowly, his resolve grew. When he came of age and personal guardianship, he left his parent's sturdy, silent bunker. He went to walk upon the land and swim upon the ocean. He choose to live - and by this I do not mean he chose the base and simple survival of safety, but rather the vibrant, intense experience of LIFE!

Unfortunately, he fell into the rarely discussed 0.02% whom get eaten by sharks.

'Alternative' Poetry

There once was a man lived on an isthmus,
Was alone the whole year save for Christmas,
When his kids dropped on by
To forgive his old hide;
The last line of this limerick doesn't rhyme.

The Murder Show!

You know the one I'm talking about - it's everyone's favorite show in America. Like Unsolved Mysteries, but with the flash and dazzle that the public loves. Blood, gore, and the thrill of the manhunt as readers help hone in strike teams on the killers.

What no one knows is that dozens of criminals world-wide use the show to hone their game. To find out what not to do. To notice what clues people pick up on, and which ones they don't.

Worse yet, tonight one of them is hunting for you. Maybe it was something you said while on the job. Maybe you cut someone off on the roadway. Maybe it's the fact you play you music all motherfucking night long.

It doesn't matter now, anyway. You can hear the door creaking open, even though you know you locked it.

At a time like this, there's only one thing to do.

Just pick up the phone and dial the number on the screen. Let the Murder Show know they're gonna have one hell of a crime to solve in, oh, about 3 minutes now.

Now hang up the phone and turn off your goddamn music.

The Many Lives and Times of Sam Saturday: Restaurant Saboteur

It was very, very easy for Samantha to get a job as a waitress. The key, in all fairness, was that she had a big rack. As long as you've got the looks, and are at least remotely competent in all the other areas, the restaurants will snatch you right up.

Which was useful, since she was an undercover agent working for Applebee's, infiltrating the competition to steal their secret recipes and shut down their operations. She would sow discord among the workers, specially 'treat' the food products, switch up the orders - oh, she was damn good at what she did. Given two weeks, she could bring the most popular place to its knees.

The other restaurants begin to grow suspicious, as one catostrophe after another broke out. They knew a spy was in the field, but they didn't know who it was, or what company was behind the scheme. So a few of the local chains pooled their resources to hire the best agent money could buy - a man known only as Mr. Saturday.

He was able to track Samantha down easily enough. He entered the workplace beside her, posing, himself, as just another twenty-something college grad looking for a job to make ends meet. His plan was to get close and find out who she was working for. What he couldn't have foreseen was carrying the deception a bit too far...

It's easy to see where the story ends, isn't it? The two of them fall madly in love, and decide to join forces - and turn their talents on their employers. With her experience and his contacts, they decided to take the fight straight to the top, and begin playing all sides against each other.

Before anyone realized they were being played, a full blown eatery war had broken out - and when the dust settled, Samantha and Saturday were the shadow king and queen of the restaurant trade. The CEOs of the major chains were but puppets at their fingertips, dancing when told to dance. Riches and power were theirs for the taking, and it would be a full generation before anyone would rise to challenge their dominance.

So who says it doesn't pay to take a career in the food industry?

The Many Lives and Times of Sam Saturday: Pickle Vendor

You would think that selling Fried Pickles at a Renaissance Faire is a cushy job, would you not?

I mean, number one - you are working in the middle of this onslaught of entertainment. Jousting, costumes, sword-swallowers, knife-throwers! Everywhere you look laughing children and busty ladies in tight shirts!

And number two - fried pickles! Man, is there a finer food in all the world? Those things practically sell themselves!

Unfortunately, it isn't that easy.

Sam can think of a lot of problems with the Faire. The heat, for one. The merciless, powerful heat. The mud, for another. (When the sun isn't shining, its raining. Don't think, however, that that doesn't mean it isn't still hot, my friend.) The crowd might seem nice at first, right up until you are bludgeoned in the nose by someone's latest wooden sword acquisition, carelessly slung across their broad back. And, again, the heat. The overwhelming, agonizing heat.

It's fine for a day or two. But living with it, day in and day out... is more than most men can take.

And the Fried Pickles? Oh, they are good, no denying that. How can't they be good, being such a concoction of grease and, well, more grease? Unfortunately, that means all the more people crowding at your booth, hurrying you along.

Being rushed when you are trying to handle food items lathered in boiling grease can be a dangerous thing, yes? And dealing with your own burns isn't enough - you have to appease every mewling child who bites too quick and finds themself scalded by piping hot pickle juice. Jesus! Do you need to put a freaking sign on every piece of freaking food - caution, prepared in boiling oil, just might be a trifle hot!?!

So yeah, you think Sam's life is careless and stress free?

Think again, buddy. Being a pickle vendor is serious business.

The Many Lives and Times of Sam Saturday: Neighborhood Watch

Sam Saturday is a live-at-home husband. The esteemed Mrs. Saturday is an up-and-coming executive in a fancy corporation. She brings home the bacon, as they say. Their house is hers, and their two cars, and their little dog, too.

Sammy boy, on the other hand, has always been something of a slacker. Dropped out of art school. Art school! Seriously. Lives at home, 'works' on his 'novel' - he's up to paragraph number... 2. Oh yeah. Does the dishes, makes the meals, mows the lawn.

But Sammy came to realize he wouldn't to do something more with his life. He wanted to find a way to give back to the community.

That's why he joined the Neighborhood Watch. He was in good shape (took a jog every morning). He knew everyone in the neighborhood by name (had a habit of dropping by random houses for free lunches every now and again.) He even had a nice big car! (Well, his wife did, which was all the same to him.) It was perfect.

It doesn't help that the neighborhood doesn't actually have any trouble to worry about. They just like seeing Sammy riding around in his van after-hours, waving and giving a friendly honk at everyone he passes by.

Which is why, tonight, when he sees a pair of street thugs dashing through Ms. Horner's lawn, he knows he can't let it stand. He might have had the job in title alone before now, but here was his chance to prove his worth. He had a duty to the community.

That, your honor, is why Sammy had to beat those kids within an inch of their life. He had given his word.

The Many Lives and Times of Sam Saturday: Special Consultant

Sam Saturday is going to ruin your life.

You've never met the man before. Never even heard of him. All you know is that the big boss is bringing in a consultant to "analyze fiscally inefficient paradigms in the workplace."

That's bad news, son.

You're a good worker. Everyone in the office knows it - you stay late to get things done. You make sure to do things right. You value communication with your fellow employees. You're a real stand-up guy.

But this fellow, Saturday? He don't care 'bout none of that. All that will matter to him is that you were too busy with your work to notice his outstretched hand. He stood there for a full minute, humiliated, feeling his anger rising. It's a cold anger what comes upon a man like him. You only caught a glimpse of it when you finally rose to greet him, his hand long since placed by his side. Just a hint in his drawn smile, his glinting gray eyes.

All your coworkers know your value well - but you're no one to the big boss up top. All he's gonna see is a list of names the Saturday is gonna hand him - and yours will just happen to be on it.

It's not too late, though. Hit the local firearms store and pick up something soft and silent. You're good at planning, everyone knows it. Time you put that mind of yours to some real use. Time to make Sam Saturday regret his job as a corporate consultant.

Sorry, son, but if you want to save your future, you've got only one option. Be quick about it - his report's due tomorrow, and you ain't got no time to waste.

The Many Lives and Times of Sam Saturday: Teacher of the Year

Middleton High had never seen a teacher like Samantha before. Her students excelled above and beyond all others, and were actually inspired to do something with thier lives. Her classes were well known, and had single-handedly won more recognition for the school than all others combined. In her seventh year of teaching, the school awarded her the title of Teacher of the Year. They had, in fact, invented it for the sole purpose of honoring what she had accomplished.

Despite her success, she was known as a cool and solitary young woman (she was only 28.) Her students were engaged by her teaching, but only spoke with her inside the classroom, and never referred to her as anything other than Ms. Saturday. The PTA could have cared less about anything other than the success she had with their children. The rest of the faculty, despite being secretly envious of her, were always cautiously polite around her - they were, in fact, scared of her.

Her secret, which no one even guessed at, was that she hated children.

You see, her first few years of teaching were different. The willful ignorance, the petty bureaucracy, the bitter politics - it dashed her hopes and dreams. She couldn't reach the students, she couldn't make them care. Slowly, bit by bit, her spirit was crushed. One day she accepted the hatefulness and futility of life - and that was when she was inspired.

She spent that summer studying psychology and how to communicate. How to make those children pay attention. How to make them realize the burning need to learn.

And she succeeded. Her children are touched by her lectures. They find fields of study to invest in. They will leave school, go through college, and become successful lawyers, and doctors. Clerks, programmers, engineers. Professionals.

And one day they, too, would know the grim despair of the work force. Of disillusionment with their dreams, their lives, and their accomplishments. When Johnny becomes a lawyer and realizes he managed to get a guilty man off scot-free... when Susan works too many shifts in the ER and botches an emergency operation... when Alan has to design a bridge with substandard materials to help the company cut costs... that is when she knows they will feel the same icy void that she confronts every day.

And thinking about that, kids, is why Ms. Saturday is smiling at the front of the classroom, while she expounds upon the significance of architecture in Emily Bronte's Wuthering Heights.

The Many Lives and Times of Sam Saturday: Private Eye

Sam lived alone, his only friend a stray cat named Daniels. He had scruffy clothing but impeccable manners. At thirty-three, he was content with his lot in life - he had learn to disdain the company of others, and had spent the last five years writing a novel he never planned to publish.

Sam ran his own small but successful private investigation firm. Most cases he solved dealt with the usual bullshit - cheating husbands, small business fraud, and the occasional family trying to track down a runaway daughter. He'd seen it all before, and the luster and allure of the nightlife had long since faded. He'd come to expect the usual... and maybe that was his downfall.

As of 2 this afternoon, Sam is wanted for murder. He doesn't know the victim or who framed him - much less why - but he knows they did a bang-up job of it, and he won't solve the mystery if he lets the cops take him in. So Sam's on the run from the long arm of the law, and the only hope he has left is himself.

He saw three clues at the murder scene before he had to flee. Two of them are fake, decoys left by a killer that knew him all too well. One was a note the victim scrawled with her own blood, that simply read, "Orange eyes." One was a tiny, broken, violin. And one was a single diamond whose beauty was marred by a single flaw.

Sam Saturday has three days to figure out what's real and what's lies, and then the cops will catch him and it won't be long 'fore he's riding the lightning. Work fast, Sam! Here's your chance to save the day and avenge the love you never knew you had.

Here's a hint, kiddo - the diamond is a fake. Use it well, cause the three days are ticking away for Sam Saturday, Private Eye.