If you don't listen to 16 Volt...

kentuckwritere story

2009-07-17T02:27:59Z

How I spent my tenth birthday

Dear Diary, March 1^st, 2000

     I will always remember this rainy, March day perfectly. This was the day I was supposed to be having a birthday party. Instead, there I was, in a hotel room, getting into a blue, denim dress with black shoes. I felt fine, better than I had that past Monday, when Mom dropped the bomb about Grandma's death.
      "Are you okay?" Mom asked me.
     "I'm fine." My main concern is mom since it was her mother that died. "Are you okay?"
      "I'm fine," Mom straightened my collar then told me to get my coat.
     I slipped my coat on and followed my family out to the big, fifteen passenger van that we had rented for the trip. The van was half white, half gray and it smelled funny.

I climbed in and soon we were on our way to the Cathedral where the funeral was held. I had never set foot in a Cathedral before and my ten-year-old eyes were awed by the massive structure. I was even more impressed with the inside. The foyer was huge; it could hold maybe fifty people or more. As I walked inside, someone came up and offered to take my coat. I took it off and handed it to him then proceeded farther into the foyer. A massive chandelier was just above my head and a fountain bubbled merrily just a few feet in front of me.

I looked around me and was surprised at the size of the crowd. I had never seen this many people in one room before. I went to look into the fountain. The yellow light from the chandelier gave the water a yellowish hue. Kira came to stand beside me. She reminded me of a candy cane in her red and white striped dress. Mom came over to us and asked how we were doing. Kira didn't answer but continued to stare at the water. I nodded and turned to walk away. However, I looked back and saw Mom take Kira in her arms. I then noticed that Kira's face almost matched the red stripes on her dress.

Someone came up to me and handed me a red carnation, Grandma's favorite flower. I noticed that all of my cousins, no matter how old they were, held a red carnation as well. What the grand kids were supposed to do was single file, walk up to the Priest and put the carnation in a vase that he was holding and then sit down.

My cousin, Karen, was holding onto her sister and sobbing. I felt odd because I didn't feel like crying. That was, until I saw Grandma's casket. It was closed and I wish that it was opened so that I could see her face one last time. Soft organ music began to play as a boy and a girl came forward and draped a white cloth over the casket before the casket was wheeled to the front of the sanctuary. It took all of my willpower not to cry as I lined up behind my other cousins. I didn't want to cry in front of the Priest. So, as soon as I had put my carnation in the vase, I went to sit with my family on the hard, wooden pew and that's when I lost it. Now, I never sob out loud, I'm a rather quiet crier. Dad was sitting to my left with my cousin, Alicia, to my right. Dad had Kira sitting in his lap. Kira was still crying and I didn't blame her.

I can't remember the service because I was so numb. It was as if I had died I remember staring at the handkerchief in my lap. The hankie was decorated with sunflowers and daises and that didn't seem appropriate for a funeral. But, it was the only hankie I had.

     At one point, Owen got up, went to a piano, and began to play "Ave Maria," Grandma's favorite song. After he was done playing, my two little sisters began to clap. They’re only five and seven, and they always clapped after their brother had given a wonderful performance. I tried to stop them, thinking that we weren't supposed to clap in a Catholic Church. And especially not at a funeral. My efforts to quiet Kira were futile and about half the Church clapped with my sisters.
      Not long after that, the service ended and my family started to leave the pew. I didn't want to leave. I felt dead on the inside and I squeezed my tear-soaked hankie in my hands. Suddenly, I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder and looked up. A man with spiked, orange-looking hair, a matching beard and coat and wearing thick, black glasses was looking down at me, his brown eyes were full of sympathy. I didn't say anything and neither did he. He just stood there with his hand on my shoulder, comforting me for a few moments before moving on.
     Dad called to me and I numbly got up and left the pew. I slowly got my sobs under control as we went back into the foyer. A lady was standing with an enormous bundle of red carnations in her arms. This time, everyone was given a carnation. I then noticed my Dad's brother, Steve, standing off to one side. This surprised me because as far as I remembered, Uncle Steve didn't know Grandma. I went over to him and said hello.
"What are you doing here?" I asked.
"I came to honor your Grandma," he replied.
"Well, there she goes," I said as her casket was wheeled past us and went outside to the waiting Hurst. My voice cracked visibly, even though I tried to sound happy.

Uncle Steve understood and put a comforting arm around me. I was touched that he would drive all the way from Okeana, to Blue Ash, just to be there for his brother and sister-in-law.

Soon, the Prescot family was loaded up in the van once more and the procession towards Grandma's final resting place began. We were last in the long line of cars. I don't know how many there were, I just remember an incredibly long, long. A policeman on a motorcycle kept whizzing past us, making sure that no one that wasn't in the funeral line tried to cut in.

I remember more of the burial ground. Everyone gathered inside a small room to say good-bye. The Priest sprinkled water on the casket and asked if anyone else would like to do it. Grandpa did it then the Priest extended the invitation again. I wanted to do it, but was too scared to raise my hand. No one else did and the funeral service was over. Then the entire family left to go to Uncle Brice’s for lunch.

I will always remember this day as long as I live. How I spent my tenth birthday.

carlosn @ 2009-06-07T19:21:00

2009-06-07T23:22:34Z

Type your cut contents here.

Melinda's monthly cycle was off, but that did not mean she wasn't craving chocolate as usual. She looked down from her driving, a warm california summer day, overcast, sprinkling on the front windshield. She flipped open the glove box on her red bright and shiny tiny bubble sized yuppie Yaris and grabbed a Kit Kat; it was melted from the heat, but she tore it open with her teeth and squooshed its contents in to her mouth, working it in with her fingertips ignoring the waffer crunch, savoring the taste of the chocolate--not the best, but it would do.
Melinda took her eyes off the road temporarily, looked up, seing two bright red lights spaced evenly apart in the rain. She hit the brakes, they locked in the rain, and the car skidded from inches of the bumper of the car in front of them.
Britney held on for dear life, holding tight on to the arm rests, fingers white, nearly snapping them off. "Gee, Enjoying that chocolate?" said, Britney her passenger.
Melinda glanced over slightly periperally, but not give eye contact. "Sure," she said quickly.
"I heard on the news this morning, how many people died while inattentive driving."
"So, every 40 minutes someone dies in a drunk-driving accident," said Melinda.
"I'm not driving."
"Well, lets talk about distraction, people die swerving--probably paying too much attention to their passenger, drinking."
'People die driving drowsy."
"People die while going to the bathroom too."
They looked at each other and laughed.
"People overcorrect, speed, fail to yeild the right of way, drive erractically and reclessly. Run red lights, don't wear their seat belts and yes are inattentive while driving.
Britney snapped her finger, "I remember now, they said 4700 people died last year eating, texting, messing with the radio, and all of that other stuff."
"And maybe one of them was eating chocolate."
Briney took the small silver metal heart shaped flask out of her purse, uncapped it, looked around at other drivers in cars, staring straight ahead at the road, some in heavily tinted windows, some not, and took a deep drink. It was straight, toasty warm Jack daniels and it calmed her senses. She would take a shower as usaul when she got to the highschool where she helped with the food admin department and trained other women to work the front cash register; that way she did not smell like alcohol, though she also drank at work whenever she got the chance. She supposed she did it because of nerves, she hated dealing with rude highschool students who just wanted to stuff their faces. "How's like at the office?" asked Britney. "The life of a paralegal, what's that like."
"Not great at the moment, my boss just lost a big case; he's been slamming doors, talking to me rudely and hitting on me half the time even though he's very married; he just takes it all out on me on a regualar basis. If it wasn't for the fact that I am a secretary/Paralegal/Office Manager rolled up in one can do it all person for a solo practitioner for a fast-paced criminal/family law office I don't think Id be here if it wasn't for my partial legal experience
Britney took another swig, "sure wish I was grew up a rich kid."
Melinda new what she mean, it was the mentallity of a rich kid, of knowing what you would be missing later on in life if you did not end up successful like your parents; of having that extra house by the beach, that small hundred foot yahct of the occasional cruise to Bermuda. Britney watched from the outside--someone at store window, staring at all of the clothes within they would never be able to afford.

Melinda, got to the office, sat down.
Boss come's in, walks behind her, hands on her soft, bare shoulders in smart looking gray skirt suit with a black halter top beneath, "I want this typed up in a hurry, then maybe we can do lunch, what do you think?" (the stress is getting to her)
"Sure, want it in Excel or MS word?"
"Spreadsheets look better in Excel, do it up in that."
"Gotcha sir." She shut her eyes rolling her head sighing, pretending to enjoy his dirty hands on her; in a downed economy, with a constant risk of budget cuts and layoffs, it was a good idea to enjoy a backrub from the boss; she didn't want to know what would happen if she didn't enjoy it.
She sat down, a decent self-starter, multi-tasker and began
"He popped back in to the office., got one those five-mile errands within a
He always said it that way, figured it was important to talk overly intelligent, considering he was one of the best Family Law/Criminal Defense Attorney's around. "Got an errand for you to run within a 5 mile radius of the office," she said in a deep voice, mimicking his.
Her office door flew open, "Did you say something?"
"No sir, she said startled sitting up straight in her chair, the white and blue reflection of the lit up computer screen in her glasses, "Didn't hear a thing."
Melinda felt shaking, nervous, tense up suddenly, almost wished the bosses nasty yellowed fingernailed hairy hands were tight on her neck again. She dug through droors, slammed one, stopped for a second almost expecting the boss to come in again. Then ripped open droors again. She found it--luxiourious rich and creamy Ghirardelli Chocolate. She tore it open, shoving it in to her mouth, she chewed, stopped breathed for a second, then chewed somemore. That was better, she sank back in her chair, put the rest of the bar down, teeth marks on it, bite marks on it, it dark brown wrapper folded back and crossed her heels, pointing her toes streching them out. She was careful when she chewed that she did not bite the inside of her mouth; there was nothing in the world worse than having a big fat festering cancor sore in your mouth and a sweet tooth, the necessary sweet made it take twice as long to heal

She could hardly wait to be off of work, her hours: Monday through Friday, 9:00am to 5:30pm. She worked very closely with her attorney, receiving telephone calls, scheduling appointments, documents, letter preparation, with constant client contact; something she dreaded—lately the pissed off people calling, near death threats from the lost case she was supposed to be keeping quiet about, because it was ‘confidential’; the more people who called, the more she wanted chocolate.

Lunchtime came, Melinda darted out of the office five minutes early; her boss, she knew was probably near to the door, ready to jump out of his seat to ask her if she was going to lunch if he was going to join her; no now, too much opportunity to get messed with by an obviously stressed, sex starved boss, with a masive inferiority complex from losing that damm case; the outlook of spending lunch with him: not good, fair to cloudy days, thundershowers eminent—a possible tornado or maybe even a hurricane—okay that was T.M.I. she didn’t want to think about his hurricanes. She was relieved when she heard his phone ring—new he would be on it for a little bit; a good time to take off.

She came to a stoplight, turned, stopped at the gas station. Got out. Grabbed as many chocolate bars as possible. She would take them right back to the back office fridge, won’t run into the boss, put them in to the freezer for safe keeping behind the ancient neopolitan ice cream—a couple years old from the last office party. Melinda set the chocolate on the store’s counter for the middle aged, heavy set man, who probably still lived with his mother, smokin’ weed every chance he got, to swipe her chocolate.

"See you like chocolate huh?" he said, giving her a funny wide-eyed look as if she was the strange one.

"Yep," said Melinda while screaming inside—‘swipe it, give me a receipt so I can sign it; let’s get this over with.’ Her hands began shaking. She needed her chocolate bad. "Can you hurry please?" she smiled, a smile generally reserved for people she didn’t like. She liked this man, he was about to bag up her chocolate.

He swiped her card through the register. He swiped it again, with a blank look on his face.

"Is there a problem?" Melinda said.

"Card doesn’t seem to be working," he said simply, trying to hand it back to her.

Melinda felt someone bump against her, invade her personal space, felt the tips of their shoes on her heels. She wanted to turn around and say something, but this was too important. "Can’t you just type the number in? It’s magnetic strip is probably worn and that’s why its not working."

"It says access denied."

"Well you could have just said that in the first place," she snapped, "instead of making me stand here looking like an idiot." There was nothing in the world worse than getting a shopping cart full of groceries to find out your cards been denied. She had never experience that, had witness it, but now felt rage—one of those hurricane’s—an category three and climbing. Her chocolate sat there, wrappers glistening in the sun, the finely processed cocoa bean, roasted to perfection; vanilla flavoring, and crème, elegantly mixed, swirled into thick, rich and creamy milk chocolate. It beckoned her, it wanted her; wanted her to taste it, for her tongue to roll its dark, creamy flavor; she would close her eyes, take herself to that tropical place, savor its essence, its own life—taking it, adding length to hers. Melinda spun around—a short plump woman she wanted to exchange words with—to let her know how rude and insignificant she was. "Excuse me," she said, but the woman did not step aside. Melinda went around her, storming out, important sounding heels clicking on the floor.

She got back in to her car speaking to herself. "Why didn’t my card work?" ‘Has to be a reason.’ Then she remembered. Just before she went to bed she had put all of her money from checking to savings, so the bank could pull out her monthly mortgage. after a weekend of shopping, she had put money from savings to checking; now she had switched it back. She was going to have to go back to the office, change the money over—she stopped at a stoplight, both hands on the steering wheel and fell, head forward on to it when she realized something—she already exceeded her monthly limit for online transactions which was three; she was going to have to go to the bank..; she looked over, the driver in the car next to her was staring, her head still on the steering wheel—so what, let him stare. He didn’t know what she was going through. Then she saw it, in all of its glory; the clock on the dash read twelve-thirty—she had time, she could do it.

It was the end of the standard free thirty minute tour. Their guide--the CEO of the Bersheys chocolate company. He wore a hardhat, had sunglasses on and the strangest painted on red lips Melinda had ever seen—it was as if he was wearing makeup—blush on his cheeks, white labcoat and black gloves. (he puts fingernails on sometimes.
he came from tropical south america

"What is the difference between different chocolate's someone asked?" They all stood upon white grates, three stories up, looking down upon a massive emaculate room. Shiny metal beaters spun slowly through giant vats of chocolate; further a long Melida could see robotic arms picking up completed candy bars, wrappers carefully, mechanically put on, perfect rectangles, placed in to boxes to stored in a cool dry place.

"Well, he said, and he possed eyes strolling through the group, the most beautiful blue eyes looked back at him, a tan girl, dark in complexion--from hours at those place that could be his destruction, his demise--a tanning salon; her dark hair was free, yet controlled, her clothing intelligent, a smile on her face as if she was experiencing some kind of bliss. "chocolate butter is blended with cocoa butter in varying quanities to make different types of chocolate

"Dark chocolate is made of sugar, cocoa butter, cocoa liquor, and (sometimes) vanilla
Milk chocolate is made of sugar, cocoa butter, cocoa liquor, milk or milk powder, and vanilla

" and" Melinda added, quite loud, "White chocolate is sugar, cocoa butter, milk or milk powder, and vanilla, but we all know it's not as satisfying as the real thing."

"There was that look, that sparkle in the lady's eye. He had heard what they were called once before by a friend--bedroom eyes.

"Producers of high quality, small batch chocolate argue that mass production produces bad quality chocolate, what do you think about that?" said Melida.

" Vegetable oils and artificial vanilla flavor are often used in cheaper chocolate to mask poorly fermented and or roasted beans, but I can assure you, we only make the best here." He spoke louder, addressing the entire group.

"How can tell? Tried any of your own product recently?"

He shuddered. eating chocolate is canabalism, but he couldn't say that

--he was made out of the hardest chocolate, tempering at 97 degrees, near the degree 98.6 of the normal human body said the CEO. He itched his arms careful not to tear his skin.
he was a bitter child, intensly bitter in taste to the family dog who rarely and accidently licked him--but eventually he became a sweet man, fermented by his father to become chocolate, to cease growing at thirty, to remain ever youthful, a permanent fixture in the Bershey's Chocolate Company, the eternal CEO.
he remembered his fluid days, after fermentation, when he, as the form of beans, was dried, cleaned, and roasted, unharmed, shell removed to produce cacao nibs; ground and liquified, drunk from his own thoughts in the purest fluid form of chocolate liquor. He was pure unsweetened chocolate at one point made sweet by the tiniest amount of sugar

Liquid Latex Body Cosmetic can easily be applied (dripped, sprayed, splashed, dipped, painted, poured) to the skin while in a liquid form. For best results, typically several coatings are applied. Each latex coating will quickly cure (polymerize) at body temperature. When a coat of Liquid Latex Body Cosmetic dries (usually in about 5-10 minutes after initial application), our liquid latex body coating naturally shrinks approximately 3%, creating that sensuous "second skin" sensation that all true latex enthusiasts love to experience. In order to speed up the drying process, gently heat the liquid latex with a hair dryer. A liquid latex coating of several layers will completely cure in approximately four hours at room temperature.

"Where does chocolate come from?" someone asked

from the tropical cacao tree, she said quickly, cutting them off, answering their annoyingly stupid question.

but where does it come from then?

It need heavy rain and grow within 20 degree's on either side of the equator, so take a wild guess.

The CEO clapped his black gloves together, "Well, that continues our tour for the day, please feel free to take a sample on your way out."

Yes! It was the part she had been waiting for. She was going to request for more than one sample--she was going to get lots of samples.

"Excuse me miss. Mind if I ask you a question or two.

"Shoot." she said, greedily ripping open a wrapper, tossing it to the clean white floor.

His eyes followed it down behind the sunglasses.

"How is it you know so much about chocolate?" he felt a connection to her, like when two people love the same song, have the same interests, attend the same running path at the same time every day, destined to talk to each other, destined to meet no matter what. Waking up in appartments next door to each other, leaving for work at the same time, glances at each other, this would be the girl that got away, the one he would think about forever, dream about, if he never talked to her; always wondering what if.

"I like chocolate," she said with her mouth full, teeth brown.

A near child like response, nearly instinctive--someone who knew what they liked and didnt' beat around the bush about it.

"What are your job skills?"

I help a piece of crap lawyer prepare hearings, closings, corporate meetings, trials, draft documents and helping with the coordination of activities within the law office by organizing the necessary paperwork.

"I see, he said, We could use someone here with your strong clerical skills, because God forbid we ever get audited by the IRS.

"That can be prevented easily enough--you don't you have your own internal audit division?"

"See! And that why we need you; for great idea's like that" He pointed a gloved finger at her.

But I'm already employed--she looked at the small gold watch on her wrist on a thin chain., "In fact, I'm already late."

She turned to leave.

he grabbed her by the arm, she looked down at his black glove and back up at him, "Miss, I will make it worth your while. If I employ you, I promise you--you will no longer have to worry about money again."

She grabbed another chocolate bar off the counter, tearing into its wrapper, no holds bared, stuffing the bar in to her mouth, snapping it off, carefull again not to bite her inner cheek--wouldn't want that to happen. "And the chocolate? I can have all I want?"

"You'll be working at the first and foremost maker of chocolate in the world--I don't see why not." He said with a raised eyebrow beneath his sunglasses, she was a wierd one alright, but her enthusiasm was fascinating.

The paralegal job description may also involve analyzing the data in order to support the lawyer in preparation of a case or other legal motion.

"They got in to the car--"you smell wonderful, all of that chocolate must be soaked in to your clothing. This may sound odd, but can I smell you?

He felt uncomfortable, odd at the request, well, okay,

She closed her long eyelashes, inhaled lustfully, "oh, you smell soooo good. She opened her eyes, they had switched again, from their radiant blue to mischivious bedroom eyes again, somehow slighly darker, as if a storm above was brewing, a hurricane in her eyes. "It's as if you were made of chocolate."

"Well, actually, he said." He had no way of puting it, of explaining it to her; she would be horrified, no doubt about it. He couldn't just take off his sunglasses and show her. Then he felt the spark again, that connection--she did what he had longed that special person to do, to reveal him, to expose the nakedness of his eyes. They left the bridge of his nose; the storm in her eyes increased, widended, "What are you?" she whispered.

I take a bath in latex every morning. it takes four hours to set.

"at bersheys premium chocolate bars with deliver the perfect balance of intense-slow-melting bersheys chocolate and rich ingredients in a variety of delectible flavors, thos beautifully wrapped chocolate bars are perfect as an individual indulgence, to share with friends and family or to give as a gift

as with all of our premium chocolate products we hand-select the worlds finest cocoa beans to create our proprietary bean blend and roast them to perfection. We slow blend in the purest ingredients, such as real cocoa butter and natural vanilla, to achieve our award winning distictively intense chocolate"

Melinda stared over the massive bat of chocolate, felt dizzy, and caught herself; thought about jumping in, swimming in it, drowning in it, feeling its resistence against her arms as she swam in its luxurious heat.

In 2007, the Chocolate Manufacturers Association in the United States, whose members include Hershey, Nestlé, and Archer Daniels Midland, lobbied the Food and Drug Administration to change the legal definition of chocolate to let them substitute partially hydrogenated vegetable oils for cocoa butter in addition to using artificial sweeteners and milk substitutes.[38] Currently, the U.S. Food and Drug Administration (FDA) does not allow a product to be referred to as "chocolate" if the product contains any of these ingredients.

he's cocoa solids and cocoa butter in varying proportions
dark chocolate is made by adding fat and sugar to the cacao mixture.
semisweet chocolate is a dark chocolate with a low sugar content
bittersweet chocolate

she ate lustfully, licking her fingers, blood pressure lowered
she ate chocolate bunnies, chocolate eggs, chocolate coins, chocolate hearts, chocolate milk, hot chocolate

mmm--I've never tasted anything like you, you're soooo good.d
unsweetened chocolate is pure chocolate liquor, also know as bitter or baking chocolate
you're unadultured, pure, ground, roasted chocalate bean, such a strong and deep flavor--I think I could suck you up through my nose, inhale you, drown in your chocolate thoughts; is your brain chocolate? I want to tast that too

I want to melt, mold and package you, take you with me cold places, so I can eat on your for years; I'll save your head for last--and eat that sweet tongue. You're my very phone--she touched herself all over, oh, I feel so good you're mine, you're mine, you're mine.

cacao tree's cannot tolerate a temperature lower than 59 degrees fahrenheit,

cacoa pods are harvested by cutting the pods from the tree using a machee, or by knocking them off the tree using a stick--are fermented in a bin/ fermentation is what gives the beans there familiar chocolate taste/ beans must be quickly dried to prevent mold growth

she seduces him--she goes on tour of chocolate plant, is out of money because she spends all of her money on chocolate/ realized he is made of chocolate and tries to eat him/uses her last buck on the plant

"You remember what I said don't you?, good chocolate like you is hard come by, most substitue partially hydrogenated veggie oil for cocoa, can you believe that? If you got a good thing, why ruin it? Because you want to make some money--because you want to seel out, become filty rich."
"No, I can assure you mam, I'm the real thing."
She looked straight ahead and then eyes him up and down."
"What are you doing? Watch the road!"
"Oh, I bet you are the real thing" YOu know, mass production produces bad quality chocolate, less cocoa/ I can taste it when cheap chocolate is made with veggie oil and vanilla flavor, to mask poorly fermentd or roasted beans, because someone wants to mass produce.

The final process is called tempering. Uncontrolled crystallization of cocoa butter typically results in crystals of varying size, some or all large enough to be clearly seen with the naked eye. This causes the surface of the chocolate to appear mottled and matte, and causes the chocolate to crumble rather than snap when broken.[42] The uniform sheen and crisp bite of properly processed chocolate are the result of consistently small cocoa butter crystals produced by the tempering process.

The fats in cocoa butter can crystallize in six different forms (polymorphous crystallization).[42] The primary purpose of tempering is to assure that only the best form is present. The six different crystal forms have different properties.

Crystal Melting temp. Notes
I 17 °C (63 °F) Soft, crumbly, melts too easily.
II 21 °C (70 °F) Soft, crumbly, melts too easily.
III 26 °C (78 °F) Firm, poor snap, melts too easily.
IV 28 °C (82 °F) Firm, good snap, melts too easily.
V 34 °C (94 °F) Glossy, firm, best snap, melts near body temperature (37 °C).
VI 36 °C (97 °F) Hard, takes weeks to form.

Making chocolate considered "good" is about forming as many type V crystals as possible. This provides the best appearance and texture and creates the most stable crystals so the texture and appearance will not degrade over time. To accomplish this, the temperature is carefully manipulated during the crystallization.

Generally, the chocolate is first heated to 45 °C (115 °F) to melt all six forms of crystals.[42] Next, the chocolate is cooled to about 27 °C (80 °F), which will allow crystal types IV and V to form. At this temperature, the chocolate is agitated to create many small crystal "seeds" which will serve as nuclei to create small crystals in the chocolate. The chocolate is then heated to about 31 °C (88 °F) to eliminate any type IV crystals, leaving just type V. After this point, any excessive heating of the chocolate will destroy the temper and this process will have to be repeated. However, there are other methods of chocolate tempering used. The most common variant is introducing already tempered, solid "seed" chocolate. The temper of chocolate can be measured with a chocolate temper meter to ensure accuracy and consistency. A sample cup is filled with the chocolate and placed in the unit which then displays or prints the results.

Two classic ways of manually tempering chocolate are:

Working the molten chocolate on a heat-absorbing surface, such as a stone slab, until thickening indicates the presence of sufficient crystal "seeds"; the chocolate is then gently warmed to working temperature.
Stirring solid chocolate into molten chocolate to "inoculate" the liquid chocolate with crystals (this method uses the already formed crystal of the solid chocolate to "seed" the molten chocolate).
Chocolate tempering machines (or temperers) with computer controls can be used for producing consistently tempered chocolate, particularly for large volume applications.

he has to temper his arm to put it back on

what is the general humidity of florida and california

what happened the time he turned white
what happened the time he got too warm

Chocolate is very sensitive to temperature and humidity. Ideal storage temperatures are between 15 and 17 °C (59 to 63 °F), with a relative humidity of less than 50%. Chocolate is generally stored away from other foods as it can absorb different aromas. Ideally, chocolates are packed or wrapped, and placed in proper storage with the correct humidity and temperature. Additionally chocolate is frequently stored in a dark place or protected from light by wrapping paper. Various types of "blooming" effects can occur if chocolate is stored or served improperly. If refrigerated or frozen without containment, chocolate can absorb enough moisture to cause a whitish discoloration, the result of fat or sugar crystals rising to the surface. Moving chocolate from one temperature extreme to another, such as from a refrigerator on a hot day, can result in an oily texture. Although visually unappealing, chocolate suffering from bloom is perfectly safe for consumption

it had been a hot summer and he had been staying inside 59 to 63 °F)

eating chocolate makes me so happy!
I have a coworker who acts very strange and hyper when she eats chocolate, does she have a problem? Is there a rehab for people like her?

"You should cool it."
"Why"
"Because eating chocolate makes you act strange and hyper"

Warning: chocolate addiction is real and can lead to anxiety and depression. People joke about being addicted to chocolate merely because they like eating it. As an ex-chocoholic, however, I know that chocolate addiction is no joking matter. After doing some research, I realized just how easy it is for people, and especially teenagers, to become addicted. I write this article as a warning, for chocolate addiction is easy to fall into, hard to break, and brings with it harmful psychological affects.

A chocoholic (not a scientific term) is defined in The International Journal of Eating Disorders as a person who has no control over the chocolate he or she consumes. As with other addictions, the chocoholic often does not even know there is a problem. If it is obvious that something is wrong, the chocoholic will blame it on societal elements instead of chocolate.

Non-addicts have a sense of control over their cravings and choose to eat chocolate for conscious reasons. To a non-addict, eating chocolate may be associated with stress relief, mood boosting, pain relieving, or even just quality snacking. "It makes me feel happy," says Palo Alto High School senior Holly Wang, a non-addict.

Addicts, unlike Wang, do not eat chocolate for happiness. When I was a chocoholic, I'd keep a bag of chocolate by my door. As I walked through the door, my hands would automatically reach for the chocolate. I was barely aware that I was eating it at all. When I was done with one piece, I automatically reached for the next. The more I ate, the more worry and depression I felt. When people asked me why I ate chocolate, I had to confess that I did not know.

This is because, for a chocolate addict, chocolate loses its positive psychological affects. Researchers at the University of Dundee, in Scotland, found that chocolate addicts "experienced negative affects following consumption of chocolate." The International Journal of Eating Disorders reports that chocolate addicts also tend to eat "more than twice as much chocolate as the non-addicts" and are "significantly more depressed."

"People who are stressed out may find short term relief from eating chocolate," psychological nutritionist Jurriaan Plesman says, "but this will aggravate depression and anxiety by a rebound reaction."

According to Plesman, it isn't hard to fall into a cycle of addiction that can lead to negative psychological effects. Because chocolate is high in sugar and fat, it creates a stress-relieving affect on the brain. According to a study conducted by researchers from UC San Francisco, stress can be linked to overeating foods like chocolate. "When you are hungry or under stress, stress hormones… appear to enhance one's wanting or craving of palatable foods," says Norman Pecoraro, a neuroscientist at the University of California San Francisco and co-author of the study.

Essentially, this means that the stress Paly students feel, both socially and academically, can affect their eating habits. "The biggest result of stress I see is how it affects teens' decision-making," Paly psychologist Wesley Cedros says. Cedros explains that under stress, it's easy to come to a hasty decision without thinking through all the other options. For example, one could overeat chocolate instead of eating healthier foods. This can be a relief for short-term stress, but with long-term anxiety, there is a tendency to continue overeating. "Therefore, we may become addicted to chocolate," Plesman says.

Last summer, at camp, I felt tremendous social stress. Because of this, I began eating chocolate, which I thought would make me happier. After a while, chocolate stopped giving me that boost of happiness I expected. I did not notice, however, and merely thought that I was not eating enough. The stress kept increasing, as did my chocolate consumption. Sometimes, I ate chocolate until I felt sick. I began to feel increasingly depressed, and filled with a hopeless sense of social distress. I equated these feelings to my situation. It was only after several weeks that I realized I could not stop eating chocolate.

Because it is fattening, chocolate can lead to further trepidation. When I first became addicted, the natural anxiety and depression the chocolate caused were not significant enough to change my life in any drastic way. The first time I realized that I had a problem was when I noticed how chunky I was growing. When I looked in the mirror, I found that my face had broken out. Distress over body image accompanied my chocolate addiction.

Such social apprehension is a common feeling for many teenagers like me. "I don't know one person who escaped their teen years without experiencing peer pressure," Cedros says. Though easy to think of peer pressure as occurring via a direct confrontation, peer pressure also includes social anxiety, like that over body image.

According to Cedros, anywhere from 30% to 40% of teenage girls are on a diet. Chocolate addicts often go on diets in order to lose weight and decrease their dependency on chocolate, presenting a puzzling paradox. According to Pecoraro, "losing weight will increase stress hormones that make you want to eat."

The insecurity over body image combined with the normal increase in stress hormones that accompanies weight loss makes the craving for chocolate hard to resist. Thus, by trying to break the addiction, one merely reinforces it.

But why does chocolate have such a positive effect on some, and such a negative affect on others? This is due to the chemical makeup of chocolate and how the body reacts to these chemicals.

When a non-addict eats a bar of chocolate, it triggers the release of insulin, which helps to digest most of the sugars found in chocolate. One substance, instead of being broken down, is converted into serotonin, which makes people happy.

On the other hand, if a chocoholic eats a bar of chocolate, the insulin receptors break down, and cause insulin resistance and higher insulin levels. This results in weight gain and can cause distress. In addition, it also triggers the release of stress hormones, which interfere with the production of serotonin. "These hormones," says Plesman, "are responsible for anxiety attacks, insomnia, phobias, and depression."

This addiction may seem impossible to break, but it is not. Plesman suggests eating "frequent small snacks" that do not contain sugar. Using sugar substitutes can also stop the craving. As the desire for chocolate dies down, many of the other problems chocolate causes may also decrease sharply.

Do I still eat chocolate? Of course! I'm not trying to say that chocolate is always bad or should never be eaten. But when I eat a chocolate bar, it is because of a conscious decision on my part. The easiest way for one to avoid chocolate addiction is by remaining aware of what one eats and why. I feel that is the most important part of maintaining a healthy diet.

takes a morning bath in liquid latex

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The writers life

2009-05-14T23:43:51Z

The world is to high tech for me--everybody's LJ page looks so crazy and advanced; I'm in the deep south and it shows. Might as well just sit around on a porch and drink some Sweet Tea. Nothing else to say really. Not going to any plays, not in to fancy coffee, fancy food; ladi dadi. But am cooking on my book, it's going fast and well and have written a lot. I may not be up there in smarts with yall, but something tells me I am holding my own. If I can write one-thousands words once I get going like right now, just dwell on what I am going to write and totally get lost in what I am writing, then well, I know I am getting something accomplished.

It's like, sometimes when I sit down at a new keyboard, I have to get used to the keys. It takes me a few minutes to get going, but once I am there I am gone. To think, I can write like this on a dwelled on story and really have somthing to say. Really, what I am writing, I go through with like anyone else. The doubts that what I am writing it pure crapola; the fear that its not any good; the point in which you wonder--is this totally pointless dribble and nothing meaningful is coming out.

So, I have it all planned out what I want to write tonight or tomorrow during lunchtime. I am in sweet anticipation of it; it's going to be wonderful. I like the feeling of the keys as my fingers go buzzing a long this keyboard. My fingers are carpenter bee's trying to find a home in the wood panel. Perhaps they will not find it, maybe they will die, I am not sure.

Time to go I guess, I am going to look for that funny SNL skit where Justin Timberlake and Jimmy Fallon pretend they are one of the Bee Gees-- barry gibb or whatever and the skit itself is hilarious. What it is really--it's like waynes world, a sit down talk show and I think to many people were imitating it on youtube so they took it off of there. So, now I will have to go to some virus leaching site to find it. Found a good stream of the new star trek moving too; pirates aren't just out to sea. They are alive and well--they are your next door neighbors and thank goodness for that rare pot of gold that they find, put on the internet to share with everyone. Don't worry, I already saw Star Trek the proper way in the theater and wow it was glorious.

Later everyone. I am a writer, I am a writer,

and, it means absolutely nothing.

The Writers Life

2009-05-13T19:27:37Z

Have consistently written over 1,000 words daily since about the third (may); am at about 13,000 right now and steadily climbing. Or, will be steadily climbing. This far in to it and still haven't figured out my characters yet which is a first. I've figured out characters 1,000 words in to a story--now in this story, haven't figured out who is aggressive and who is not--but, as I keep going and everything builds up, I know they will all have to interact and really find themselves.

The Writers life

2009-05-06T21:00:55Z

Someone mentioned how hard it is to pick up where one left off when they write a story. It can be hard, but I have discovered some secrets to making it easy.
1. leave notes as to what you want to write next.
2.re-read what you wrote the previous day, that way you pick up the personalities of the people you wrote about--you'll end up having more fun that way if you fall in to your characters shoes--that can be very exciting sometimes
3. leave your story at an exciting part--something you would be eager to continue the following day

A story exists; the one your writing--all you have to do is excavate it.

Wrote 700 words durring lunchtime; will write 300 more before bedtime.

The Writers life

2009-05-05T18:28:20Z

This journal is now strickly for writing about writing. Didn't get much but 957 words done today. Will write before I go to work in the morning. I don't know what story I am falling in to right now, it hasn't taken shape yet; I am waiting for it to take on a life of its own--it will happen soon enough.

--listend to yugoslavian goth and industrial today--its dark and wonderful and very noisy

carlosn @ 2009-04-15T07:33:00

2009-04-15T11:51:06Z

Hello and welcome back to my boring life; I am in the Navy and last night I was the Command Duty Officer; seeing as the job is taken so seriously I will not talk about any events that transpired, except that--I made a kickass pot of coffee and had on ok Sub Sandwich. Want to hear a funny? I am on a Subase and I got a Sub Sandwich on a subase. That was funny wasn't it. I warned you. Please do not read this if, I don't know, I plan on dumbing you up; making you stupid with my mindless comments but everybody deserves to be down here at my level--starving for food, because I am trying to get ready for the Navy's Physical Readiness test. The weigh in's are on Monday. I have to be 186lbs or 191 if you round up my height, but lets not risk it. I was 185 last Friday, 199 on Monday Morning--191 by Monday night and 188 by Tues afternoon. So, I did eat well on easter Sunday and even better the night before that--I BBQ'ed everything in sight. Oh what fun. When I pass the Navy Physical readiness test I am going out for chinese food with my family; I am going to eat until I am sick and weight 199 again. My goal should be eventually 168 but I have not been that weight for quite some time and it takes quite a bit of starvation to get to that point. My schedule--eat cereal for breakfast, a chicken sandwich at two pm and cereal before bedtime. Then I run three times a day for 30 min to 60 min while listening to old school modern rock/alternative and frantic Industrial. Time to get off of duty and go home and chill. Got Church tonight. Everybody is christian here right? I guess you can't lose your status of being a christian once you believe Jesus died for you.

Time to step on the soap box--people, wake up. A man, who was also God, and this is supported by the bible, came to earth to bleed, sleep and eat just like us. Man sinned and because we sin we die. But, if we believe fully in this man Jesus who died for us, we can live forever with him in paradise. It's that easy. Let me say that one more time--IT'S THAT EASY. It's stupid proof, look into it. From there on, the bible says, it will be opened to you, so that you will be able to understand it better and believe me--everytime you open that book, you will see something new--it's amazing; it will change your life, you will see your worldly errors and be like me--want to invite other people to spend eternity with you in paradise. And its all such a good feeling--christians make up when they argue and they rarely do, they don't do drugs, they don't drink, and everything is fine and happy. Don't worry about the cheesy part of--I hate being all happy all the time. I hated that part; don't worry, Satan and his demons will still lay the darkness on thick in your life so you can still be Goth and depressed; you just won't go to hell doing it.

carlosn @ 2009-04-13T13:58:00

2009-04-13T18:07:43Z

I never blog or writing anything, so if anyone is interested, I might as well write a little bit day by day. That's what it's here for right? I BBQ last Friday--I don't know who I was cooking for--I was just going all out, cooking burgers and hot dogs; me and the wife ate outside(and the kids)--used one of those lanterns your supposed to use late at night while working on your car. It worked out well--it hung on the inside of our backyard umbrella--the kind that goes over a small round table.

My writing is totally getting better and I have been getting these urges to write a book; I have been getting, also, the urge to read lots more. I like reading Dean Koontz and Stephen Kings kid--Joe Hill. When your someones famous son, and they are a great writer, why not ride the fame if you are a good writer. But no, he just wants to be Joe Hill. I'm John Doe.

So, the subject matter for a book--it would have to be christian, start out dark and then turn christian. Lots of ideas for a story, but that's the problem--planning things out is killing it. I think when I write I am not going to plan out things so well--it worked for this months genrechallenge story--I let the characters find themselves and what they liked to do; I feel like I made good friends with them and I will miss them when I finally have to say goodbye to the story--meaning I will eventually finish it, editing it--re-write in the next few days.

Time to get my teeth drilled and get a haircut!!!

more of my new story

2009-02-13T03:26:11Z

Type your cut contents here.

jara

sin

cindy

daks

siggs

dhamp

redcap

cierra

chris

"What in the hell did he just do?" Chris felt the arms pinning him in place.

Dhamp looked over at Cierra questioningly in the darkness--"I though you said he was cool?"

"He is." Cierra felt awkward, troubled, the boy she brought for a good time, to show him something new, some new friends. She put her hand up under Daks very long arms, rubbing his back. "It's alright, just relax."

"Relax?" Chris was nearly shaking, breathing overly fast, something like hyperventilation. "He just did something to that cat? Did he eat it? Did he just take a bite out of that cat?"

The cat felt limp but still alive in Jara's lap, twitching its tail as cats do when they can do nothing else. It had red smears all over it on the side that was showing--the beautiful side a few minutues ago with such white plush fur. "Yes, relax. It's no big deal. Where did you get this guy cierra. He's a woos."

"He's alright. I was a little scared to, remember?"

"I guess so. This is his first time."

"My first time of what? Cierra, I thought we were against eating cats."

"Dude, " redcap spoke for the first time, "he didn't eat the cat."

"Yeah, damp added. "It's all of those statistics I just told you, only they are void in this situation. Just think bottles of water--this cat, is our bottle of water. We dont' drink it all at once."

"drink it?" Chris, who was no longer shaking, just mystified at what was just said.

Damp nodded at daks to release and walked over to pat chris on the shoulder. "you didn't tell him anything ceirra?"

"No, I didn't feel the need to warn him about anything. I didn't think I would have to."

"Well, I know you wanted him to see this, I just thought, maybe you set things up first. Maybe he was wowed, amazed at the idea and wanted to see it."

"That's what I thought to." Jara said, picking a piece of cat hair out of irregularly long, sharp teeth, that seemed to Chris's amazement, slowly retracting. "I didn't think he'd wine about it."

"Are you going to be long?" Redcap shifted in his seat, clapping his hands together once and then rubbing them. "Because I want someof that."

And when he came to his disciples, he saw a great multitude about them, and the scribes questioning with them.
^{Mark 9:15}^{And straightway all the people, when they beheld him, were greatly amazed, and running to him saluted him.}^{Mark 9:16}^{And he asked the scribes, What question ye with them?}^{Mark 9:17}^{And one of the multitude answered and said, Master, I have brought unto thee my son, which hath a dumb spirit;}^{Mark 9:18}^{And wheresoever he taketh him, he teareth him: and he foameth, and gnasheth with his teeth, and pineth away: and I spake to thy disciples that they should cast him out; and they could not.}^{Mark 9:19}^{He answereth him, and saith, O faithless generation, how long shall I be with you? how long shall I suffer you? bring him unto me.}^{Mark 9:20}^{And they brought him unto him: and when he saw him, straightway the spirit tare him; and he fell on the ground, and wallowed foaming.}^{Mark 9:21}^{And he asked his father, How long is it ago since this came unto him? And he said, Of a child.}^{Mark 9:22}^{And ofttimes it hath cast him into the fire, and into the waters, to destroy him: but if thou canst do any thing, have compassion on us, and help us.}^{Mark 9:23}^{Jesus said unto him, If thou canst believe, all things are possible to him that believeth.}^{Mark 9:24}^{And straightway the father of the child cried out, and said with tears, Lord, I believe; help thou mine unbelief.}^{Mark 9:25}^{When Jesus saw that the people came running together, he rebuked the foul spirit, saying unto him, Thou dumb and deaf spirit, I charge thee, come out of him, and enter no more into him.}^{Mark 9:26}^{And the spirit cried, and rent him sore, and came out of him: and he was as one dead; insomuch that many said, He is dead.}^{Mark 9:27}^{But Jesus took him by the hand, and lifted him up; and he arose.}^{Mark 9:28}^{And when he was come into the house, his disciples asked him privately, Why could not we cast him out?}^{Mark 9:29}^{And he said unto them, This kind can come forth by nothing, but by prayer and fasting.}

carlosn @ 2008-02-19T18:42:00

2008-02-19T23:44:48Z

MEDIA RELEASE

Dear Mr. Nordquist,
Congratulations! The editors of Long Story Short have accepted your story, Vamp Tramp, to be published in our March issue.
The newsletter and e-zine are published the 7th of each month. You can view your story at that time.
A Media Release is below to alert your local newspaper, writing groups, family/friends, etc., of your acceptance. If you're interested in sending LSS your Media Release, we will publish it on the internet 'for the entire world to see' for just $7.00 payable through paypal. This is a service we're offering to all our writers.
Thank you for giving Long Story Short the opportunity to publish your stories. We look forward to receiving more of them.
Some information about Long Story Short:
New: Long Story Short Publishing Company:
LSS (Long Story Short) has made Writer's Digest 101 Best Writing Sites for 2007.
We hope you pass the word about our school. We have a beginner class for your friends that want to learn the basics, plus intermediate and advanced classes. Check it out here:
We have eBooks for some of the classes, too. If you want to buy an eBook and decide to take the class later, you will only have to pay the different in the eBook price and the class.
We now offer you the Writer's Lodge where you can have your own professional website for only $21.99 per year and $39.00 for two years! It's maintained by Denise Cassino . All you do is forward your information, and she'll do the rest. Go to the Home page and click on Writer's Lodge for more information. It's a great way to sell yourself and your work.
Linda Barnett-Johnson offers some terrific writing forums, My LSS Writing Friend. Here, Linda offers a prompt and the members write a first draft, rewrite and final story, all with intensive critiques by the other members. At the end of the month, they all have publishable, completed stories. If you or anyone you know is interested in joining, contact Linda at
Sincerely,
Linda Barnett-Johnson
Assistant Editor
"http://www.longstoryshort.us/"

MEDIA RELEASE
Dear Writing Friend,
Use the format below to notify your local newspapers, writing groups, etc., of your acceptance, or awards, with Long Story Short. Look in the editorial section of the publication to find links/fax numbers, etc. to send the press release to.
Good Luck and keep writing.
The Editors of Long Story Short.
M E D I A R E L E A S E
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
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E-mail: (author’s email)
LONG STORY SHORT Writing Site Honors Local (awarding winning, etc.) Author’s story
(Author’s home city - i.e. Glendale , CA )--The board of editors at Long Story have chose ____________ (author’s) story for publication in the ______________ issue of LSS
(Name of Poem/Story) was conceived when (give a description e.g. - after a vacation, the poet opened her refrigerator door to find several rolls of Pillsbury Biscuits there, their seams popped, fleshy dough peeking from under the cylindrical lids and related the scene to the plight of women.)
Edited by Denise Cassino , Linda Barnett-Johnson, and Susan Scott, Long Story Short features fine writing from fiction and poetry to essays and, unlike many journals, also offers critiques from their submission committee. Their goal is to promote and advance the work of writers worldwide.
The URL to the story is (insert link to page).
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Learn more about (author) at ___insert link to personal webpage______.
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IT SHOULD LOOK LIKE THIS WHEN YOU FINISH
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FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
Contact: Jane Doe
E-mail:
"http://us.f374.mail.yahoo.com/ym/Compose?To=JaneDoe@msn.com"LONG STORY SHORT Writing Site Honors Local awarding winning Author’s Short Story
Glendale, CA--The board of editors at Long Story Short has accepted Jane Doe’s story, “Happy Days,” for the month of June.
Happy Days was conceived when the author lost a friend to cancer and felt she had also lost her youth.
Edited by Denise Cassino , Linda Barnett-Johnson, and Susan Scott, Long Story Short features fine writing from fiction and poetry to essays and, unlike many journals, also offers critiques from their submission committee. Their goal is to promote and advance the work of writers worldwide
The URL to the poem/story is
Jane Doe is the author of several poems and stories published in such publications as
Learn more about Jane Doe at
"http://www.JaneDoe.com"
Linda Barnett-Johnson
Assistant Editor/Administration Director
"http://www.lsswritingschool.com/"

"http://www.alongstoryshort.net/"
"http://www.lsspublishing.com/" "http://AboutTeens.com", "http://Tapestry.com", Garden and Hearth and Reminisce Magazine. Other awards First Runner Up in the Glimmer Train contest, June 2003. "http://www.longstoryshort.us/" "/ym/Compose?To=writingfriend@yahoo.com" We now have 4 fiction forums, 2 poetry forums and 1 novel forum. We'll keep expanding with the membership. "http://www.lsswritingschool.com/" We offer free samplers of our classes on the home page. They change weekly. "http://www.lsspublishing.com/Index.html"

carlosn @ 2008-02-05T09:11:00

2008-02-05T14:18:39Z

“I saw that,” she said in response to his little finger dip in to the sauce. She pushed the little plastic red button on the mixer. The dough quickly lapped up the yeast on the bottom and formed a tight ball. She stopped the large industrial sized mixer and went back to spinning about little balls of dough in the air to make crusts.

“Don’t stop the mixer yet, it needs to mix longer. You know that dough will be hard as a rock and impossible to make in to crusts if it doesn’t mix long enough. All you’re doing is hurting yourself.” He was over by the sink in the tiny, cluttered room; the water smelled like rotten eggs—the familiar smell of sulfur, even though it was from the town’s aerated supply. The lukewarm water ran over his hands in a stream as he lathered up with soap.

He slid open a metal door and breathed in the warm breeze of cooked pizza that replaced the musty odor of the humid rain outside coming through the room’s ventilation hood. He heard the mixer come on again and pulled out the completed pizzas and put in the incomplete ones. “Order up!” he said, as he sliced through the new victims with a pizza cutter.

“Did you see the police tape?” little Lauren said as she grabbed two steaming, extra large pepperoni with cheese pizza’s with oven mitts that looked like they were about to swallow her whole.

“Police tape?” he repeated. It wasn’t that he meant to talk down to her, but she was the smallest sixteen year old he had ever seen.

“Yeah, Aunt Dina picked me up from school today, I usually walk, but she didn’t want me walking by the Connors’ house. It had police tape surrounding it. I’m going too need three more just like this, three plain cheese, an everything, and a pineapple-ham.” She could remember eight orders off the top of her head without writing them down. To Mark, that was a gift.

He quickly scratched down them down on the back of a pizza box with a very dull pencil. “Why is it so busy tonight, wholly crap. Did you hear anything about that?”

“Hear what? Why it‘s so busy?” Maria’s red Pizza Shack shirt was covered with puffs of white powder and spots of sticky dough dotted her black Dickey work pants.

Mark turned around from his work table to look at her and he cringed. Her hair net had slipped slightly and the bangs of her black hair were having a meeting with the beads of sweat on her temple. She had taken the dough out of the mixer and placed it on the warm proofing table under the heat lamp, wiped her face twice with the back of her hand and put an already proofed ball of dough on her right fist. She spun it, stretching it out in to a circle with her left hand. The dough would leap in to the air and then come back down on to her fist, ready to be sent up again for another spin. He imagined particles of grime and filth, very visible on a petry dish, swirling in to the dough.

“Sure--it’s busy because it pouring rain outside.”

“That generally brings in the crowd, even on a Sunday night. No, I was talking about...”

“There is no basketball game, because the power went out at the town gym hours ago. I think the entire girls junior varsity basketball team is out there right now eating pizza. Doesn’t the Pizza Shack run off of a different power grid? Maybe a different transformer, because obviously, we have power. People seem to be coming in by the handfuls. I don’t think I’ve ever seen it like this before, have you ever seen it like this before?” She expertly tossed another ball of dough in the air; it spun like a Frisbee on her middle finger.

He shook his head, marveling at the vulgarity of her unintended gesture. “I was talking about the yellow police tape.”

“You ok Mr. D?” she said ravaging a poor piece of gum between her teeth.

“Sure.”

“You don’t know about the Connors? This is the second time that’s happened to them.”

“When was the firs...”

“It sounds like they did the same thing they did the last time; my brother knows all about it,” she put the piece of dough on a round pizza tin to press it out a little further with the tips of her long fingers “he says they up and left their last house in a hurry. They left everything: the flat screen TV, their daughters schoolbooks, all of their clothes, a pink Hello Kitty TV, a Hannah Montana poster--in all of her lip glossed glory, and an antique cherry wood school desk; the washer, the dryer--everything. All of the windows got broken out and the place got looted fast. You would think in this town, people would be better than that; than to steal someone else's stuff.”

“I didn’t know they used to live there.” The place was obvious and hard to miss--he passed it every morning on his 5 o’clock run. It was located behind the local middle school’s track and football field. The windows weren't just busted out--they were non-existent. It was as if someone had taken the time to chisel out every little bit of glass from each individual window frame. From the vantage point of the road, looking on in to the side of the house, you could see what might have been a child's bedroom. The bed frame was there but there was no mattress. Heavily overgrown trees smothered the property and vines strangled the house, choking its rotted wood.

Mark kneeled down beneath the metal table he was working on to access the mini fridge. He grabbed a bag from it, slit open its plastic exterior and dumped its three pounds of mozzarella in to a clean bowl. He opened up the pizza oven--pulled out the done pizzas and put in more uncooked ones. Sometimes he felt like a machine; he would get a rhythm down and crank out pizza after pizza for hours. “Order up!” Little Lauren came and got them and was on her way. “Maria? Before you do anything else; would you mind washing your hands?”

“Sure Mr. D” She walked over to the sink, twisted the sliver x shaped knob and briefly shoved her hands under the water. “My brother went in there once and said he saw the strangest photographs."

“What of?” Mark’s eyes squinted as she shook her hands dry, spraying water everywhere. The paper towel dispenser sat lonely and untouched.

“There were long wisps of cigarette smoke beside and behind family members in some of the pictures. He said all of the pictures were taken inside of the house.”

“What’s so weird about mists in pictures? Maybe the camera was malfunctioning.”

“I said the same thing but he said all of the pictures were automatically dated in red by the camera on the upper right hand corner. He said the mist stuff only appeared on photos taken in the morning and afternoon of the same day they suddenly left the house for no reason.”

“The pictures were taken on the same day?”

“I guess they were in an envelope from one-hour photo express.”

It was quiet for a moment and he tried to imagine what could have happened. Maybe there was a small fire and they cleared out before it became a danger; or what if… he jumped when he heard the back-door open. “Sorry I’m late honey!” his wife Michelle said, “it’s pouring out there bad!” She shook her rainbow umbrella out by spinning it and shut it. She put her blonde hair in a ponytail and slipped her apron on over her head, tying it around her thin waist.

“Hey Mrs. Donavan,” Maria said.

“Maria was just busy scaring the crap out of me with a ghost story,” Mark said.

“Would you be able to take Eric to the mall?” Michelle fell in to the motion of things and pulled two pizzas out of the oven and began cutting them up while Mark put the two he just made in.

“To the mall? I was looking forward to watching the game.” Earlier he had a vision of him and his son kicking back on the sofa drinking Mt. Dew and eating popcorn whooping and hollering at every completed pass and first down. Now the vision had just faded to a very long and glum drive through the rain to the nearest, safest mall, a good hour away.

“The game? Oh my gosh, I completely forgot.”

“You forgot to record it?” He knew that was coming and almost expected it. His priorities were not always hers, but he didn’t shame her for it. It was a perfectly female thing to do, as it was a perfectly male thing to accidentally leave the toilet seat up.

“I’ll make it up to you later, I’m so sorry,” she said wrapping her arms around him. He was a sucker for her soft touch and puffy, pouty lips. Her dark blue eyes looked in to his and it was instant forgiveness.

“Eric’s out in the car?” he said completely relaxed from her warm embrace.

***

“Hey bud, what’s up?” and he play punched his son like he always did. Heavy rain battered the front windshield on the cars surface making it sound like it was made out of thin aluminum.

“Hey dad, is it cool if we go to the mall and get the new cd from ‘Page up’?

“Page up? That’s a new one. What, is it like Britney Spears or something?”

“No dad, it’s rock,” the thirteen year old said as if his father should have been born with this information. “It’s new and it’s really good.”

The white Mazda mini van’s tail-lights brightened up and it turned left out of the cramped parking lot. It passed a water treatment plant, the water tower, a feed store and turned left to cross the train tracks. A police car sat ominously on the other side of the road waiting for the next person to run the small town’s only red light.

Fall leaves covered lawns on front yards that seemed tiny, but wrapped around houses to larger backyards. Southern Magnolia’s and ancient Oaks sprawled out over leaning fences; bright yellow and red roses scattered the yards of people with minor green-thumbs. He pulled a left two streets down from the black and white and parked.

“What are we stopping for here dad? The mall’s that way,” and he pointed to the right. A person could skip the interstate entirely and pass through the next three towns to get there.

“C’mon, we’re going to check something out.” Mark opened up his door and the van’s ‘door open’ lights flooded the inside of the vehicle like a spotlight in the darkness.

“But the mall closes at 9:30. We’ll never make it.”

“We’ll make it.” He shut the door and upon reaching the nose of the van he noticed his son looking out at him, as the interior lights remained momentarily on before shutting off automatically. He opened up the passenger side door, “What are you doing? Let’s go.”

“Where dad? What are you doing?”

He looked at his son seriously. He was a small boy, but a spitting image of himself, with the same square jaw, dark hair and dark brown eyes. “Who won the game today?” The boy didn’t say anything but looked guilty as if he did something wrong. “You’re going to get your CD, but first I want to look at a house. I didn’t get to watch the game, so this is my special treat for the evening.” The boy showed no signs of moving and in the pouring rain, it was an odd request. “Look Eric, if it was a cute girl’s house you’d be out of the car and to the door in a second, even in the rain.”

“This isn’t a cute girl’s house dad--nobody we know lives on this street.”

“You know that house with the police tape in front of it?” The boy looked straight ahead in stubborn defiance with a worn blue Member’s-Only jacket on; he shrugged his shoulders. “We’re going to go check it out.”

He looked at his father and gave him his best you can’t be serious look—the man resembled an escapee from a sanitarium in his drenched white cook pants and white T-shirt. Eric stepped out of the vehicle and craned his neck to look down the street in both directions. Nope—all clear, there didn’t seem to be any witnesses to this insanity.

“Whose house are we going too?”

“It’s the Connors place, but they’re not there.”

“Why is there police tape around it?”

“That’s what we’re going to find out.”

Eric felt reluctant; for there to be police tape around someone’s vacant house, something tore their family a part—a death or perhaps multiple deaths. “I don’t think I want to go in there.” Thunder cracked directly overhead and he was not heard.

It was the kind of thunder that made Mark run for shelter for fear of the lightning strike that might follow. They ran under trees dripping with oversized drops and entered a muddy carport; shoes left holes in the earth that quickly filled with water; the holes spaced further and further apart as Eric chased after his father. “Dad, I’m getting soaked!”

“That’s ok! It’s good for you!”

“How is this good for me?” His mother would freak if she saw this; not just because she worried about him getting a cold, but because she worried about the family business; sickness was avoided at all cost.

They made it to the traditional southern porch without a failure of traction; rubber soles sounded like heavy hooves on its wooden planks.

With wet hands Mark pulled up a wire mesh off a waist high window and laid it aside. All of the houses in the area were old and of two styles: long with consecutive rooms and a car port on the side or two to three story French Quarter style (or Greek revival) with a separate attachment of a kitchen around back. This was one of the long ones, but it faced the road in its entirety which was unusual. All window locks on these common fifty to seventy-five year old homes gave way easily; unless the window frames were painted shut.

With the flat palm of his hand he pushed the cold pane all the way up and reached a foot in to find the floor. For a brief moment he thought he split his pants down the crotch; he was not as nimble as he used to be nor as thin.

Eric entered with slight delay—he’d already crossed the yellow line; he gritted his teeth and stayed tough in front of his father. Another chunk of thunder cracked overhead and all the windows of the house vibrated to the point of nearly shattering. “That was a close one; you’re sure nobody’s here? I thought I just heard something.”

“It was probably just my pants ripping.”

“Your pants just ripped?”

“I hope not, they weren’t cheap.” His father’s voice sounded distant, as he surveying the room. Lighting outside brightened it up like camera flashes for brief seconds at a time; it was what Mark liked to call police car lightning. It was frequent enough to resemble the lit bar of an emergency vehicle outside.

He walked to the center of the room and looked down the long hall--the customary one that showed all of the rooms all at once. Every door was open, from the living room where he was standing; to what was probably the kitchen, the dining room, a study or library, and two bedrooms. “Eric, stay here and keep watch.”

“Where are you going?” he whispered cautiously. “Let me go too, I don’t like it here. It’s creepy dad.”

“I’ll just be a second; I’m going to head down the hall.”

The sound of rain was loud. Mist was rising from the grass and the sky pummeled the sandy soil with more than it could soak up. A pond was beginning to form in the front yard. With bursts of light Eric could see a black and white picture of a man above the fireplace mantle in a military uniform. “What’s your name? Your house is really scary,” he whispered, “what do you think?” He walked over a dingy brown shag carpet with frayed edges to a huge box with a tiny screen on four peg legs. “Is this your TV?” He heard a funny, constant creaking sound like an old wooden dowel twisting and turning in its holes. “I know what that sounds like, I know what that sounds like and that’s not good.” His breathing got heavier and he squinted in to the darkness. “Is there someone there? Hello?” More thunder rattled the houses cold panes of glass. Then he found it; it was a large one with an afghan-blanket draped over it and it was moving back and forth; back on its rocking horse legs and then forwards to its tippy toes. “Don’t do that—you’re not supposed to do that!” The chair reached the highest point of its forward motion and then suddenly stopped. He stared at its suspended animation in wide eyed disbelief.

Eric's hair feathered as a cold breeze rushed through his hair. He sprinted to the kitchens entrance, his heart racing a million miles an hour. The door slammed shut from the inside. “Dad, Dad!” Eric turned the brass knob and shoved the door back open. His father stood five rooms away and occasional flashes of lightning from a window behind him illuminated his figure.

The door to his room shut from the inside. Why did he close the door? “Dad! Why did you…” The rest of the doors between him and his father slammed shut in rapid succession. Eric kicked at the kitchen door as hard as he could as it came shut; there was the sound of splintering wood as his Nike Airs punched a hole through it.

“Dad! Dad! What’s going on?” and he heard the creaking sound again. He didn’t want to look. What if there was someone sitting there this time? What if it was a skeleton or a corpse--a maggot infested corpse, grinning, rocking with glee back and forth; an old woman—the man in the black and white photos wife, knitting together screaming kitten heads. He heard a metal clinking sound and looked to the mantle--the fireplace poker in its black metal stand started shaking violently. He rushed in to the kitchen straight to the next door. “Dad!” He turned the handle, pushed open the door and ran to the next door. He turned the golden brass handle--it was locked for a second and then turned. He pushed the door open and ran in to the next room.

A lace curtain hung above a tall queen size bed. There was a vanity, a chair covered up in a sheet and a plush red carpet beneath his feet. He tried flicking a light switch on the wall--nothing. He felt a wind on the back of his neck and looked up behind him; the ceiling fan was spinning like a helicopter blade. “It’s spinning without power, it’s spinning without power,” he said to himself, “it can’t do that, it’s not allowed too.” Eric grabbed the door handle. “Chairs aren’t allowed to rock by themselves and ceiling fans don’t spin without electricity!” It wouldn’t budge one way or the other.

“Eric?” he heard his dad say from the other side of the door.

“Open the door dad!” He heard the door knob rattle from the other side.

“I can’t! It won’t budge!” There was a brief pause and then complete silence; just the steady flicker of lightning.

“Oh God, Oh God!” His father began to scream. “Get them out of me! Get them out of me!”

***

Dizziness, headache, drowsiness, lightheadedness, insomnia, fatigue, nervousness, decreased concentration, ,. noise intolerance, euphoria/feeling high, , , loss of interest, , ,., slurred speech, cold intolerance,.

rigid/stiff muscles, tingling of limbs, stiff neck, rigidity of jaw,

Dry mouth, sweating/clamminess, blurred vision,..

Lorazepam relieves anxiety and nervousness

The inside of Mark’s head pounded and he slowly opened his eyes; the white ceiling tile above him began to drift and he shut his eyes tight to stop the motion.

“Eric?” He opened his eyes again; small circles of light in the overhead dimly lit the room casting shadows on objects. He looked across the room and tried moving; his body felt sore like he’d been hit by a truck. “Mithelle?” He let out a breath of air to combat the sour rising pressure in the back of his throat and he swallowed, “Michelle?” That time it came out better.

Moving his slightly elevated head he could see her; he recognized that familiar blonde ponytail anywhere. Her arms clutched together in a hug, her face turned away from him;. Her hair had a haziness to it as did the pastel green 1970 style chair she sat on. She turned her head and her blue eyes brightened up. “Mark! Mark! Your awake!” Her smile stretched from ear to ear, but she slowly approached and topped short of him; she inched a little closer to arms length. “How are you feeling?”

“Not right.” His head had an itch and he tried to scratch it; there was a funny tug when he tried to lift his aching arm; he looked; a clear tube pulled lightly at the medical tape wrapped around his wrist; a bag of Saline Solution hung on a hook from a metal stand next to his bed. He tried to move his right hand, but there was a sharp pain as something sharp, cold and metal bit in to his wrist. He wanted to look but the room kept spinning, even with his eyes closed; his mouth felt full of cotton.

“One second okay?” She left the room, walking between a chair and a low coffee table picking up her pace as she rounded it. He opened his eyes to see the back of her leg clear the door out, as she broke in to a sprint.

To his left there was a tall thin table with an assortment of yellow, red and tropical orange roses was on it; next to it a painting of two penguins on a small iceberg. They started to float away on their icy prison and he turned his head.

A police officer came back with her in to the room. He tried to sit up and the sharp cold metal pain bit in to his wrist again. He tried turning around to look—there was no headboard to lean on, so he scooted his head up higher on his pillow. “Why am I handcuffed? I don’t remember getting injured. Where’s Eric?”

“Mr. Donavan, I’m from the Pineridge County’s Sheriffs Department.”

The handcuff clinked against the metal railing it was attached too as he rested his arm back down. “I know who you are. Michelle? Is Eric ok?”

“He’s fine honey; will you please listen to what this man has to say?”

“Sure.” Mark said impatiently, holding his tongue.

The police officer assessed the situation; this man seemed coherent enough. “Mr. Donavan. What were you doing at 21045 Oak Rd. at 9PM at last night? Why were you there?”

Lawyer was the first thing to pop in to Marks brain and then the words anything you say can be used against you in a court of law. “Am I in trouble here? Because if I am I don’t wish to answer any more questions.” .

“Sir, I haven’t read your Miranda rights, because you haven’t been accused of anything, therefore you do not have to remain silent. The occupants do not wish to charge you with breaking and entering for the damage to the door.

“Damage to the door? What door?” His eyes brightened and he remembered everything but held his tongue.

“The door I had to kick in last night to get you out of that house.”

“You know about the house? Then you know why I went in there. I was just curious.”

The police officer put his head down, laughed lightly and shook his head. “Let me rephrase what I just said, “The door I had to kick in last night to get you out of the residence of 21045 Oak Rd.”

“So you know about the house then.”

“What I do know I can’t tell you because I could loose my job; it’s confidential. What I can tell you, is to stay away from that house and to stay clear of any Connors house they ever live in or have lived in.”

Mark shook his head in agreement the best he could from a pillow and welcomed the reprimand; a sign his detention might be over. “There’s one problem, the last thing I remember I was in the bedroom; I can’t seem to remember anything after that.”

“Pain compliance,” the officer said.

“Pain compliance?”

“I had to taser you to get you to calm down, you were hysterical.”

“Tasered? So that’s why I feel like I got my ass kicked; you think I would have remember that.”

“You would think, you don‘t remember why you went, excuse the phrase, completely nutts?”

“No sir, not really. How is it I slept all night?”

“I believe they used Lorazepam on you, because after I subdued you and put you in the patrol car, you were not to your senses yet.”

“Lorazepam? What in the heck is that?

“I believe it’s a medicine designed to slow down the central nervous system; they used to use on people in sanitariums in the mid 90’s. In short: its a depressant used to slow down brain activity; my wife works here, she’s a nurse. I guess I’ve picked up some of the lingo. I needed to talk to you to make sure your fine. I had a conversation with your family practitioner and he suggested, and this is only if you appeared to have your witts about you agaig, to have the hospital’s resident psychiatrist to do a standard psychological evaluation on you before you leave.”

“Good, so I can get these handcuffs off then.”

The police officer sighed. “Now for the hard part, there’s a matter that has to be cleared with your son.”

“I Thought you said he was ok Michelle?”

They made me call child protective services honey.” She said as tears streamed down her face.

“What? Why? I didn’t hurt him did I? God! I wish I could remember something! What did I do?”

The police officer folder his hand together and said solemnly, “you struck your son.”

“Well if I did I didn’t mean it. Can I see him please?”

The officer looked at Mrs. Donovan, “is that alright with you?”

She might have tried to get him to stay at a friends house, but he insisted on staying the night. Make the audience cry

“I don’t see why not, he said he didn’t meant to do it.”

Marks squinted to look across the room and his head felt light like it was full of helium. “The handcuffs?”

“They stay on for the time being.”

“Can you at least cover it up with the sheet so he can’t see—it’s embarrassing.

The boy walked in looking down at the floor.

“Hey kiddo, what’s going on?” He

“Maria! You got that dough ready yet?” He put a #10 can of pre-seasoned pizza sauce on the automatic can opener. It hummed around back to its starting point; he stopped the mechanism and pulled the can off; dipped his finger in the cold sauce and tasted its rich texture of tomato pure, basil and oregano; it pleased his palette. He dumped the can’s contents in to a shiny metal bowl and proceeded to make pizza with the ingredients laid out before him: mozzarella cheese, olives, peppers, heavily smoked pork sausage, and onions.

carlosn @ 2008-01-23T15:41:00

2008-01-23T20:42:25Z

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” She yelled, but that was exactly what they were up too. They had done it to that new kid Simon just last weekend. Had filled him up with so much alcohol that he had no recollection of the events. Just that he had woken up naked in the center of the town’s Baseball diamond. It was better that way--that he didn’t remember. Because the things Trent did to him made her wonder of Trent’s sexual orientation.

“Not us,” Takashi said. “No way. We’ve got something for you.” He pulled on the recliners wooden handle and leaned it back so she was in the supine position. He tied off her arm above the elbow with a long rubber band. The Tourniquet exposed the median cubital vein and she felt it pulse as it stressed from the tension. He brutally shoved a large bore needle in to her arm and she turned her head knowing that if she looked, she might faint.

“That needle better be sterilized,” she said.

“Sterilized?” The boy with the fetid breath said. It was worse than her grandfather’s halitosis. “In a little bit you’re going to be immune to ever disease on the face of the earth. How does that feel?” But she ignored him. Her thoughts were elsewhere.

She couldn’t watch her own doctor do random blood work without feeling dizzy. It was the only reason she was apprehensive about continuing the very beginning of nursing school at the local community college. She didn’t know if she would be able to follow through with it and she watched nurses as much as possible take blood during the clinical practice portion of the class. She was trying to season herself, but this wasn’t helping.

She turned her head and forced herself to watch the process going on with her arm. The blood rapidly flowed from the vein, through the needle, through the tube and in to what she thought would be a collection bag. She learned over to look at the bag. “Where’s the collection bag?”

“Well,” Takashi said. “Due to our limited supply, we don’t have anything that will hold half the blood of your body. So we had to find something bigger--a gallon milk jug.”

“Half?” She questioned frantically. “What do you mean half?” And her eyes began to sting with tears. A horrible realization hit her. They meant to kill her. After watching all of those episodes of America’s Most Wanted with John Walsh. So that she would be able to pick out a dangerous person out of society. Just in case they decided to follow her home one night from her part time job at JcPennies. Here they were right here--two young gentlemen, crazy as loons.

“You wouldn’t want us to take all of your blood would you?” Frank laughed.

***

Outside in the Camaro Trent was toasted. He was working on his 8th Busch, finished it, and once again threw it in to the back seat in to Milo’s face.

“Maybe we should check on her?” Milo said rubbing the sore spot on his forehead where the can hit.

“No, she’s good,” and Trent burped loudly, a long and satisfying one. It was a winner.

Milo now understood the importance of the beer. His new friend, his new alcoholic friend that is, planned on drinking the rest. It seemed he wanted his time to do so, as if he were trying to escape reality. He didn’t understand why anyone would want to escape reality while with a girl like that. She looked like a dream.

Trent looked over at the house. His hot girlfriend was still busy. He cracked open number nine, leaned back in his seat and contemplated getting out to use nature’s bathroom.

***

“I wouldn’t worry about things Missy. My guess is your somewhere between 110lbs and 154lbs right?” Takashi said. Missy was beginning to feel overly relaxed and the tips of her fingers and toes were getting numb. She struggled to lean over again to look at the gallon jug. Tiny tributaries of her blood streaked down the side of it using random paths of the least resistance. They moved this way and that as it filled up with the liquid that was only slightly denser than water. She knew what he was going to say--a rough calculation of how much blood he was going to release.

“We’re only going to let out 2 quarts ok?” Frank said. “Your body has at least a full gallon.”

“And, that should be it.” Takashi pinched the tube off with a metal clip.

“I think I’m dying,” she said weakly.” Her voice was raspy and her breathing was slow and shallow.

Frank jumped off of her and picked up a tall wooden hat rack from the kitchen. A heavy milk jug hung from one of its wooden dowels and it swung slightly from the weight of the dark red liquid in it. He set it next to the right side of the chair and it leaned slightly against it. “We wouldn’t want this to fall over would we? That would be quite a mess.”

“Whose blood is that?” She whispered.

“It belonged to this fellow we met during one of our father's blood drives.”

“You are brothers?” She whispered again with eyes nearly closed.

“That’s right,” Frank said “adopted and brought up as one of his own. We’re going to adopt you.”

“That's right,” Takashi said with all of his signs of sadness gone, “you're going to be our sister.”

Frank put a hypodermic syringe with a tube running from it in to the bottom of the jug on the coat rack. It was sealed momentarily until he unplugged the bore needle in her arm from its bloody tube and plugged in the new tube. He released the metal clip and let the blood flow from the jug on the coat rack to her arm. “When we found our father, a man was leached on to him. We were able to incapacitate him with a couple of silver scalpels to his neck and chest. The only way we were able to fully immobilize him was to take all of his blood.”

“So seeing as we were in the Win-Dixie parking lot.” Takashi added. “I got a couple milk jugs from the store. Dumped out the contents, rinsed them out in the bathroom and when I got back to the van I added some acid citrate dextrose.”

She knew what that was--an anticoagulant to keep blood from clotting, preserving it for a long period of time. “This is his blood?”

“Not anymore,” Frank said looking at her from a kneeling position on her right. “We used it but we kept the same jug fresh with our own.”

“What’s the point?” She said feeling slightly stronger. “If it’s not my blood type my body will reject it. Right?”

“No,” Takashi said, “that’s the great thing about this blood. Your immune system will not be bothered by it. Your body will accept it as if it were its own.”

“And you know how long it took to get this jug filled back up with more blood?” Frank said, excited. “12 weeks! A cup here, a cup there from each of us.”

“I still don’t get it.” Missy said.

“We’re altruists!” Takashi said smiling broadly.

“What?” She said confused.

“I don’t think she gets it.” Frank said, talking to Takashi as if she weren’t there. “This blood belongs to the Paracanthopoma Nosferatu,” he said to her. “The Paracanthopoma Vampyra or Paranthopoma Draculae. Take your pick.”

“You’re crazy,” she said. “You both are.”

“Frank pinched the tube off and she reflected on her current physical status. She put her hand to her heart. She certainly wasn’t dead. It beat rapidly and she sat up feeling a sudden rush of adrenaline. It was as if she had just drunk a gallon of sweet-T or way too much heavily sugared blonde and sweet coffee. The room looked clearer--crystal clear and brighter even though the same poor lighting existed in the room.

“If we’re so crazy,” Frank said “then tell me-- how do you feel?”

She pulled the bore needle out of her arm and a small jet of blood squirted out. She quickly bent her arm at the elbow to apply pressure to the vein. She briefly turned her head to look at the front door. It looked welcoming and the process of immediate flight crossed her mind. Why would they stop her? They hadn’t intended to harm her, though they had nearly killed her. “You said you’re altruists? But if you were true altruists you would help without true expectation of reward right? And you wouldn’t hurt me.”

“Go on,” Frank said with curiosity. Takashi leaned over the back of the now upright E-Z chair as she sat on its edge.

“Your Utilitarian.”

“No we’re not.” Frank said with an un-emotional straight face. The statement seemed to bother him. “What do you know? You’re dating a dumb jock that couldn’t get a scholarship to play college football. He’s arrogant and he’s had academic and behavioral issues all through high school. Everybody knows that and we’ve only been going to the school for two weeks. If we thought he was worth anything, we would have helped him too.”

“Wait a minute,” she said, clearing her head of everything. “What do you mean ‘helped’? How do you feel you helped me?”

“Because,” Takashi said, “we set you free.”

“This wasn’t planned but of all of the people in the world we were glad it’s was you.” Frank added.

“I still think you’re practicing Utilitarianism. You’re trying to do the greatest amount of good for the greatest amount of people. So, you’re helping yourselves by improving the world. You plan on populating the world with your kind.”

“No.” Frank said, raising his voice in anger. “Takashi and I--we didn’t ask to be this. It’s all right, and when it happened we accepted it.”

“What do you mean when it happened? It happened to your father, not you.” She thought for a long second. “Oh! Now I get it! I get it!” She understood what they were up too. “You lost your father and knowing what you killed, you used its blood to stay brothers forever for fear of losing each other. You want to adopt me in to your family.” She wanted to tell them they couldn’t do this. That they couldn’t make this kind of permanent decision for her. But she was struck hard by the sincerity of there actions. They actually wanted her as a sister. Someone to take the place of their father in their odd, eternal hearts. During this time frame, she stared at the ground in thought and then looked up at them with tears in her eyes. “I’ll still be able to see my regular family? I live in an apartment in Glendale Heights. I haven’t lived at home in some time.”

“You can see you family anytime you want.” Frank said, now calmed down some.

It seemed to her that he angered easily. She turned around and looked at Takashi. He was smiling at her and pleased as punch. It was clear what had been bothering him--he missed his father. “So you are altruists,” she said “you’ve relieved me of my bond to the people that needed me and used me; needed me more than I really needed them. I never would have been able to get Trent out of my life. This action did not benefit you at all, as an altruist believes in the best interest and welfare of others without any expectation of reward. What you’ve done to me is more than morally right.”

“Only if you believe that what we’ve done to you helped you more than it helped us.”

“I don’t know about that,” she smiled. “Just by being here I’m helping you guys a lot. But why do you feel you have an obligation to benefit others?”

“We’re not bad people.” Takashi said, looking at his brother. Frank agreed--”Nope, we’re not. Think about it this way--we have a gift. If you could live forever--wouldn’t you want to share it?”

“She thought again for a second. “It would depend on the overall consequences. I guess we’re just going to have to be selective with the people we help. Help the wrong person and you could have a real problem.”

“Like Trent.” Frank said.

“Yes.” Like Trent.” Takashi said.

***

Takashi was the last one out the door. Missy spied Trent around the back of the Camaro relieving himself in the Florida sand. “Hey, what took you guys so long?” He said in a giddy fashion. “I was beginning to wonder if you were ever coming out.”

She opened up the Camaro’s broad passenger door. “How many did you have?” She said as she poked her head in. She could smell the strong musty odor of spilled drops of beer emanating from the crushed cans. He never finished them all the way through. He said the very last warm bit; the watered down portion that barely contained alcohol made him gag.

“Excuse me.” He said as he shoved her aside to get in to the vehicle. “Hey, this is the wrong side huh? Milo! Why didn’t you tell me this was the wrong side you moron!”

“Sorry Trent.” Milo said from the back seat, though it was barely audible.

“Trent,” Missy said nicely “why don't I drive, I’m interested in making it home alive tonight.”

“No, I’ve got it woman,” he said with heavily slurred speech. Frank grabbed his arm while Melissa walked over to the driver’s side to get it. “Let go of me! I can drive! Hey you’re strong--you ever thought about playing football?” Trent had pulled on Frank’s arm--hard. Hard enough to pull a three hundred-pound man off balance and the boy hadn't budged.

“Why don’t you get in to the car, we can discuss it on the way to the park.”

“Well okay.” Trent said reluctantly and got in the car.

Frank leaned over and flicked the handle that moved the passenger seat forward. Trent leaned forward to make room and hit his head on the dash, “Ow!”

Franks feet crunched on the Busch beer cans on the rubber floor mats and he slid over Milo to the window. Takashi got in and pulled the door shut.

She turned the key and the car hummed to life with its deep, low, stuttering growl. “I’ve always wanted to drive this car.” She said.

“Well good,” Trent said as his glassy bloodshot eyes functioned lazily “here’s you chance.”

The moonlight cast an eerie glow on the cars silver surface. Missy leaned her elbow out the open window with her other hand on the wheel as she waited for a massive logging truck to rush by. The front windshield was cold with dew on the outside, as if the car were perspiring from the strength of its own aggressive nature. Trent put a hand on her thigh but she ignored it and floored it out on to the open state-road.

“Have you ever considered a career in football?” Trent said again. Milo shrunk down in his seat, he knew what was coming. “I sent video highlights of my playing out to college recruiters, I mean I was good. It looks like I’m going to be a ‘walk on’ instead.”

“What’s a walk on Trent?” Frank asked. He looked outside in to the night--tall fields of pines lined the road with endless swamps behind them.

“It means I’m going to have to pay my own tuition with the hopes of making a team or receiving a scholarship.”

“Or making it on the local two-year college, non-scholarship team, because you have academic and behavioral issues.” Missy said.

“Behavioral issues?” And he barely got the word behavioral out of his mouth. His tongue twisted and disfigured the word, giving it numerous un-required syllables.

There was a brief silence. His left arm went full force, straight and solid like a 2 by 4 in to her face. The center of the back of his hand hit her squarely on the nose. The car swerved nearly running off the road. “You think you’re so smart! From day one--everything that's ever came out of your mouth was smart, smart, smart!” He relaxed putting his hand in his lap. “I fixed you didn’t I,” and he glared in to the darkness and then smiled while hanging on to the anger.

Takashi put both his hands on the back of Trent’s headrest squeezing it tight. His thumbs punctured the tough black leather and he gritted his teeth hard, grinding them. “Easy Takashi,” Frank whispered and he patted him on the back. “He belongs to her.”

Milo watched with wide eyes in amazement as Takashi removed his thumbs from the back of the seat. Milo tried it out. He pressed his thumb hard in to the back of Missy’s seat. “How did you do that?”

Missy shook her head. Her nose stung in pain and her eyes watered. She felt herself wanting to cry--to express how much she was sick of him. Sick of him telling her what to do all of the time. Sick of being his trophy, always they’re at his dad’s restaurant in the evenings at the edge of the bar. They’re to impress and wow his friends. He didn’t know anything about her. “Am I going to grow teeth?” She asked both of the boys in back, excluding Milo.

Takashi laughed, lightening up a little. “Sounds like someone has been reading too many Anne Rice novels.”

Melissa looked over at Trent who was finishing off Busch #10. She put her left knee under the steering wheel to hold the car steady and looked over to see where his left arm lay. She reached over with her right arm, grabbed his hand, put it in her left hand and held it tight. With dizzying speed, her arm a blur, she grabbed the switchblade out of his shirt pocket and flipped it open.

Trent looked over at her. His right hand tipped his beer and it spilled in a cool golden stream in to his lap. “Hey?” His body felt numb from the excessive beers, but he could feel an open wound on his wrist. He looked at the switchblade sitting in her lap and dropped his can of beer. He grabbed at the knife with his right hand. She pulled on his hand and turned his wrist, pushing on the outside of his muscular arm at the elbow. His face, contorted with pain, pressed against the cool dash. All he could think about was saying was one thing “Uncle, uncle! Missy, Missy! I give up! I give up!” Milo scooted forward to the edge of his seat in the middle of car and put both hands on the seats in front of him craning his neck to see what she was doing. He had no words for what he saw.

She sucked harder on his wrist and the liquid began to come as a solid stream. It came fast and it squirted in pulses in to the back of her throat. ‘Uncle’ he kept saying. She felt a full feeling as if she had just eaten a medium rare steak, shrimp, mashed potatoes and peas with an order of grits on the side just to keep it real. The sound of ‘Uncle’ grew weaker. She pulled her full lips off his wrist. Blood did not issue forth from the wound anymore. His wrist was just an open, smiling, fleshy red mouth. His skin was ash and pale like powder and his breathing stopped. While still holding his hand with her left, she pushed on the back of his elbow with her right forearm and snapped it like a twig.

Milo winced at the sight and breathed hard out his nose. His heart raced and he felt out of breath. She tossed Trent's limp, floppy ligament aside and his body slid toward the gearshift. “C’mon, get out of the way.”

“Jesus Christ! What did you do?” Milo gasped.

“How did that feel?” Frank asked.

“It felt all right.” She felt un-emotional about it, but then relaxed. “I guess it felt ok. You’ve done that before?”

“You have to eliminate the weak people from your life to access more strength. Think about it this way--he’s better off now. You put him out of his misery.” Takashi said.

“And I did unselfishly help him without any thought of own personal gain or expectation of reward.” Missy said.

“I think so.” Frank agreed and the more you do it the easier it will get.

“That really wasn’t all that hard.” And she looked over at Trent. The best place for his body would be in some random swamp where the gators would finish him off.

“I think we have a natural.” Takashi said now a completely different person. He felt happier than he had been in awhile.

“I think it was wrong to do it out of anger though.”

“Hey,” and Frank leaned up in his seat to put his head on her shoulder “all in all we’re eliminating the weak and freeing the intellectually superior. You know what they say--’stupid people shouldn’t breed’.”

“Hungry?” Frank asked Takashi.

“Very.” Takashi said and they both turned to look at the still stunned Milo.

carlosn @ 2008-01-23T15:40:00

2008-01-23T20:41:04Z

The cherry red 1969 Camaro 502 pulled up to the brightly lit Sunoco Gas station. Its store and signs glowed yellow and looked like an oasis for rednecks; a beacon of hope for those parched between sessions of heavy drinking. Moths and other Floridian insect life fluttered about dusty fluorescent tubes and signs for sales were haphazardly taped to the windows.

A tall, blue truck with muddy tires pulled up next to the Camaro’s wide and low stature. Vehicles darted in and out of the nightly stop, busy people with their road beers to go.

Milo leaned over the Camaro’s black leather seat to steal a whiff of Missy’s thick, dark brunette hair. It wasn’t his girl and he secretly cherished and coveted her beauty. “Busch right? We are getting Busch?” He said. “I swear to God I hate Budweiser.”

“Milo,” Trent said from the driver’s seat, “nobody cares what you like or dislike.” His voice was gravely and commanding. It always was--just one notched louder than anyone else's and because of this people listened.

“So, then what are we getting then baby?” Missy said putting her hand on his leg, smoothing his ball hugging Levi jeans with long fingered, red nailed strokes. He grabbed her thin little wrist and tossed it back hard in to her lap. “Hey!” She said detesting her hands rough removal.

Milo laughed. “He’s just pissed because he’s going to be a walk on.”

Trent spun around in his seat and grabbed Milo by the back of his long, black rocker hair. He flicked open a 4 inch switchblade and held it to the boys neck. His wrist was taut and unwavering. Milo’s eyes struggled to look down at the weapon. The knives shiny silver blade was making a small section of his pink flesh white as it pressed in to his skin. “You mention that scholarship one more time and I swear to God I’ll slit your throat.”

“Take it easy Trent,” Milo said in a hurried, panicked voice, “they saw the tapes man. They saw them and it won’t be long until you get one of those phone calls. One thing’s for sure, you’ll never get that call in prison.

Trent thought about it for a second. He relaxed his hold on the boy’s hair and put the blade back in to his deep flannel shirt pocket. “I guess you’re right. Missy? What are you still doing here?” He said aggravated.

She kept her lips pursed, she knew better. She felt trained, but she felt wise--she knew when to keep her mouth shut. She pulled on the cars shiny chrome handle to exit and got one foot out the door in to the cold winter night. “Oh, and Missy!” He yelled as if she were far away. Don’t buy any girly wine coolers this time!”

“Sure thing babe.” She said hastily shutting the door on his voice. She had gotten the Strawberry Daiquiri wine coolers last time for fun because she had grown tired of the sharp and ordinary taste of beer. If allowed she would have gotten them again in a second; maybe an ice cold blue coconut Bartles and James. “Hey there pretty lady.” A voice said from her right. It was some man in the usual redneck attire, pure team real-tree camouflage--all decked out and ready to shine some deer. She imagined him performing this illegal sport-- catching the animals off guard with high powered spotlights, while picking them off one by one with skilled shots to specific parts of their anatomy.

“Hey there yourself.” She mumbled. The fluorescence of the down home southern mini-mart brought reality home. It always did. The eyes couldn’t hide in the bright white light. Even behind rose colored glasses three shades too dark from the evils of intoxication. She was thankful she hadn’t started yet. She was going to be careful to stay away from a night of debauchery. She knew if she had too much to drink she would end up at someone’s house at the end of the night doing a striptease on their kitchen table. Self control was very important--she had to stay in control. She supposed that’s why Trent was so appealing to her. He controlled her. How could you lose control if someone else was playing you like a marionette; with a certain amount of respect of course.

The customary electronic ding of the store door sounded off as she gained access. She could see out of the corner of her eye a man ogling her backside as he headed out in to the brisk winter night. Nice, she thought to herself. He probably has six daughters but that wouldn’t stop anyone in town from sneaking a peek at her frayed daisy dukes.

She walked down the narrow isle as a woman in her mid thirties passed by with leathery sun ripened skin, a green tank-top and no bra. That’s why she didn’t like this store. It wasn’t anything like the one near the back roads. A place where the houses near it were bigger and the people who dwelled in them tended to more normal, civilized lives; where the people married for life and families stuck together through thick and thin. The area she was from.

She passed the ten cent candy racks and a small newsstand with the monthly swimsuit issue of Plush. The woman on the cover’s light brown eyes met hers as she crouched down to view the odd selection of alcohol: candy flavored red Saint Ides malt liquor and Zima-like energy drinks. She opened up the cooler to get a 12 pack of canned Busch and the stagnant air from the back room greeted her face a long with the smell of soured milk. She coughed lightly at its foul breath and crunched back over the remnants of a leaky bag of cat litter. It was partially turned in to tan mud from the wall to wall refrigerators condensation.

Missy reached a cluttered isle of magazine racks with Maxim’s and auto-traders. Little Debbie snack cakes and buy one get one free honey buns called out to her as she rounded the counter to get next in line.

“Pump 7. I didn’t say pump 8.” The fussy man said in front of her. “I only put 5 dollars in to my tank and I paid for 45. You see that truck out there? You know how far 5 bucks will get me? About 2 feet.” He huffed for a second. “You know what son? Just give me back 40 and I’ll go somewhere else.”

“I can’t.”

“You can’t? What do you mean you can’t?”

“Somebody just pumped 45 dollars in to pump 7. I think they just drove off.”

“My 45 dollars?”

“Yes sir.” The cahier said, feeling satisfied that this man was properly screwed out of his money.

“You know what young man?” And he pointed a stern finger at the 22 year old with ragged, poorly cut blonde hair and a red, cheap, cotton vest. “Your manager is going to hear from me. You got that?”

“Yes sir. I’m really sorry sir.”

Missy quickly stepped back as the man stormed passed her. “Wow, rough night huh?” And she clanked down the 12 pack of cans down on the counter.

“Can I see some I.D. mam?”

“My I.D.?” And she leaned over the counter on her elbows. The low scoop neckline of her baby blue shirt dropped low. His eyes followed the edge of her pink lacy bra to the curvy lines of her smooth olive complected cleavage and met her curious gaze.

“Daddy? I have to go potty,” said a little girl behind her. “I have to go potty really bad.” The cahier focused his attention on the tall bearded man who clutched the child’s tiny hand, though his mind was still distant from reality.

“Sir?” The father said. “Could you hurry it up please--unless you’ve got a bathroom key?”

“Here.” The cashier said reaching over the blue cardboard case of Busch, handing the man the key on a wooden lanyard made out of driftwood. Three more people replaced him in line.

“I think I left it in my car outside,” Missy said while tossing her dark brown hair to one side, leaning over slightly further “could you keep the case behind the counter while I go get it?”

“That’ll be eleven-fifty ok?” He said quickly, glancing at her soft curvy features once more hopefully without getting caught. His gaze met her curious dark blue eyes again and then he looked around her at the now ten impatient people in line.

“Hey thanks, that’s really nice of you. I won’t forget it next time--I promise.” She said handing him twelve dollars. She received her change and then bounced out the door with the electronic chime.

***

Missy took a deep swig of Trent’s Busch beer. She grimaced as it soured slightly and fizzed on her palate. Her only delight was in its natural carbonation and smooth ice-cold texture. “Well, that’s not too bad,” she said.

“Better than wine coolers,” he said in return. He wasn’t witty, but everything he said mattered to her. His brutal words often remained with her but she licked the wounds clean when he was not there. That’s how she supposed she had been with him for so long now, unscathed by his insensitive personality.

“So, we’re going to do what you said before?” Milo said quietly, passively and meekly, from the back seat. Trent didn’t answer.

Missy knew exactly where they were headed, to a destination un-known. Maybe not even known to Trent. She pushed the silver button on the car’s glove box and it slowly opened like some ancient drawbridge. She pulled a CD out she had stashed earlier called “Mixes for Trent” and put it in.

“What’s this?” Trent said. The Camaro’s yellow eyes watched carefully for deer as he sped a long the vacant state-road at a comfortable 70. “Some more of your brothers freak music?”

Missy kicked off her cheap, non-descript white Payless shoes and put her bare-feet on the dash. It was her own secret ploy. She knew he liked it--the curves of her thighs, smooth legs and buttocks on display. Especially when she was wearing her cutoff Daisy Dukes or soccer shorts. It made him look out of the corner of his eye and attention from Trent was a rarity.

“Well?” He said, while sneaking a peak at her sensual pose.

“I like it,” Milo said, as the bass of the music’s hip-hop sounds mixed with deep unsteady guitar riffs.

“Nobody asked you,” Trent mumbled.

“It’s just some mix I made for you from my brother’s I-Tunes selection.” Missy said.

Trent didn’t respond. He crushed the fat aluminum waistline of his current can of beer and tossed it in the back. It hit Milo in the face and he fizzed open another. Missy trained her ears on his lustful gulps. It was his third and she hoped he was going to stop soon.

***

He pulled off the state road on to a long dirt road that was barely accessible. The aggressive roots of bushes held fast; their leathery leaves of heavy growth brushed against the car as it drove through the thick mess.

The vehicle came to a stop in front of a house up on stilts. When it rained it poured and the nearby reddish brown tannic river flooded out to the edge of the front porch twenty feet up.

“What are we doing here?” Milo wined. “I thought we were going to the park.”

“Apparently not,” Trent said while shutting off the cars growling engine.

“Whose house is this?” Missy asked. This area was unfamiliar to her and she avoided it. Dangerous nightlife lived here--pygmy rattlers and Florida panthers that stalked unsuspecting prey.

“It’s your stop,” Trent said irritably.

“My stop?”

“You know the two new kids in school: Takashi and Frank?”

“You mean those two who are always in the cafeteria with their nose in a book?” She said uninterested.

Trent pulled out a full fifth of Jack Daniels out from under his seat. “We’re going to have a party." And Trent turned in his seat to give her full eye contact for the first time that night. He looked her up and down taking in the length of her beauty. "Well?"

“Sure thing babe” and she leaned over for a kiss. She knew the drill, though the new Milo didn’t. Get the boys, talk to them for a bit and then coax them in to the car with heavy flirtation. The process never failed.

***

She hurried up the hollow wooden steps. The heel of her left hand slicked a long the mossy wood of the stair’s steep handrail and she slowed her ascent just in case she slipped. At the top there was a porch that wrapped halfway around the house. An air conditioner hummed in the silent night while water dripped from it down on to the muddy sandy soil. Vines trailed up the house strangling it out, fused to the structure that was made entirely out of nearly indestructible slash pine.

Missy knocked on the door. She listened attentively putting her ear to its cold surface, straining to hear the sound of footsteps. She realized she suddenly felt nervous like a little girl knocking on a friend’s house--a residence belonging to someone she might have been more curious about in younger more innocent days.

There was no answer. She started to knock again when the door quickly opened up a crack. The round face of a boy peered out with sullen eyes and then it slammed shut. The sound struck the darkness of the night, but did not wake a thing. All those things were already awake. She heard the latch of the door chain pull back and then click against the top of the door; it opened up abruptly and she let herself in.

One thing she had learned from Trent, it was not to be shy. She pushed past the short, sad looking Japanese boy. She entered all of Trent’s requested excursions in the same manner--invited or not. She was not allowed to fail. The one time she did fail to collect her prize he ignored her for an entire day and instructed her friends to do the same. The feeling of loneliness had nearly been too great for her to bear.

“How’s it going guys?” She said as the Japanese boy shut the door behind her. She felt a mild warmth wash through her from head to toe when she met the gaze of the other boy as he emerged from the kitchen. She looked him up and down as a female would showing rare interest. Trent was the only one who awakened her body and that usually took a while. This boy did it at one glance.

His lack of attire was appealing. He wore worn jeans and no shirt. His body was overly thin and his ribcage was visible beneath his pale white skin. He face was long and serious and yet his eyes displayed something else entirely--a haunting mystery she wished she could touch. He looked beautiful to her and she felt a longing to cares his frailty.

He looked at her and then walked over behind a heavy looking forest green recliner. “Great. How are you?” He said bluntly--a frankness that, to her, did not match his soothing appearance.

“I was wondering if you guys would like to go to a party.” She said while frowning at the condition of the room. She tried not to let the expression show and her eyes surveyed its horrendous condition.

There was a tall bookshelf next to the kitchen door crammed with books. Magazine lay on the floor in front of it: Popular Science, National Geographic, and Discovery. Magazines that to her belonged in the home of the elderly. Next to it was a computer desk with no computer. Dirty dishes covered it--a molding plate of spaghetti soured her eyes. Dirty clothes and laundry were all over the floor to the bedroom and she could see and hear the ceiling fan in the room. It spun out of control like a dangerous helicopter blade. It was one of those houses so small that every room was visible from the living room.

“A party?” The Japanese boy said with a glum demeanor. Her eyes met a couple objects of curiosity. The first was a long piece of rice paper hung up next to an FHM calendar of a scantily clad woman with bright blue lingerie, a garter and stockings to match. The land of the rising sun was on the rice paper.

It was carefully painted and an elongated bonsai tree was beneath it with Japanese characters scrolled from left to right. “What does that say?” She said, trying to ignore the condition of the room. She almost felt the urge to start picking up things for the boys. “Is that about your family lineage or something?”

“It’s a haiku isn’t it?” Frank said, asking Takashi.

“It is. It says:

‘Kudzu strangled house

Overgrown vines and tangled veins

Summer place of pain.’

“Gee, that’s not very happy,” Missy said.

“I suppose it’s not,” Takashi sighed with his hands on his chubby waistline looking at the piece seriously. “Poetry is about what you feel and that’s what came out at the time.”

“What’s that?” Missy said, looking at the medical instrument on top of the clothing outside the bedroom door. She knew what it was but asked anyways.

“That?” Frank said, and he pointed at it with a long bony finger. “It’s for blood transfusions.”

“I thought so. Why do you have it?”

“It is amazing what you can find at flea markets these days,” Takashi said in a neutral tone as if his melancholy were about to cease, making way for a brief break in the clouds.

“It’s from World War 2 right?” And she tucked her hair back behind her left ear while bending at the knees, crouching down to take a serious look at it. “Why does it look so used?”

Frank nodded his head at Takashi who was looking at him. It was a go.

She stared at the shiny steel instrument. Her long dark hair draped down nearly touching the dried blood of its tubing. It looked like a wine opener with wounded, prosthetic arms on either side crusted over with black--most likely dried blood. It even had a handle with a silver ring on the top, for hanging.

She stood up and Takashi grabbed her from behind. His hands met at her stomach and he lifted her off the ground. “Hey!” She said. “Get your hands off me!” She felt delicate to him yet he could feel the physical strength beneath her softness as she kicked and fought.

“You’re a ball of fire!” He laughed. “Wow. Isn’t she going to be perfect Takashi!” He said excited.

“Guess so.” Takashi said still neutral with his head cocked to the side, looking at her.

She was a tall girl, about 5’8” and about 135lbs. Frank was significantly shorter but he carried her in to the small combo living room, family room, and TV room and threw her with the greatest of ease. She hit the recliner in a seated position and the chair reared back and then back down again with a great thump.

He jumped on top of her pinning her wrists down with his hands.

“What are you doing?” She said grunting and struggling.

“How do you know your medical equipment Miss Missy Baines?” Frank said right in her face.

“Let me go!” She said with a child like persistence.

“How?”

“I’m preparing to go to a two-year associate degree program to become a registered nurse,” she said quickly “okay--is that all right with you?”

“I’m impressed,” Takashi said, next to them.

“Me too,” Frank added. We didn’t think you were capable of anything beyond the basic process of simple thought. Maybe the capacity to slut around a little and hang out with that loser jock boyfriend Trent.”

“Slut around? I just came here to invite you guys to a party!” She said angrily. She wondered if Trent could see her. There were enough windows here, all equally black from the night. Maybe he could see her from the car.

“Come on,” Frank said and she had to turn her head and gag because his breath was so bad. “We heard what Trent does to the new guys--take them out for a little hard night of partying, embarrassing them with brute physical force and a good tongue lashing right in front of the prettiest girl in school. You get off on it don’t you?”

carlosn @ 2008-01-20T06:10:00

2008-01-20T11:13:42Z

Carlos Nordquist -

Thank you for submitting "Therapy" to Necrotic Tissue.

I was so hoping this second person piece would work with our style and darkness.

We also need more sci-fi. Perhaps if you committed the entire piece to second person

as in the Dr speaking into a tape player while in the company of the child, so as to include

the first person comments which really do work.

Good luck with your continued writing, reading and submiting.

Our next open submission window is April 2008.
editorial staph. (editor, paige mccoy)

carlosn @ 2008-01-14T14:49:00

2008-01-14T19:49:42Z

Was this inspired by Stephen Kings first story?—I was a teenage grave-robber? (I BELIEVE HE RE-NAMED HIS STORY BY THE WAY—FORGET WHAT HE NAMED IT)

-entire critique is only opinion, not necessarily fact

-should be a comma between “Taneous Maine” I think.

-should be “the there”—I put asterisk where it should be-- to * distraught bereaved

-should be “of” here—would read better that way—places asterisk where it should be-- all * the pride

-there’s no period between “for his services Minty caused”—shouldn’t there be?

- “Strong mints were always the first item. Large tablets of chalky white aggregate that were so strong that Jenning's avoided selling them to children, and he would have given up stocking the things if it hadn't been for Minty. The grave digger always bought five dollar's worth, about a hundred of the tablets, and occasionally some new socks, or a comb and toothpaste.”---You explained what these things are but what are their purpose? The purpose of the aggregate tablets? To me, the layman who knows nothing about grave-digging, I have no idea.

- “The origin of the nickname Minty was clear; you could always smell the crisp scent of mints on the grave digger's breath.”—who would smell someone’s breath to give them a nickname of that kind. I can see if someone’s breath smelled bad they would get a nickname according to that information, but not if there breath smelled pleasant. This paragraph I am pasting here: I do not find it relevant to the story—the truth is, it is relevant but I find it silly—maybe that was your point— “The origin of the nickname Minty was clear; you could always smell the crisp scent of mints on the grave digger's breath. He always seemed to be sucking on one, first one cheek, then the other bulged like a plundering squirrel as he rolled the candy around his mouth. He would lodge beside his teeth like chewing tobacco when he spoke, the mint flashing as white as his gleaming gnashers when he smiled, which was often.” –maybe if you gave him a different reason to be called Minty that was more suitable that would fit better with a story about Grave-digging. Like maybe he stole breath mints out of the pockets of the dead or something (who knows why breath mints would be in there pockets but maybe a family member placed them there or something.

--at this point I am going to cease pointing out grammatical errors in the story—I just found out a spot where there should be a comma, but the errors so far would prevent acceptance of the piece by a small press publisher

--this sentence does not read smoothly and is too long—“
He would sit at the bar order one ice cold pint glass of beer and sip it slowly while talking with the other day time regulars about the weather, the state of the nation and whether or not Jim Hickey was a shoe in for the first prize giant pumpkin growing festival that year.”

-there are numerous spots where the story does not read smoothly—I suggest reading it back to yourself. Then you might be able to find some of these errors. Basicly—the way you have written some sections—I do not believe—is how a real person would talk—even with an accent of any kind.

-I did not understand this sentence “Coming up on the row of freshest headstones, where the combined resting place of Marty and Sandy was the freshest James was brought up short.” It doesn’t make sense to me. Using the grammar checker on your computer would be a good idea before you call a story completed. I use mine to the point where I am sick of it, but I do it anyway. I have learned that it is proper to generally use “were” instead of “was”.

--VERY GOOD IMAGES AND DESCRIPTIONS THROUGH ENTIRE STORY--

THIS SENTENCE DOES NOT SOUND CORRECT—“ Coming up on the row of freshest headstones, where the combined resting place of Marty and Sandy was the freshest James was brought up short.”

- Climbing out of the grave Minty bent and with a smooth rhythm of a professional shoveler ---A PROFESSIONAL SHOVELER? DON’T YOU MEAN GRAVEDIGGER? THE WORD SHOVELER DOES NOT SOUND CORRECT.

--THERE SHOULD BE A SCENE BREAK HERE--*** --- The grave digger reached the cottage, and went inside. James crept around the small house and peered in the kitchen window, watching in horror as the scene unfolded.

***
The cottage kitchen was small and neat. A wooden table was laden with fresh vegetables and a small basket of gathered mushrooms from under the nearby trees. Minty came in and set the heavy

--THIS STORY SEEMS OVERY GRAPHIC—WERE YOU GOING FOR SHOCK VALUE WITH THIS? This story would be considered “Splatterpunk” a particularly visceral and grotesque kind of writing filed under Extreme Horror—there should be a warning before your story that says “warning: extreme horror”

--it was cool that “Minty” was instantly forgiven because of his properly performed required duties and the fact that his occupation did not cost the township anything

--excellent story/fantastic descriptions of everything. I like to write lots so you are competition. I want to write better than you. I can write more properly than you can—better use of grammar, but your descriptions of everything are far better than mine (better than my descriptions of things in my own writing). That makes me jealous. Make sure you don’t improve that way I won’t have anything to worry about (j/k about that part)

carlosn @ 2008-01-13T23:08:00

2008-01-14T04:10:06Z

Hi all, first time submitting (3 crits down and a bunch to go). 2300 words make up this strange tale of a town's grave digger. Have at it.

"Minty" by Paul Mannering

Charles "Minty" McGregor had seen it all in his years as a grave digger for the town and county of Taneous Maine. From baby coffins no bigger than shoe boxes to distraught bereaved throwing themselves in to the pit after the descending casket. He still dug his graves by hand with all the pride of a master craftsman.

He could dig a six foot deep hole with perfect sides in little more than an hour. The Taneous town council appreciated his willingness to retain the old ways, the maintenance and fuel for a mechanical digger would have put undue strain on the annual budget and other than a small monthly check for his services Minty caused them no fiscal inconvenience what so ever.
On the first Monday of the month the grave digger would walk the mile into town, stopping off at Jenning's Store to cash his check, then suitably armed with notes and coin he would make some purchases. Strong mints were always the first item. Large tablets of chalky white aggregate that were so strong that Jenning's avoided selling them to children, and he would have given up stocking the things if it hadn't been for Minty. The grave digger always bought five dollar's worth, about a hundred of the tablets, and occasionally some new socks, or a comb and toothpaste.
The origin of the nickname Minty was clear; you could always smell the crisp scent of mints on the grave digger's breath. He always seemed to be sucking on one, first one cheek, then the other bulged like a plundering squirrel as he rolled the candy around his mouth. He would lodge beside his teeth like chewing tobacco when he spoke, the mint flashing as white as his gleaming gnashers when he smiled, which was often.
After his purchases at Jenning's Minty would stroll over to Hardin's Tavern. He would sit at the bar order one ice cold pint glass of beer and sip it slowly while talking with the other day time regulars about the weather, the state of the nation and whether or not Jim Hickey was a shoe in for the first prize giant pumpkin growing festival that year.
Around two o'clock in the afternoon the monthly ritual would conclude. Minty would slip a fresh peppermint tablet into his mouth and say a polite goodbye to his drinking comrades, and then walk back to the cemetery. No one saw him in town other than that, strangely enough no one thought it at all odd.
Minty lived out at the cemetery in a small cottage under the boundary trees. He kept a tidy vegetable patch and picked the wild apples each fall from the heavy laden trees by his kitchen window. His duties other than digging holes included gardening, mowing the grass, tending the graves and acting as a stand in pall bearer for grave side services where no friends of family were present.
When Marty Soames wrapped his high-school graduation present around a telegraph pole at ninety miles an hour he and his sweetheart Sandy Parker had to be washed out of the knotted chassis with a hose and scooped up with a shovel. Lester Finn, the local mortician didn't bother embalming the remains. He took one look in the heavy garbage bag the sheriff's deputies delivered to his work room and raised an eyebrow.
"May as well cover them in barbeque sauce for all the good I can do," he said and tied the bag shut. With the help of the two officers in attendance they arranged the tied off sack in a casket and Finn set to and nailed it shut.
"Damn shame," Finn said and the young couple were buried together the next afternoon before a weeping crowd of friends and family.
James Van Pelt had played football in high school with his good buddy the late Marty Soames. So it was, in his mind a fitting tribute to come out to the cemetery that night and raise a bottle of his dad's single malt in his friend's honor. Parking down the road and sneaking into the cemetery James made his way through the shadow dappled trees. It was a new moon night, stars were giving the best light and James knew that Minty was vigilant in his watching over the dead, so a flashlight was only going to bring trouble.
Coming up on the row of freshest headstones, where the combined resting place of Marty and Sandy was the freshest James was brought up short. A shovel was gleaming in the muted starlight, flashing with a sharpened edge as it rose and fell above the edge of the grave.
'What the hell?' James thought and slipped closer to see what was happening. Crouching down behind a nearby headstone he watched and listened as the freshly buried coffin was hammered and split open with the shovel. A few moments later, with barely a grunt of strain from his muscled frame Minty heaved the heavy trash bag over the edge and onto the trampled grass beside the coffin. Climbing out of the grave Minty bent and with a smooth rhythm of a professional shoveler returned the earth to its hole. The empty casket was soon covered, and in no time the grave was returned to normal, except that it was now empty.
Astonished at this bizarre grave robbing James watched as Minty hefted the bag over his shoulder, lifted his shovel and began walking back to the cottage under the trees. Following at a discreet distance James' scalp crawled with an uneasy dread. If the rumors were to be believed there was nothing salvageable from the corpses. No jewelry or gold teeth, no organs for sale on one of those black markets you hear about on the news. What the hell was Minty doing?
The grave digger reached the cottage, and went inside. James crept around the small house and peered in the kitchen window, watching in horror as the scene unfolded.
The cottage kitchen was small and neat. A wooden table was laden with fresh vegetables and a small basket of gathered mushrooms from under the nearby trees. Minty came in and set the heavy plastic sack down in the sink. With his strong hands he untied the top and inhaled deeply, the set of his shoulders and the broad smile on his face suggesting that the aroma was pleasing to him. Retrieving a long sharp butcher's knife from a solid wooden block on the bench Minty plunged a hand into the bag and removed a large dripping chunk of raw meat. Setting it down on a cutting board he took up the knife and quickly carved the flesh into chunks. James watched in growing horror, as piece after piece was retrieved, cut, and prepared. The growing pile of human flesh was transferred into a heavy iron pot, the waste, which seemed to include shards of bone, hair and smeared lumps of brain tissue were dropped back into the plastic sack.
Finished with the meat Minty moved onto the selection of vegetables and mushrooms. Chopping and peeling, the diced bits all going into the pot. Finally he added some water and some stock from a brown earthenware jar and set the heavy pot on the stove and turned on the gas. James had seen enough, backing away from the ghoulish scene he lit out for town as if the devil were on his heels.
James' was making no sense when he got to the sheriff's office, the deputy on duty called the sheriff, who turned up smartly. Taking James' by the hair Sheriff Tillman dragged him into his office and threw him into a chair.
"Siddown and shaddup boy."
James opened his mouth to say something about not meaning any disrespect sheriff but there's a psycho living out in the cemetery eating dead people. But the cold look in the law's eyes muted him.
Tillman picked up the phone, dialed and then murmured into the receiver. James heard mention of snooping and kid and Minty's name was used too. The sheriff hung up, sat down and leaned back in his chair. His uniform was a bit faded, and the cuffs were fraying but his face was stone and together they sat in silence while James wondered what the hell was going on.
Chuck Gillins had been the Mayor of Taneous for years and he ran a tight ship. After the last lumber mill had closed up shop he had steered the town through shark infested waters and avoided the worst possible fate, losing the entire population to more developed population centers until the town of Taneous was completely abandoned. He was a 5th generation resident and he was damned if the town was going to quit while he was mayor.
His pioneering spirit had galvanized the residents and they had survived, times had been tough, and weren't getting any easier but there were ways to attract visitors and family based cottage industries had replaced the corporate steam whistle chiming of the mills.
"Hey there Jimmy, Sheriff Tillman tells me you've got some cock-a-many story about ol' Minty?"
James took a deep breath, finally someone who wanted to listen to him. He blurted out the whole story, editing a little, so the theft of his dad's scotch was omitted; instead James had just gone out to say a last goodbye to his best pal in the world.
The mayor and the sheriff listened as James described in horrified detail the pot and the preparations Minty had made for his monstrous supper. The two men listened in silence, the mayor with one arm folded across his chest and the other hand cupping his chin, listening and thoughtful. Sheriff Tillman rocked back in his chair and tapped his thumbs against his belt. Neither man accused James of telling lies, being drunk, high or making a nuisance of himself.
"Well I do believe we should take a trip out there and see this for ourselves."
The sheriff nodded and with a sigh he rocked up on to his feet, hitched his belt and slipped on his Stetson before leading them out through the front room.
"Back in an hour Earl," he said casually to the deputy manning the front desk.
James and the sheriff rode in Tillman's car, James in the back, a first for him, the doors had no handles on the inside and it made him feel distinctly claustrophobic. Mayor Gillins followed behind, and they parked up at the gate to the cemetery and walked across the well manicured lawn together.
Tillman knocked on the cottage door and they stood there for a brief time of uncomfortable silence until the door opened and Minty loomed large and somber barely framed by the small doorway.
"Evening Minty," Tillman said, sweeping his hat off and kneading the brim in his hands. "Sorry to bother you, but we need to have a word. Mind if we come in?"
Minty stepped back, turning aside to allow them to squeeze inside. The air in the cottage was scented with mint and a delicious warm cooking smell that even set a horrified James' mouth watering. Tillman led the way into the kitchen, James, Gillins and Minty came behind. The door closed firmly against the night.
Mayor Gillins was looking quite glum in the dim light of the kitchen. A low wattage bulb burned yellow in the small room. Gillins and the sheriff exchanged resigned looks and at some non-verbal prompt the mayor took the initiative.
"We did our best Minty, we really did. But kids these days, ya know?"
Minty blinked slowly, his shoulders seeming to swell ever broader in the long shadows.
"The thing is," the sheriff interjected, "James here came out to pay his respects to the dead and saw you ahh… taking your share."
James turned to stare at the sheriff who wouldn't look at him. "Taking his share? What the hell does that mean? This guy digs up corpses and eats them!"
Both the mayor and the sheriff studied the floor. Heads bowed they looked truly repentant for some transgression. "We appreciate everything you do for us Minty, we know that without you this town would be dead. It won't happen again." Tillman spoke in a subdued tone and both men nodded at the silent figure who regarded them all impassively.
"I forgive you. As I have forgiven you all in the past, and will do again in the future. The blessing of Mintanaeous is upon this land and the people. Now leave us." Minty's voice rolled with a dull echoing reverberation from deep with in the earth like seething magma.
Gillins and Tillman hurried out of the cottage without so much as a glance at James. The boy was about to follow when Minty placed a hand on his shoulder and stopped him dead.
"Your people are young on this earth," the grave digger intoned. "The first people showed wisdom when they gave praise to that which has always been. Since I awoke, drawn from the earth by the prayers and suffering of the people I have given my strength to the land and the town your forefather's built upon it. I devour the flesh of the dead, they are the price of my blessing."
James stared into Minty's eyes which were now glowing red crystals glinting with the fires of the earth's core. The grave digger's teeth gleamed around the swelling chasm of his opening mouth. James felt the searing rush of volcanic heat as this ancient god of the deepest earth engulfed him.

carlosn @ 2008-01-09T08:07:00

2008-01-09T13:14:41Z

I have decided I am going to start writing in my journal, just little things. Ready? This is the life of a married 34 year old male who lives in what he thinks is the deep south. I didn't take out the trash this morning for the garbage truck and I will get in trouble for it. I didn't get up with my daughter to get her "cuppy", so my wife was forced to sleep on the sofa because both daughters crawled in to bed. I guess I should have gotten the cup- I will tomorrow if it happens again. our cats rip around the house at 4 in the morning creating disturbances. I am christian but I cannot deny the fact that sometimes I feel like different "Spirits" try to say hi to me at night. Sometimes it's a good thing, sometimes its not. Sometimes I get nightmares- other times it's just someone who wants help. Like, there was this spirit of a girl and for 2 nights I was bothered, but as soon as I figured out its name- Rossetta, it was happy about that and went away. It just wanted to be acknowledged, who knows why. I saw someone laying down on a grave- some women dressed in fancy older attire with an odd hat- when she layed on the grave she sank/vanished in to the earth. I was like a vision or a dream. She was perfectly content. Later everyone.

Darvocets

2007-12-18T16:15:22Z

Written while on Darvocet
ELIZABETH R

(for Neil, by way of G.K. Chesterton)

Have you ever been to Westminster Abbey?
I dare not go again.
For Elizabeth R walks freely there,
And her steps I do not ken.
Sometimes she floats beneath the dome
Of her bedded sepulchre;
Sometimes she roams in the royal gloam,
And the bones, they dream of her.
I glimpsed her once in the glasséd case
Of her battered effigy,
And because she had no eyelids left
She stared right back at me.
She lingers long, pond'ring the doom
Of the greater and the lesser,
And my only salvation lies at the tomb
Of Edward the Confessor.

carlosn @ 2007-12-07T21:21:00

2007-12-08T02:22:30Z

“Miss Baines?” (change name later)

“Yes?”

“I need you to kill my brother.”
“Thank you for the drink- but I think I’ll pass.” And she quickly glanced at him- he was attractive.

“Let me show you something.” The young man said

The old man on her left placed his small, cold, frail hand on top of hers and squeezed.

“Hey- don’t-” is all she could get out before the room opened up. The chairs with numerous families and party goers dissapeared. The blue mi-ties with umbrellas leaned up against their crystal interiors vanished. The bar with the pretty girl with the bare midriff shirt spinning and catching bottles went away. The sound of hard rain replaced it as her world darkened, the ocean scenery with children playing on the beach in baby blue water was replaced with four bamboo walls. There was a circle of people on the ground with black hair. They seemed to be struggling lightly, but the bonds of something were preventing movement. She looked harder and could see rusted metal wire around there hands and ankles and could see that they were also tied together with this as a group. As one pulled on another- another would cry out, as well as the person doing the pulling. They cried in a language she did not understand- some obvious teenagers. Furious gunmen charged in and the panick became worse- blood splattered there white clothes and she heard a wrists snapping like twigs. One of the gunmen in uniform put a rifle to a womens head, watched her tried to duck while the man to her right, perhaps a member of her family- maybe even her husbund, plead- screaming in anguish. The womans head fell forward, body limp as the gun popped off- the bullit passed through her head and hit someone else in the middle of the back.

As the world faded back to noon she heard the rest of the guns go off that were aimed at the small band of suffering people. She moved to push the hand on her hand the rest of the way off- in a sick world it could have been a pervert trying to cop a feel. To her it was something else. “Why did you show this to me.” She said, her face stone, eyes unblinking staring straight ahead. She grabbed the glass of Bacardi 151 and coke and drank it quickly, neglecting the ice. It was harsh and it washed through her and numbed her.

The man to her right leaned up on his elbows sitting at the edge of his chair to get his face closer to hers- “These are the atrocities of war.”

“Obviously.” And she lifted up the glass with ice to smell the residue of alcohol. “This was the past... Koreans?”

“Yes.”

“The mass killing of communist suspects?”

“Yes.”

“What does this have to do with your brother?” But scenerios flooded her mind- reasons why and she stuggled to keep the flood of information back. “He’s trying to restore your families honor?”

“Yes- he desires the abatement of those responsible.”

She smiled and pushed her glass to the bartender nodding to the young women to fill it up.”

“Will you do it?” he asked eagerly.

“Same thing babe?” The girl asked.

“Tequila.”

“I prefer you begin sober Miss Barnes.”

“I didn’t say I was going to do it.” She said comfortably admiring the gold in the shot glass glistening in the sun. “If we’re going to do this- we do it my way- understand?”

“On the contrary- I have researched your methods and you do not have the equipment available for this task.”

“Why? What have you got that’s so special.”

He pulled a folded white envelope out of his pocket and she took it. She felt something inside shift and she unfolded it and used a red nail to slice it open clean. “A key?” And she admired it’s logo on it (she starts up conversation about whole thing when first starting to drive.)- a black horse raised up on two legs surrounded with red on a yellow shield. The key looked long and sharp like a weapon.

She turned to look at it- “I hope you didn’t spend all of that money just to impress me.

“No mam, it’s just a rental.”

“Even better.” She said greedily advancing towards its sophisticated yet dangerous presence. “Then you won’t mind if I treat her a little rough.”

She layed down in the tan leather bucket seat and the waft of new car smell excited her. She turned it on and reved the cherry red convertable. They sped off down the street laden with palm trees, waikiki’s islanders and well dress tourists, passing other uneconomical expansive vehicles. The car came to a stop and she glanced in her rear view mirror at the oncomming traffic she had just bulleted by. The light turned green again, and the Ferrari 550 Barchetta made that wind up toy sound again as she floored it.

“Was it your idea to spoil the clientele?”

“No, it was the only thing I could find on the island fast enough.”

“Fast enough for what?”

“You might want to go a little faster.”

“What?” She laughed- “why?”

“Because the occupant in the vehicle next to us just flashed a gun.”

She turned to her head to the left- a silver car (one pulls up on right smartly

carlosn @ 2007-11-20T18:26:00

2007-11-20T23:28:40Z

“What is that?”

“I’m just going to rest your foot on it dear.”

She place her foot on what looked like a very sharp knifeforzen peas, doc gets angry because little kid gets cast wet- also retains patient is on the phone, is told by the father to get off the phone- gives the doc evil glance

It’s silver glare cast a small sunspot on the wall like a watch caught in the sun.

“It’s to put your foot on- kind of like a shoe horn only this is a sock horn.”

“Oh,” The little girl said, though she had no idea what he was talking about.

“She put her foot up on the shiny metal surgical steel- “It’s cold.”

He took a ring of cloth hanging on the apparatus and stretched it out over her foot and was surprised at the little girls silence- by now a child was usually busy with a flurry of questions- “what is that?” What does that do?” He would simply settle in to his patients, as easily as counting to ten- he imagined it was a certain breathing meathod he learned from a friend in Med School that could keep your heart rate down during the most stressful of times- this was important in his line of work-

“Hello? Ya, yes I know, I was planning on it.” The girls father could almost hear the other person on the doctors cell phone- a male voice, but could not make out what he was saying.

Dr. Harris slowed his movement, brought the white, nearly transparent sock up the little girls heel and halfway up her calf. He then grabbed a bandage out of a plastic white box off the floor and dipped it in a foggy colored liquid. “Ok, alright- I won’t forget.” He closed his tiny silver Samsung cell phone and returned to a faster pace with two hands wrapping the wet cloth around the girls leg- “This is called a short leg cast” also refered to as a walking cast”

“That’s a fiberglass material Doc?” The father said.

“Yep, fiberglass-polyurethane- it takes seconds to dry- as oposed to cotton bandage with plaster of paris which takes 72 hours to dry. And you wouldn’t want to wait that long would you?” He said to the little girl. She shook her head no violently.

“What color cast would you like? We Have Pink, Green…” He didn’t get very far, she looked like a fan of Hello Kitty- belonging to parents with money- it was clear what kind of cast she would be getting- he didn’t even have to ask.

“Pink!” And she smiled gratefully- “I’m going to have a pink cast daddy! You think all of my friends will sign it?”

“Probably Missy” Her father smiled back.

Dr. Harris grabbed the pink wraps and began to skillfully wrap up the girls leg with the pink she would have to live with for the next three weeks. His cell phone rang again- “Yes, I know- we can get it done tonight. Yes, I know, it’s important to me as it is to you..” He closed up the phone again and slipped it in to the pocket of his white cotton coat.

“Doc- you think maybe you could talk to your wife on your own time and finish patching up my daughter?” The father said sincerely with a calm level voice.

“Sure- you think you could mind your own business.” He said matching the fathers sincerity. He stared the father down with cold dark eyes while laying down the last of the bright colored wrap. He un-wavered his eyes from the little girls dad- “young lady? Do you know the rules.”

“Don’t walk on it.” And she paused briefly glancing at the ceiling in thought- “And, don’t get it wet.”

“Very good.” And he turned his head to smile broadly at her rows of perfect white teeth.. “But- it’s a walking cast- so, you can walk on it, but only if it doesn’t hurt. No running and I’ll see you in three weeks.

The Doctor stood up off one knee to speak personally to the father- “As we looked at in the X-Ray, she has a fractured growth plate on her right ankle- too much time on her feet in the next three weeks and her foot will not heal properly. That means she could end up with a limp for the rest of her life. Got it Dad?”

“Got it” The father said reluctantly. He didn’t like the doctor’s tone of voice, but held his tongue and lived with it. – “c’mon honey, let’s go.” And he grunted as he picked up the exceptionally tall six year.”

Type your cut contents here.

. Orthopedics is the study of the musculoskeletal system. Orthopedic doctors specialize in diagnosis and treatment of problems of the musculoskeletal system.

What is the musculoskeletal system?
The musculoskeletal system includes:

o Bones

o Joints

o Ligaments

o Tendons

o Muscles

o Nerves

What does the word 'orthopedics' mean?
The Greek word 'ortho' means straight and 'pedics' comes from the Greek 'pais' meaning children. For many centuries, orthopedists have been involved in the treatment of crippled children.

Over the years, the field has expanded to encompass many subspecialties and the treatment of a wide variety of musculoskeletal disorders in patients of all ages.

How do you become an orthopedic doctor?
Becoming an orthopedic surgeon takes a little time, but orthopedic surgery is a terrific medical specialty, and the education and training is rewarding.

Becoming an orthopedic surgeon takes a little time, but orthopedic surgery is a terrific medical specialty, and the education and training is rewarding.

Difficulty: Hard

Time Required: 14 years

Here's How:

1. Undergraduate Education. (4 years)
We'll start at college... Four years of undergraduate with one year of biology, two years of chemistry, and one year of physics.

o What classes do I need to take?

2. The Medical College Admission Test. (1 day)
The MCAT is one day you'll be happy to have behind you. Four sections: biological sciences, physical sciences, verbal, and a written sample.

3. Medical School Applications.
They come in two rounds, a preliminary and secondary, and follow with an interview if competitive. Entrance rates vary, but schools usually admit about 5-10% of applicants.

4. Medical School. (4 years)
Four years of medical school. The first two are classroom based, and the final two are hospital based. Graduate as an M.D. or D.O. (osteopathic medicine).

5. National Board Exams. (3 days)
Two parts taken during medical school, one after 2nd year, the other after 3rd year. Each is one full day of testing on fundamental medical knowledge.

6. Residency Applications.
Applications done in the fall before begining orthopedics residency, the interviews are offered in the winter if you are going to be considered.

7. Match Day. (1 day)
This is the big day for medical students as everyone finds out at one time the result of their hard work and where they'll be for residency.

8. Internship. (1 year)
The first year of your residency is called an internship. The first day, July 1, is always a fun day to be around the hospital!

9. Residency. (4 years)
Four years of studying the fundamentals of orthopedic surgery. Rotate through the major subspecialties in several different hospitals to get good exposure to orthopedic surgery.

10. Fellowship (optional). (1 year)
A one year fellowship in a sub-specialty is an option for orthopedic surgeons to focus on sports medicine, pediatric orthopedics, or other specialties.

11. That's it!
Before you know it you'll be on your own as a practicing orthopedic surgeon.

I am often asked by students in high school, college, or even medical school what classes are necessary to become an orthopedic surgeon.

A. I think it's a good idea to become familiar with orthopedics before committing to a career in this specialty. However, there are no required classes in high school or college to develop a career in orthopedics.

In fact, most medical schools and orthopedic residency programs are more interested in students who have a well-rounded background with diverse interests, rather than a student who only knows one field. By having a broad background, admission committees often believe that applicants have a better understanding of "what's out there" and better knowledge of what they want to do in life. There's plenty of time in orthopedic residency to get specific training--high school and college are your opportunities to explore other fields.

Orthopedic residency programs do want to see talented individuals who have accomplished the following types of activities:

· Academic Scores
What classes you choose to take matters very little.

How well you do matters a lot. Medical schools would much rather see a straight-A applicant who studied French and History, then a B-minus Biology student.

· Volunteer
Volunteer at a local hospital or clinic. Not only does this demonstrate that you are a good person, but it also shows you enjoy being active in health care.

· Extra-curricular Activities
Again, it doesn't matter what you do, but just that you do something other than watch TV and play video games. Join a sports team, an acting club, a singing group, whatever you enjoy. Dedicate yourself to these activities, and become a leader within the group.

· Get Creative
Have a unique talent or interest? Find a way to show it to the world. Having been on admissions committees for applicants, there is nothing better than someone who has done something different.

Bottom line, try not to follow the crowd. Don't worry about specific classes or activities--applicants who follow the same path as every other applicant look boring on paper. Set yourself apart!

There are very few requirements for medical school, and every medical school will get you ready for residency programs. For information on the requirements for medical school:

· Medical School Admissions

Other than that, be yourself. Do interesting things, and your talents will show through

A line of premium fiberglass cloth products, designed for use in industrial applications requiring an incombustible high temperature fabric, is available from Agis Manufacturing Company.

Engineered to withstand temperatures up to 1000° F, Agis fiberglass cloth meets U.S. Coast Guard requirements for incombustible materials and will not burn or smolder.

Among the industrial applications for which Agis premium fiberglass cloth is suited are foundry, metalworking and heat treating. The fabric is recommended for use in welding curtains, fire blankets, insulation blankets, industrial and marine lagging, asbestos cloth substitute and drape cloths, among others.

In contrast to many high temperature fabrics, Agis fiberglass cloth is exceptionally strong; it exhibits one of the highest strength-to-weight ratios of any industrial textile. Even under service conditions where temperatures reach 1000° F, the fabric retains 25% of its tensile strength.

It also exhibits good thermal conductivity, high dielectric strength and low constants.

Agis fiberglass cloth is a plain, tightly woven cloth manufactured from texturized fiberglass yarn; it contains no compound, cement or wire. In the manufacturing process, a proprietary heat treatment technique is applied to the surface which renders the cloth free of most surface grit, virtually eliminates "picking" of the skin, and facilitates handling. A non-fraying selvage edge is standard.

Because of its unusual characteristics, the fabric may be readily cut, formed and sewn for many industrial applications.

Agis fiberglass cloth's non-cellular composition also renders it moisture-resistant. Unlike other gasketing or insulating materials, the product will not swell, stretch, shrink, deteriorate or change chemically even after long exposure to water.

Agis premium fiberglass cloth is available in various weights (8.5 to 40 ounces per square yard); finishes (heat-treated, waterproofed, weave set, renwet and/or flameproof); coatings (neoprene, vinyl and Teflon®, and constructions (aluminized on one side for thermal reflection; with brass or stainless steel wire inserts for increased tensile strength). Standard roll length: 50 yards.

A cast is a shell, frequently made from plaster, encasing a limb (or, in some cases, large portions of the body) to hold a broken bone (or bones) in place until it has healed.

Plaster bandages consist of a cotton bandage that has been impregnated with plaster of paris, which hardens after it has been made wet. Plaster of Paris is calcined Gypsum, ground to a fine powder by milling. When water is added, the more soluble form of calcium sulphate returns to the relatively insoluble form, and heat is produced.

2(CaSO₄.½ H₂O) + 3H₂O -> 2(CaSO₄.2H₂O) + Heat^[1]

The setting of unmodified plaster starts about 10 minutes after mixing and is complete in about 45 minutes, the cast is not fully dry though for 72 hours.^[2]

Cast are made of: Nowadays fiberglass bandages are often used. These consist of a knitted fiberglass bandage impregnated with polyurethane. These are lighter and dry much faster than plaster bandages. However, plaster can be more easily moulded to make a snug and therefore more comfortable fit. In addition, plaster is much smoother and does not snag clothing or abrade the skin. Plaster casts are generally made available only to patients who insist on them, because they take more time to apply, or when the cost of the fiberglass material is a consideration.

carlosn @ 2007-11-15T18:39:00

2007-11-15T23:41:40Z