Archive for original writing

Pop Culture Is Dead

June 25, 2012 brainmeats, comics, humor, idea file, movies, music, original writing, stuff and things, writing 7 comments

Please note: This was originally supposed to the be the end of the show I just did. So it’s a bit way long when written out and may be a bit rambly. I’ve edited it down some and tried to make sure it seems focused but you’ve been warned…

I was talking about Saved by the Bell the other day. And well, thinking about it really brings something home for me. First of all, we really need to stop making live-action TV shows with minors, because there has never been a cast, I think, on earth, that was not horribly scarred by this. Neil Patrick Harris survived. We can maybe call Danny Bonaduce a survivor NOW, but that’s about as far as you get.

Diff’rent Strokes, of course, were all criminals at one point, or on drugs, or both. And, funny story, Diff’rent Strokes, the two black kids, they’re did all right in the end, mostly. White girl? Dead of an overdose. That’s the reality of Diff’rent Strokes for you right there.

Punky Brewster, I don’t know whatever happened to her. She got tits, that’s the last thing I heard, maybe she was swallowed by them, I don’t know, haven’t heard much about her.

Winnie Cooper went on to get a degree in math. Her and Neil Patrick Harris should little have survivor clone babies together.

But, man, most of these shows, and you look back at Saved By The Bell — you have Dustin Diamond, who, of course, has become Dustin Diamond, which is not a fate I’d wish on most people I meet. Then you have Elizabeth Berkley who thought she’d have a movie career if only she’d stripped hard enough, and was proven wrong by the universe… not that all of us didn’t figure that one out early, but she had to prove it to herself.

So, we really do need to stop putting minors in TV shows because no good comes of it.
Read more

What Kind Of Day Has It Been

June 23, 2012 music, NY Life, original writing, pimpin' ain't easy 5 comments

So the show last night… how did that go?

Wait, let me back up. My flight out of JFK left on time (surprise) and arrived early (surprise!) and with construction and traffic warnings Juliana realized it would be faster for me to grab MARTA to get to her. This made sense to me. So I grabbed MARTA.

Which was fine. I mean it was MARTA so it was clunky and confused, but fine. Until “track problems” near Buckhead. We were told, you see, there were “track problems” – the problem seemed to be that they didn’t know how to use their own tracks. Two trains ahead of us and we couldn’t go before they moved. This was explained to us. As if refusing to hit another train was some amazing new idea they had just worked out for themselves.

Past that they were down to only one track for both directions. Ahhh yes, that might be your track problem, folks.

Anyway. About thirty minutes later we were moving.
Read more

What Happens After The Leaving

May 4, 2011 free fiction, original writing, writing 4 comments

“We’ll name her Moses,” Marla said, grinning.

“We will do no such thing!” Dan replied.

The basket sat on the doorstep, no note pinned to a blanket, nothing. Just a basket, with a prize inside. Marla’s first name choice had, in fact, been “Cracker Jack.” Dan gave her a negative on that. Or as he put it “Ixnay on hatyay.”

“You mean atthay, Dan,” Marla put in. She smirked as she said it, not sure why she took such pleasure in knowing pig latin better than he did. “Hat yay is when I find a really primo fedora in a used clothes store for, like, three bucks. Canadian.”

Dan laughed and reached into the basket to run a fingertip along the prize inside. Small little thing though she was, she still knew when attention was being given to her and lifted her chin helpfully to accommodate the finger. “Canadian monetary deals or not, we aren’t going to name her Cracker Jack.”

Which is when Marla came up with Moses. The entire time this went on, there wasn’t a peep from the basket. Both Marla and Dan thought it strange but decided to not think too deeply about it just yet. Thinking deeply would mean that the basket was theirs for good now and as long as the basket, and its contents, were separate from Marla and Dan, then it would be something that simply got accidentally left on their doorstep.
Read more

The Handbasket

May 3, 2011 free fiction, original writing, writing No comments

The sounds and smells of the city washed over her like a rain of emotional baggage. Large, heavy baggage, the type you buy for a field trip to Africa. It pelted her, like bricks thrown by angry orphans, until she had to close her eyes and turn away. The city was there, right there where she had left it. Feeling a jag of hysterical laughter bubbling closer and closer to the surface she realized she had left the city right where it was when she died.

Except if she died, she reasoned, she wouldn’t be standing there, on 93rd street, back to Central Park, just staring. People moved in and out of buildings, cabs, and each other’s personal space with the usual ease. Lisa stomped her foot and swore.

“You realize,” a voice near her fairly cooed, “you’re dead, yes? Yes? If not, so sorry, sudden shock. Yes, so sorry.”

“I’m dead,” Lisa said, “no, I knew that. But if I’m dead then why am I here?” She turned and looked at the source of the silk voice. He stood easily nine feet tall, with his forty or fifty arms each leading her eyes in different directions. Lisa had never talked to a tree before, but then, she was new to the entire being dead oeuvre.

“This is Heaven, yes very much so. So sorry, is that a sudden shock as well? All these shocks, all sudden. Yes, so sorry.”

“Stop. Apologizing,” Lisa spat and stopped her foot just before she kicked the tree. “Just explain. This is Heaven? You’re a tree? I’m dead? Heaven is the Upper West Side? That’s fucked up.”
Read more

Lord of the Rings: The lost scenes (part 1)

March 21, 2011 humor, original writing 3 comments

I like to think that Toklien left out a few scenes from Lord of the Rings, and that, though they were uncovered before the movies were written, they still left them out. I also, in those fantasies, like to think that I have unearthed some of those scenes and can present them to you here. Well, at least one of them. Maybe more some other time. Maybe not.

Aragorn: Wait, so I’m inheriting a broken sword?

Elrond: Well… yes. But at the proper moment it shall be reforged!

Aragorn: Would the “proper moment” be before or after I get killed while fighting because MY FUCKING SWORD IS BROKEN?

Elrond: No, see, this is a special artifact, it was passed down your family line…

Aragorn: Because they all died due to wielding a broken damned sword, I bet! What next? Gonna give me a tiny plank of wood with an arm strap and say it’s a broken shield that one day will be made whole? Fuck this. Fuck your elf pranks. No more!

Elrond: Well, I don’t think you understand…
Read more

Out the Window Backwards

January 31, 2011 free fiction, original writing 9 comments

Some of us volunteer for hell. That thought rang through my head over and over again as the stones slammed into my body. The first one took me in the chest and forced the air out of me. The second hit my shoulder, spinning me half around, just in time, as it turned out, because the next two found the side of my head.

I dropped to the ground, bleeding, and curled in on myself. My hands clutched at my head, forearms over my face, and my knees hugged tightly to my chest, even as I struggled to get a decent breath in my lungs.

Children are the biggest bastards on this Earth.

My parents came and got me, my father lifting my small, six year old body in his arms effortlessly, before permanent damage could be done. The thing of it was: I didn’t quite blame the other children. By then, by only six, I was so used to the abuse that it seemed normal. They had their part to play in my life, a painful one to be sure, but they couldn’t help it any more than I could help being different.

That’s a lie. A bald-faced, true as lies can be, lie. I did choose to be different. I did it willingly and with my eyes open and it seemed like a good idea at the time. Six years ago I sat and planned with my brethren to replace the very child I now was. We stole him and I replaced him, a Changeling, in the night.

Over our camp fires we talked of what Changelings were. Hidden warriors, sleeper agents who had no memory of their life before and no idea they were different. I would sleep, inside this child’s body, until called upon. Then we would rise up and be rid of the humans at last. That was, we were sure, what happened.

We were wrong.
Read more

Leonid the Buffalo in Haaaaaaaaat.

April 15, 2010 original writing, writing 11 comments

Leonid the Buffalo in Haaaaaaaaat.
Words by Adam P. Knave
Art by Pat Raubo

Leonid the Buffalo was the sort of buffalo you might expect. If you were one to expect buffalo, of course. Not many people, truth be told, did. In such a case Leonid the Buffalo was exactly the sort of buffalo you did not expect. But he wouldn’t hold it against you.

His big block head might tip to one side or the other, and his ears would twitch in tiny circles, as if trying to take flight, but he would easily accept that you were in no way expecting a buffalo. Often, when such a thing happened, Leonid would stop and sit down, his hind legs folded gently, and tip his head to the side and wait. Long, patient blinking would follow, as Leonid gave the surprised person a chance to accept that there was now a large buffalo on the premises.

Most often this worked. At least until he spoke. Then all bets were off. People screamed, they ran, they jumped and a few of themselves tripped over their own feet while trying to do all three at the same time. Many days it went like this:
Read more

The Velvateen rubout.

March 12, 2010 original writing One comment

But that was before I knew Granny was actually a ghost agent black velvet Elvis profiteer… which, to be fair, we suspected for ages. I mean, the old bat wasn’t exactly subtle, all right? Black velvet Elvis in the hall, six in the living room, three in her bathroom and that odd black velvet Elvis playing poker with dogs in her bedroom. Sure, Uncle Johnny thought she just really liked them, but I would point out the price tags on each, and how sometimes they changed.

The way it worked turned out to be dead simple. A buyer would want to buy some prime, rare, black velvet Elvis and they would, eventually, ask the right people. Those people would contact Granny, who would then contact the buyer and pose as an agent. She wasn’t mind you, she was a ghost agent. Posed as the agent, did all the visible work and whatnot, but only collected a tenth of the fee. The real agent just made connections, not getting their hands dirty.

Now, surely, you think, Granny could’ve just been an agent herself, directly. Well sure, but agents are only as good as their connections and there you have it, I would think.

Well, but the other question you must have by now is why am I telling you this? Well, bear with me. We only found out, got confirmation of all of this, when Dwayne tried to buy a new piece of, well, we can call it art I guess, art for Granny. Ended up meeting Granny herself in a back alley. The jig, as they say, was up.

So as I was saying back when I started, yes, I’m getting to the point, I know you’re on the edge of your seat there, if someone had killed Granny before I knew about her other life? Well it would’ve been sad. It would’ve been a damned tragedy. But once we knew, well, when she was found dead the whole family guessed why.

Which is where you come in. Did you think we wouldn’t work it all out? The schemes and the plans? The fact that you were sick of her taking the credit, even though it was what you paid her for? Come on, you’re good, but you ain’t smart, know what I mean?

So yeah. That’s why you’re tied to the chair. That’s why we broke your legs. That’s why I had to, I mean we had to, rent this whole warehouse. I don’t care that you hid all this time in some stupid plan. I’m, well we’re going to, the family and I, keep up Granny’s work. And you’ll give us your connections, won’t you? Eventually.

Oh, don’t worry, we won’t harm your face. We need your face. Reference is a great thing to have, sir. I do have to ask though, why fake your own death just to make a killing selling black velvet pictures of yourself?

Eh, it doesn’t matter. Just hold still.

Or else.

Elsewhere – Wednesday, January 13, 2010

January 13, 2010 burrito blade, original writing No comments

Legend of the Burrito Blade updated with Volume 2, chapter 1, page 2.

Polite Fictions also updated with a short original fiction peice by me. You can go read that by clicking here.

How to “fix” tea.

November 18, 2009 humor, original writing 19 comments

Over the last few days a few different friends have mentioned teas to me. When they do, and all the friends I am talking of are male, they seem, amusingly and jokingly, concerned about the very non-manly names these things have. Two Doves, Raspberry Delight, Fruit Fantasia, Cherry Blossom, that sort of thing. So I gave some thought to it and realized that this is why tea has not gained even wider acceptance in America. It simply isn’t manly enough, where manly is defined as that sort of traditional on paper concept of manly that enjoys tractor pulls, motorcycle gangs and so on. You know, the inaccurate, false and generally trotter out for a good laugh kind of manly. It’s time tea caught on with them.

I gave it thought and identified three key areas where tea can change its image fairly easily and soundly: name, paraphernalia and process.

Name: Tea and Herbal Tea both have to go right off the bat. Tea sounds soft and weak. Herbal tea sounds like something a dirty hippie might drink and we can’t have none of that. I suggest we rename the thing itself to POWER BREW. As for the types of tea themselves I propose a simple system.

When the tea in question is spicy make sure its name has a reference to blades or knives. Instead of Spicy Tisane or Three Ginger we would have Power Brews such as Switchblade, Damascus, Broadsword and Seven Inch Blade (so spicy it isn’t street legal in most states!)

When the tea is tangy its name can have reference to metal. No more Raspberry Delight, Fruit Fantasia or Cherry Blossom. Now our Power Brews would be Crowbar, I-Beam and Chain-link Fence.

Paraphernalia: True tea enthusiasts make tea with all sorts of gadgets. The kettle heats the water. The tea goes in the tea ball. The teapot holds the water and the tea ball. No more!

You heat water inside the Incinerator. The Power Brew is put inside a chamber! It all ends up in a Power Container.

Process: First you heat water in the kettle. Then you fill your tea ball with fresh leaves. Pour the hot water into a kettle and dunk the tea ball in, leaving it to hang there so that the tea can steep until the proper color and flavor is achieved. When done, remove the tea ball and rinse it out so you’re ready to make a fresh pot!

No more!

Insert water into the Incinerator. Load the chamber with Power Brew. Transfer the superheated water into a Power Container. Lock the chamber in, as well. Allow the chamber to explode Power Brew flavor directly into the water, Power Infusing it! Once the Brew is done remove the chamber and empty it, preparing it for a reload whenever needed. Power Brew!

In conclusion, I feel that renaming things in completely unnecessary ways for the sake of appearance could drive the tea market up by an unfathomable amount. Manly men will drink Power Brew. They will happily reload chambers, use Incinerators and drink deeply of some I-Beam and Switchblade. You’re welcome, America.

« Older Entries