Fund Anything

Here's the link to my fund anything campaign in my attempt to stay in school:

https://fundanything.com/en/campaigns/jack-and-david-get-there-in-twenty-chapters-or-less?col=-18911

Excerpt from my upcoming book Jack and David Get There in Twenty Chapters or Less: The First Three

I've been working diligently on my book, here's something I thought wasn't too bad, maybe some polishing and a little rewriting:

Hangar ran the whole way and Crash kept up with him. It was about six miles or so, but Hangar didn’t seem to slow down at all. It’s a good thing Crash was following him, I don’t know if anyone else in this chapter was physically fit enough to keep up.

          But Hangar stopped running eventually at the mouth of a darkish alleyway, very shadowy even in the afternoon.

          “Are we there?” Crash asked Hangar who was just standing there staring down the alley.

          Hangar, instead of answering, walked casually down the alley. Crash, wondering what the hell else she was going to do, followed.

          He was sitting on an upturned plastic crate. He was asleep. He had a long white beard and white hair sticking out of his old, ratty top hat, which matched his old, ratty tuxedo and made him kind of look like a circus ringmaster from a circus that had long since shut down as the whole outfit was in such a decrepit state. He also had a cane. Just a normal wooden with a J-curve on the top, one that he held in front of him, even though he was asleep.

          This was Greg. Crash knew him even before he became a Space Bum: a nickname that was given to Greg, Hangar and their third person Jackson. Nobody knows why they’re called that or where the name came from. And when asked they always provided different answers, well, except for Hangar who would always just look up at the sky and say, “Because we live in Space.” In a way that was both distant and sad and most people who heard this thought it was very deep. Greg and Jacky had loads of different answers for you if you ever asked, “It’s because we smell so bad, everyone’s always giving us space.” “It’s Hangar’s fault, always staring out into space all the time.” “It’s for the space the hole in your chest will make when I stab you through the heart.” And so on. The truth was no one really knew where the nickname came from, but when the trio was together, that’s what people called them.

          Where was I? Oh yeah, Crash knew Greg before he became a Space Bum, or at least she knew of him. He was once a distinguished professor at a prestigious college, but Greg never let on what he taught or where he taught it.

          Greg had an old flask he kept in his inner coat pocket. Nobody had ever seen him refill it and since he doesn’t let anyone else drink from it, rumors of its contents have circulated, some saying that it’s a poison that Greg has to keep drinking or he will die. Other’s claim it’s gasoline that Greg has to drink in order to fuel himself (these people also believe Greg to be a robot). Still others believe that it’s Polyjuice Potion, whatever that is. Greg himself tells people that it’s just normal whisky but it was given to him by a witch who told him that it would never run empty but if he ever let anyone else drink from it the spell would break. He’d tell this to anyone who’d ask, but nobody ever did.

          In any case, whatever was in Greg’s flask seemed to intoxicate him.

          Hangar prodded Greg.

          “Oh shit!” Greg said, jumping up suddenly and swinging his cane, which Hangar ducked under, “I’ll get you, ya damned dirty humans!”

          Crash grabbed the cane, stopping Greg’s wild swinging. He stopped yelling and stared at her.

          “Crash?” She nodded, Greg hugged her tightly, “Haven’t seen you in an age. How the hell ya been?”

          She shrugged, “Up and down, same as ever. Can you help us out with something?”

          Greg let her go and took a long draw of his flask. Crash motioned to Hangar.

          Hangar came forward with the cloth from the alleyway, “Found this, marinara on it, wondering what you know.”

          Greg took the cloth and examined it, “You put this in your mouth?”

          Hangar smiled, “You know it!”

          “Good, had to make sure it was safe,” Greg stuck it in his own mouth and sucked on it. After a moment he took it out again and said, “Al Pachoni’s, corner of 2^nd and Lawless Avenue.”

          Crash wondered how that helped her really, but didn’t get to ask about it because right then she was kicked onto her back.

          Crash turned in pain. She almost never got caught off guard. But she shouldn’t have expected any less from the person who stood above her, “Jackson!”

          Jackson, the last of the three Space Bums, was a tall girl. She had very dark skin, making her ancestry of African descent. Of course, Greg would probably argue, quite correctly, that everyone was of African descent, but you know what I mean.

          Jackson was, at first glance, the most normal of the bunch. Greg’s flamboyant outfit and foul mouth and Hangar’s obvious madness or whatever it was. Jackson looked completely normal by comparison. Her outfit was a simple black t-shirt and camo-pants and army boots. She kept her hair short so most people couldn’t tell when it was dirty. She liked to smile and laugh and was dark skinned but had naturally red hair. She looked, well, hot to most straight men, some gay ones too. In fact, when placed next to Hangar and Greg (which she usually was) Jacky looked like a model by comparison, even in the camo-pants.

          People liked to approach her sometimes. She would smile and laugh with them while they hopelessly flirted with her...because it was hopeless. Totally and completely hopeless.

          You see, as many of Jackson’s suitors discovered fairly quickly, if anyone ever touched her she quickly broke every bone in their body. Not really, usually she just hurt them and threw them away from her as fast as she can. Though she’s small and a girl, she’s stronger and faster than she looked. Only when she’s touched though, oddly enough, kicking Crash to the ground was just luck. Many have wondered why this is and, much like the other Space Bums, rumors have circulated about why she does this. But, as I’m sure anyone would tell you, it’s really none of our business.

          Greg helped Crash to her feet as Jacky said, “Sorry about that Crash.” Embarrassingly rubbing the back of her neck, “I didn’t recognize you. I thought you might be one of them.”

          “One of who?” Crash asked, but she was already guessing the answer.

          “Who else?” Said Greg, “The fucking mafia. They basically run this town, no one is safe.” Greg took another sip from his flask.

          “Not even us hobomen,” Jacky added.

          “I mean just last week,” Greg said, “one of ‘um came here trying to shake us down for cash.”

          “Or valuables,” Hangar added.

          “Got rid of him though,” Greg was smiling now, “he tried to put the moves on Jacky.”

          Crash nodded, “Very interesting,” she didn’t mean that, “now, I guess I got to go to a restaurant huh?” That marinara stain was the only clue she had, maybe if she went to the restaurant that made it she could find some answers.

          “No need,” Greg said after another sip from his flask, “Al Pachoni’s is the type of fake Italian that most members of the mob aren’t a fan of. Except for one, Johnny Nimfoe, who eats there probably every day.”

          “What makes you think he has anything to do with this?” Crash asked.

          Greg shrugged, “If anything happens in this city, the mob has something to do with it.”

          “Okay,” Crash was skeptical, but it was something, “how do I find this Johnny Nimfoe?”

          At this, Greg backhanded Hangar in the arm. Hangar stopped staring off into space and smiled at Greg.

          “Johnny Nimfoe, where is he?” Greg said.

          “Johnny Nimfoe,” Hangar said, going back to staring into space again, “He’s a class-3 thug. Leader of a smaller unit, two people under him: Wally and Clay. Anger to the nth degree. Addicted to uppers, especially cocaine and probably an adrenaline junkie too. Was recently kidnapped by someone dangerous and is being held in an unknown location.”

          Crash just stared at him, confused, “How do you know all this?” She was fairly certain that Hangar had been right next to her since long before Jack and David were kidnapped, how could Hangar have discovered any recent information about anybody without her having the same information?

          To answer Crash’s question Hangar just shrugged.

          “Boy’s got an ear on him,” said Greg as he tapped his noggin, “listens to things that nobody else can hear.” Then to Hangar: “How do we find him, boy?”

          Hangar shrugged and started staring out into space again, “Can’t. Off the grid. Might be able to get ahold of his buddies though.” Hangar then tilted his head as if he actually was listening to something, “Wally and Clay, they may or may not have recently been in a major car accident. Whether or not that happened is beyond me, but they are heading towards the tower now.”

          “What tower?” Crash realized as she asked that it was a dumb question.

          “What other tower is there?” Greg said pointing at the Jacob’s tower in the center of town with his cane.

My Book on Kindle: Captain Ahab and Other Short Stories

http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?rh=n%3A133140011%2Ck%3Acaptain+ahab+and+other+short+stories&keywords=captain+ahab+and+other+short+stories&ie=UTF8

That's a long link, but it takes you to my kindle book. Which is totally free for the next few days as a promotion. Has some stories that are on this site, but also some that have never seen the light of day before now. And the first chapter of my upcoming book Jack and David Get There in Twenty Chapters or Less: The First Three. Which will come out for kindle sometime next year.

I'm Sad That I'm Flying

A dozen planes shot down
Ones that I built
Built to last
Except that they didn't
One dozen planes
Utterly destroyed
Though they flew straight
Some weren't fast enough
Other planes would get to their targets first
Sometimes the missiles wouldn't fire
Or the bombs wouldn't go
Only one plane even hit its target
But it didn't make it back
One starts to wonder
About building planes
Build to last
Is it even worth it
If none ever make it
If all are failures
...
I just don't know anymore

Second thing

I decided at the last second to put this into another post. It's something for my multimedia techniques class:

John Everyman For President!

                Isn’t it time for a new man in the White House? Shouldn’t we have someone who isn’t corrupt and evil like every other president who has come before? Don’t you want a president who cares about you, the working man, and isn’t trying to pick your pocket with new taxes or armed thugs? Then you’ll be happy to know that there’s a candidate for you! One who isn’t just another man, he’s Everyman! This coming election, when they hand you that ballot, write in the name John Everyman!

                “I know it’s hard in these troubling times,” said Everyman, “that’s why I’m planning to give the whole thing an overhaul.”

                He’s not just man, he’s Everyman, and he thinks just like you do. He’s not like the Obamas and the Republicans of the world who thinks that people who don’t make enough money should all be exported to the tiny island of Fernando Po off the coast of Cameroon in Africa. When he’s president he’s going to make some real changes in this country, changes that will really get things turned around so that everything’s going in the right direction again. When John Everyman is elected president he’ll turn this United States of America into a country that will be good for every man and woman living here.

                The first change that Everyman wants to make is to “reinvent this economy so that it can work for every American in America.” His three step plan is to, first, close the banks and every business in the fifty states for a week. This is to make way for the second step, which is to take all the money in every bank, business and person’s possession and put it into a giant vault. The third step is to then take all that money and send it back out to the people in the form of a check for one million dollars.

                “If we send every person a million dollars, then every person in this country would be a millionaire, this will stimulate the economy and make this country great again,” said Everyman.

                The second plan that Everyman has for this country is to keep kids off drugs. “The problem is that every man wants to do drugs because they seem ‘cool’ and they make you feel ‘hip.’ If kids knew just how uncool they were, then they’d definitely never want to do them.”

                Everyman says that the best way to keep kids off drugs is to start a whole new initiative in school policies to introduce children, in a totally safe and calm environment, to every illegal drug all at once. He says that “allowing them to take drugs in class will show them just how uncool it is to take drugs, and which drugs are more uncool than the other ones.”

                Everyman also wants to put changes in laws by illegalizing all fruits and vegetables. “If we illegalize healthy food then kids will think that fruits and vegetables are cool, this will stop them from doing drugs, get them eating right and stimulate the economy. And remember kids, don’t do drugs. You are drugs.”

                Everyman also has plans for the war on terror, “Things just haven’t been right in America since America began. That’s why I think we should pull out of both Iraq and Afghanistan and go to war with the people we should have gone to war with to begin with: England.”

                According to Everyman, restarting the Revolutionary War will help to make America great again, “And don’t worry folks, this time we’ll be prepared at Lexington and Conchorde, plus we won’t let Benedict Arnold anywhere near our war plans. It will help Americans and it will help the economy.”

                So this November, when you go down to that voting booth, don’t just vote for any man: vote John Everyman!

Haven't posted in a while...

I've had terrible writers block towards anything really creative lately, but here's some things I did for school that amused me.

The first thing is this obituary we had to write for ourselves the week in my Media Writing class:

Is there anyone more famous in this day and age than Nathan Mitchell? A man who took the steps and went the distance to single handedly take over every country and city on the face of the planet. Though many have called him evil, it’s hard to deny that Mitchell has touched each and every one of our lives.

                Not much is known of his early childhood, or even his young adulthood. Mostly because all records of information on the past was destroyed in The Information Revolution of 2052. But, when he first stood up in that nigh-indestructible robotic body and commanded his robot army to kill all humans and enslave the rest, it can’t be denied how much of an impact he had on human-kind after this event.

                But today, sadness rings out across the world. Nathan “Dr. Death” Mitchell has died on August 27, 2200, at the age of 215. After being the self-proclaimed Horrible Dictator of the World for more than 100 years, his other accomplishments include inventing the technology to create a terrible robot army programmed on world domination, enslaving the entire human race and, of course, illegalizing free thought.

                Nathan died by the hands of his wife and co-ruler of the world: Helga “the Terrible” Mitchell, after the couple were arguing over what the fate of the human race ought to be, Nathan wanting everyone to continue being slaves that worked 23 hours a day with no breaks, and Helga wanting to kill everyone and replace them with robots. Though cause of death, at this point, remains unclear, it is highly suspected that the use of nuclear weapons was used in order to pierce Dr. Death’s nigh-impenetrable, robotic hull.

                “I didn’t really mean to kill him,” said Helga, “it was just a lover’s quarrel that got out of hand.”

                Helga would be prosecuted for first degree murder had Nathan not illegalized laws in 2156.

                Nathan is survived by his wife, Helga, and their robot children, Bob, Tom, Richard, Susan and The Destructionator. His brain shall be put on display in the Mitchell Museum of Mayhem for the week before our robot replacements come and kill us all.

Doc1

Doc1

The doctor was a robot: Doc1, the first of his kind. He was programmed with the most advanced AI available. He could recognize not just words but facial expressions and most kinds of body language. He looked and sounded like a real person too, which always threw people off, most not even realizing that he was a robot until he introduced himself as Doc1.

Doc1’s clinic was always open as he didn’t need to sleep or eat or go on vacation. It was planned for Doc’s to be started up all over the nation but for now Doc1 was the only one until his company could find more funding.

This story begins just two weeks after it opened on a Saturday. Doc1 was busy, so many people, he thought. This was what he was built for but even robots can get stressed out. He was just finishing up with one of his patients, an elderly woman who was worried about a lump she had in one of her breasts but turned out to be benign. She was still insisting that he wasn’t checking hard enough, but he knew that some people would get ideas in their heads, such as I must have cancer and even when you prove them wrong they’ll think that you’re lying and that whatever it is that they’ve decided beforehand must be true. He wrote her a prescription for some lower quality pain killers and told her to call him in the morning (he was programmed to say that after every visit, the folks at his head company thought it would make him seem friendlier. Really, it just annoyed the hell out of Doc1).

As he walked back through the jam packed waiting room, escorting Mrs. Nesbit out there was a sudden noise from near the back of the room that his program told him was the sound of an FN P90 submachine gun followed by a loud, deep man’s voice, “EVERYONE ON THE GROUND THIS IS A ROBBERY!”

Doc1 watched as some people around the man jumped to the ground, others closer to the door got away. Most of the people just started to panic so the man said again, “EVERYONE GET ON THE FUCKING GROUND!” and then, to show how serious he was he fired the gun into the air causing one of the women lying on the ground next to him to get up and start running towards the door. The guy pointed his gun at her and prepared to fire. Doc1, faster than anything living can move on the face of the planet, was there in between the women and the man with the gun just as he fired. Doc1 simply caught the bullet right out of the air in his fingers.

The man with the gun seemed confused, he stared at Doc1 with a look on his face which said I can’t even conceive what just happened. “Who the fuck are you?” he asked, still pointing the gun at him.

”I’m the Doctor here, this is my clinic.”

The man’s grip on his weapon tightened, “I don’t give a shit who you are, now get on the ground with the rest of ‘em.”

Doc1 sighed, “You realize this is a free clinic right?”

The man raised the gun higher, so he could view the Doc down the sights, “What if it is?”

“No one here has any money, and I don’t get paid so you know I don’t have anything either.”

The man laughed, “Then I am going to kill each and every person here.”

At this Doc1 moved forwards so fast the man didn’t even have time to react. He immediately ripped the gun out of the man’s clutches and quickly disassembled it with his left hand. His right arm he used to gripped the man around his neck and held him in a sleeper hold. As the gunman lost consciousness the Doc whispered in his ear, “Take two of these and call me in the morning.”