The murky middle lies in men painted gold, dying of metal poisoning for your amusement.

There are two types of theaters. Grand palaces, cathedrals to the arts. Red carpets, crystal chandeliers, marble, gold lief. Tiny naked baby angels. People in best dress, wearing clothes they wouldn't otherwise be seen in. But that's the point of that half hour between when the doors open and the lights in the auditorium dimming: seeing and being seen. Being seen in your expensive seat. Being seen in your moderately-priced seat. Looking up at the poor fellow sitting practically next to a support beam in the very last row. Raising your eyes in fake brightness and waving; you know him from work. The golden palace is a social event, a ritual and a rite, as much as anything. Chat with your seatmates, flip through the program only to the advertisements. Marvel at how every actor has been in Law and Order. The new summer stock house training ground.

It's different when the lights dim. It becomes a place where the imagination plays out in front of us in grand detail. We feel the highs, the lows, sharply and fully, and we leave with a smile, whether from happiness or from catharsis.

Then there are the ones that exist in darkness. Maybe they're an old storefront or a tiny space rented from an absentee landlord. Everything is painted black, the smell of must and old wood hangs in the air, the apron hangs out well past the proscenium  into the audience, or the stage is a circle in the middle, like a bull fight. Folding chairs circle the area of action. The budget is low and there aren't enough Fresnel lights to go around. And they're always Fresnel. Because they are the cheapest to rent.

Cables taped to the floor with black duct tape because gaff is to far too posh a commodity for a director sleeping in his 1986 shit-brown hatchback Rustang.

The lone musician is on an electric keyboard--his own that he's donated to the production. The tickets are photocopied on red paper and the fliers for the production are hand-drawn and mimeographed like an Indy  band playing at a coffee house.

Most of the tickets are given away for free to friends and family and schools. But the show always starts on time, and when it gets dark there is no shushing of the audience. The first light queue hits slowly, and the first words are nearly a whisper.

These are the theaters where the dark magic happens.

10 word story

Candles melt. Wicks burn, smoking upward. Taking prayers to god. 

10 word story

Bob's Christmas tree blew into our driveway. I murdered him. 

10 word story

I ate all of the cake. 

No regret. 

Yes regret. 

Stripped Away

I'm not a sentimental person
by nature. I've never
cried over a Kodak
commercial. I've never
watched an entire
Hallmark film. I rooted
for the boat when I saw
Titanic. Nothing means

Anything. Except for
the meaning we give it;
entropy pushes the universe
toward chaos.We believe
meaning gives order.
We're hideously, horribly

Wrong. I lack those
verklempt stirrings
in the chest and womb
every time I hold
a child. I am more likely
to romanticize dog ownership
than child-rearing. Or actual

Romance. It is what it
is. That is what I always say.
The thing is the thing; no
more, no less. No artificial
sweeteners, no preservatives.
No shelf-life extenders, no
red dye number five. Or

Eleven. The not-poisonous
one. Even if, when you are not
looking, life becomes
a cake from a box. A half-made
deal. There's no crime in
cheating. Making cake from scratch
is a time-sucker. Leaching
the moments in boring necessities.
Breakfast. Lunch. Dinner. Breakfast.
Something else, unremembered.
Unmemorable. And a half-made

Cake. I cheat at cake. I harbor
pastries, resentments and
time. I hold them in a secret
room; a vault in my head
full of nice things and bad.
The taste of fresh mint. The scraping
of a knee. Yellow boxed
cake with chocolate ice cream
over-beaten by ten year olds. I'm

Not impressed when children
help cook. It's a teaching
moment. A life skill. Not
a perfect Kodak moment.  But still...
I will take pictures. Of every
imperfect cake. Every childish and
professionally arranged delivery
of flowers. Something to hold onto
forever. Tangible proof that
someone once liked me. Tangible proof
that I exist, even when
I have trouble believing it myself.

Tangible proof of whatever you like.
But moistly, a list of all the those times
when I interacted with the Real World.
For when I inevitably forget.

Ten word story

I climbed that tree once; 

the bark chafed my legs. 

Ten Word Story

A scar
from a plastic spoon
on my middle finger.

Ten word story.

It hurts when I think. 

It hurts when I'm awake.

Ten word story

Cacophony of lights and sound; my childhood memories to me.

Ten word story

A shattered stone mossy bridge

crossing over a dried riverbed. 

Ten word story

Every single day
I watch
myself
fade further away.

10 Word Story

The dragons returned. Low misty clouds lit brighter than day.

10 word story

It was just then she fell upon her bloodied sword.

10 Word Story.

I am but a humble compilation of spare, broken parts.

10 Word Story

Red and thick, it pours. Sweet elixir of fried potatoes.

10 Word Story

They think I don't know. I do know. I think.

In Which I Wax Poetic About Lost and Found

Ok. So I have this fascination with the Lost and Found box. Every place I have ever worked, I have been fascinated with it. Sometimes, I will go through it for entertainment. I am amazed by what people leave behind. A million pairs of sunglasses, CDs, flash drives, car keys. 

The car keys thing always gets me. I have never worked in a place where there wasn’t at least one set of car keys in the lost and found. HOW DID YOU GET HOME!?? I have the same bewildered amusement toward things left in the scanner—birth certificates, military orders, hundred-year-old family photos. You name it, it’s probably been left at a library at some point. 

I also have a fondness for the winter coats that get left behind. Ok, maybe it was warmer when you left than when you started out. But at some point along the way didn’t you wonder… hey. When’s the last time I had my $200 Steelers Starter jacket? 

Sometimes there are greeting cards. One was a Transformers card with Optimus Prime on the cover with a lovely “missing you" note on the inside to a service member spouse. Or children’s toys. I get a little sad for the child who has lost their favorite stuffy. But I am really sad when a parent comes in and asks if we have a stuffed animal, and it isn’t in lost and found. You know there’s a child who will shortly be inconsolable with grief for a lost friend. 

Then there are the bits and bobs. Pens that end up getting recycled. Barrettes and hair clips that never leave the bottom of the box. Weird connectors for devices you have never seen. And a pocket U.S. Constitution. There always seems to be one of those. 

And the thing about those sunglasses and car keys and even coffee mugs and water bottles filled with liquid is that they always seem to stay there. They never go away. They accumulate. They eventually get tossed after six months or a year. Some end up at Goodwill. But no one comes back for them. They’re forgotten. They’re lost, we find them, but they’re never claimed. They never get to go home. Well, some find new homes. Any USB stick over 8 gig is fair game after a whole year of being in the Drawer of Flash Drives That Time Forgot. I once got a really cool pen that way. But… most items left at the library never go home. 

Maybe I search through the Lost and Found not so much out of curiosity (though there is still that), but to visit the items relegated to that Island of Misfit Toys. To spread a little bit of attention onto those once beloved things that are now lost and forgotten. Or worse: lost and replaced. 

I may be anthropomorphising. No, I know I am. But how depressing must it be, to be those car keys? You were once shiny and new. Someone never left the house without you. They showed off your automatic starter button with prideful glee. And then they left you at a public computer. And after two days of searching for you in the bottom of a bag, they spent $200 to have a new key and dongle made, and then they went on with their lives, no longer mindful of where you ended up. 

Some people cared too little for the things that ended up in Lost and Found. I seem to care too much. 

A list.

1. I look at a lot of crime scene and autopsy photos.

2. It started with an old job. We had go through a box of them.

3. I don't know why I look at them now. They are not upsetting.

4. We are but meat suits. Walking, thinking meat suits. Emphasis on meat.

5. The pictures don't bother me. Even the ones of children.

6. I gave myself a panic attack and swerved into oncoming traffic to avoid hitting a turtle.

7. I don't deal well with the fake deaths of fake animals in films.

8. Where do we go when we vacate our meat suits?

9. I would like to haunt an amusement park. If we have choices.

10. I miss my nana.

Things I Learned Today

1. Smiling makes you happier. Unless smiling sans reason makes you unhappier.

2. Standing with your hands on your hips in a strong heroic pose makes you more confident. Wonder Woman wears tiny clothes.

3. Memorization can be improved by filing facts within your house absurdly. This includes Britney Spears.

4. Printing errors can perforate pages but not completely shear them. My book looks like a coupon.

5. No matter how big or small the cat, they all seek to capture their own tail. It is an illusive stranger, stalking them all of their lives.

6. Happiness precedes success. Apparently we were lied to when we were told success would bring happiness. Mostly it has only brought student loan debt.

7. Life is a game. Gameplay adds minutes to life. Live forever. Make everything a game.

8. Everything I have ever known about tying shoelaces is wrong. I shall endeavor to correct this immediately. Just as soon as flip-flop season is over.

9. Who's more crazy? The fool, or the fool who follows him? Apparently the second man in is the trend-setter. Or the one most likely to be thrown in the penalty box.

10. Life may or may not be judged in actual experience points. It depends on who you assume is keeping track.

I really do mean to use this more. Truly.

I got to the end (or as much as I could humanly tolerate, given my mental state at the time) of my 100 word project. And while it was a little more disjointed toward the end than I was intending, I still produced quite a lot of work. I visited a lot of worlds in the course of one year. One tiny scrap of paper at a time.

Yes, I did actually write them every day, on quarter-page scraps of already-used eight and a half by eleven for the sake of recycling. I didn't always get them typed up on time. But it was what it was, I suppose.

I'm not sure what other projects I will cook up here. Maybe a little more free-flow, maybe some variety. For the handful of you still tuned into this station :) Um... thanks for sticking around and such.

If you're still out there, give a wave :)