THE TAKING OF HELEN :: and other prose selections

**This is not my work. see below for reference.**

Niagara

All the way, I had remembered the tales of the roar of the water, and how it can be heard for miles, but what I heard was only the train, and even when I stood in Niagara, within 500 yards of the American fall, I hardly heard it; what I heard was the rapids above the fall, which was picturesque and beautiful, in spite of the ice, yet perhaps nothing out of the way in the magnificent sense. They are a rush and a wild crying of rather clear greenish water much broken by falling and by rocks and by big Goat Island in the middle of the falls

I wandered down the stream and quite soon saw the edge, with the water going over the edge, and nothing beyond the edge except the Canadian shore 400 yards away. Just at the edge the water greened and went very fast; so I hurried up right to the rail by the brink, and as I came within ten yards (going in the direction of the stream) I heard the fall's big voice, and then, when I looked over the edge, it was really terrific.

It is all heaped and built up below with mounds and skulls of gigantic ice, with icicle teeth in their jaws. These mounds come up halfway the height of the falls, and the water goes down into a chasm among them, and ten yards down from the edge it ceases to look like water, infinitely strange and like the ghost of water, and fills the air with drops but is like teased wool and terror and God knows what; and out of the chasm comes a smoke of water, and this rises and flies about, overhead and everywhere, and fills the air with drops, and falls on the trees and freezes three inches thick.

For Helen Rogers.
from John Masefield. Nov 3rd. 1926.

** That damn BLACK DOG nearly killed me **

In 40 days of a cold winter in Ohio, not much had been done or accomplished by Chris Hodges, a recent graduate of The Ohio State University. His days were tied to useless, random Internet searches for the proverbial "One," whom always seemed only another click away, yet always eluded him. When he wasn't looking for that special lady, he intermittently made unsuccessful job searches and went for long introspective bike rides.
Chris bought a nice Schwinn bicycle in college to get from class to class and place to place. He often rode to an off-campus theatre that played independent films and movies that were already available on DVD. The theater was his viewing preference because it got him out of his dorm room and away from his vile computer; not to mention, it was inexpensive. He enjoyed romantic comedies the most and wished he'd one day find someone he could laugh and share his adventures with.
Chris wasn't necessarily an unattractive guy, but his weak, narrow nose was a misfortune of having a diversified ancestry full of attractive mothers, grandmothers, etc. It wasn't until he reached his Sophomore year at OSU that his innocence was taken while in a less than sober state. The girl was a 21-year-old English major whom bought the alcohol that put him in the awkward situation in the first place. She had no right to take him at all. Not like that.
Chris's attraction to the older, more experienced girl increased just as her interest began to fade out with the good weather of the fall months of his third semester.
He had a favorite number. 75 was an odd lucky number. It was never a jersey number or anything like that, but there was something to be said about it being more than half of 100 and half way between 50 and 100: it just broke down nicely in Chris's opinion.
His musical preference varied from soothing classics, such as Brahms and Mozart, to the more modern classics, like Def Leopard jams. He couldn't get over the fact that the drummer only had one arm and had nothing but appreciation for the ripping, intricate guitar solos.
** On September 3rd, 2006, Chris met Josi in a college bar on Prospect St. **
Josi usually wore muumuus because of her naturally robust upper torso, which made her a bit top-heavy. She avoided all Greek social interactions, trying to keep on the straight and narrow of scholastics and non-party extra curricular activities. While Josi was only 19, her boyfriend Craig was 24 and already held a big-boy job at an established corporation in downtown Cleveland.
Josis drink of choice on this particular evening was Yukon Jack, lime juice and soda. She was generally a rum and coke girl, but she was feeling a little extra frisky after meeting young Chris Hodges on this cool September evening. Chris got word that Josi was taking Yukon to the face so he thought to himself his best gesture would be a round of snakebites. After shooting the bitter mixture of booze, Josi's face twisted up like she had just sucked the seeds out of a lemon, and the intoxication sent Craig outdoors for a game of cornhole.
Chris saw this as the perfect opportunity to make good with Josi by complimenting her on her colorful muumuu and how it gently held to her satin curves. After some small talk, Josi began explaining the phonetics of her name and why it was spelled the way it was. Finding this rather boring, Chris quickly changed the subject back to her features, making her heat up a little beyond her Yukon buzz.
Chris decided to make a move for her hand and Josi bitch-slapped him.

The End

Curtis von Tacky

The Stillness

There was this grove of trees that were colored silver and black, and a single ball began to roll into The Stillness, only this ball was colored yellow and orange and red. The darkness overcame the colorful sphere and it began to deflate and shift to grays and browns. Rolling and rolling and rolling, the bland blur of a ball picked up speed. Entering a clear space, the ball vanished with silence, only to reappear as a blonde, fair-skinned child, wearing a summer garment of a sheen white hue. Her eyes opened in a fury of green. The green sent a haze throughout the grove. The silver lit up and reflected green, and the wind began to roar. Leaves and twigs cling to the blonde locks of this green-eyed beauty. Her summer dress blows up as she shyly pushes it back down; though she is alone. She looks around and to her enjoyment she decides to run, full speed, into an opening of yellow flowers. She smiles and leaves a white beam of excitement. She whispers under her breath, "This journey was worth my while."
** Enters the angelic Skyler **
Skyler might have fallen from a sugar tree; her innocence not so clear in the fog of The Stillness. Creeping up on the fair-skinned child, her presence was in sight.
"I can't see," yelled Sky.
Into the shadows crept the tall, ominous woman. Her legs began to shake with the earth. Her innocence was spoiled. The quake showed her reality. The tall woman spoke to the child and said, "You are pure. Do not spoil my surprise."
The child dropped a tear and sat down on the field. She put her head in her hands and came to terms with what was real.
From a touch of the angelic demon Skyler, electricity shot through the veins and teeth of the fair child. Suddenly she was gone...

-Sara Mehlenbacher and Curtis von Tacky -- August 12, 2006

[[ There's danger in killing too many birds with one stone ]]

It was business as usual at the anomalous 'Dingy Diner,' which rested between a pathetic little bike shop and a hopping late-night dance club called 'Beautiful You,' on the corner of Ashland and Prospect, right in the heart of Plummer, South Dakota. Aaron's manager Ricky, a portly, unattractive chef-by-trade, tended to belittle his servers, which he referred to as "bitch bees," because of the way they seemed to scurry around the diner: The buzz of the rickety, old air conditioner, which hung in the diner's only street-side window, completed the bee characteristics of the swarm. Aaron rather enjoyed the tag of bitch bee and often buzzed obnoxiously as he passed ol' Ricky. What Aaron didnt appreciate, or, more frankly, detested was Ricky's grin. Sometimes Aaron thought it would be worth losing his lowsy, low-paying job to use all the force in his 135-pound body to slap it right off Rickys face. Many days Aaron imagined the quarrel that would ensue if he did just that: He could surely outrun his mangy manager, but if Pauly got a hold of the scrawny 17 year old, it could quite possibly result in hospitalization of his banged up body. Aaron put up with the poor management because Ricky never asked much of the extraordinary out of him. The tips were measly on the inexpensive meals. Mostly burgers and cold sandwiches were served to the patient patrons, which often skewed older in age. Aaron had no prospects for higher education and imagined he'd eventually saunter into the car-sales business, much like his father Steve did at the age of 18. The ladder of Steve's career was awfully horizontal and because his mother hardly made a wage for herself (answering phones in the dealerships service center), money was tight, and handouts were hard to come by in the Woodruff household. Aaron Woodruff imagined his future much brighter than his father's, as he made fairly good grades in high school and had been quite the socialite in various circles of friends and confidants. Aarons best friend, his girlfriend, Lisa, respected him and saw potential in his dark, hazel eyes, but, like many others, wished he'd drop his job at the diner to focus more on studies and possibly earn a scholarship to go to a local university. Lisa's imagination often wandered to their make-believe, future home, quaintly located in a suburb of the pleasant and not-too-crazy city of Plummer. She was a year younger than Aaron, but very mature for her age, making her a fine anchor for Aaron's youthful temperament. One day, sure enough, Lisa thought she'd do something nice for Aaron and get a French manicure at the local salon. Aaron always liked Lisa's hands and wished she'd do something in the way of getting her nails shaped up and maybe applying a modest color. Unfortunately, the color she chose enraged a sensitive nerve in Aaron and he lost all interest in her. He quit his job at the Diner shortly after bitch slapping Ricky and decided he'd set off for the west coast and see if he could work his way into the car-sales business a little early. Lisa ended up devastated and cut her left pinky finger off in mourning of her loss.

Moral of the story: Beware of French manicures

The End

Curtis von Tacky

++ minivan_madness ++

"&*@k yo socca momma," shouted Benny. "I can't get out this bitch!"

Benny was an unusual name for a young roughneck growing up in western Pennsylvania. It was not unusual just because he was white-gansta, but he didn't fit the sweet mold of characteristics the name Benny usually attaches itself to. He found himself the butt of a joke here and there, but he never let this deter his efforts to win over his mother's compassion for feeding him buttermilk pancakes every morning before loading in the family minivan.
His mother, a rather rotund, brunette woman that was known by her friends as "Momma C", never really understood where her son's uncontrollable anger stemmed from. The medication ol' Benny boy took made him a little crazy, and it wasn't unusual for him to stand up in the middle of a class lecture and begin shouting obscenities like, "Jenny's just a little trick ho" and, his personal favorite, "that's some bullshit teach. What choo got against a young gunnin' brotha?". This slightly inconvenienced Benny's teacher and often interfered with the lesson plan, as Mr. Manlin would have to escort Benny to the in-school detention center, where he would undergo several sessions of shock therapy.
Benny referred to the detention center as, "The School Slammer," and saw it as a way of toughening his mind for the state penitentiary. He would sometimes ask the detention facilitator to attach the electrodes to his scrotum, but his wishes for more pain were never met -- until one day when Benny pushed the poor man over the edge with an off-color comment about his tendency to be rather weak on the amount of electrical charge he administered.

"Crank that bitch if you've got a dick - you four-eyed, I-never-got-laid sucka!" shouted Benny, staring at the facilitator with fiery eyes.

This enraged the virgin, and with a quick flick of the wrist, Benny was dead. As the voltage raced through the young man, his skin went from a pasty white to a violent purple. The facilitator finally turned off the charge once Benny's hair caught fire, and that was the end of the troubled boy's dismal existence.

The End

Curtis von Tacky

--HOT tamales==

Dear dear,

Elvis Becker, who often goes by the pseudonym Jonathan G. Sallowill, totally just sat down in my cubicle. He's in from Texas on business, and I've never seen mother quite so proud. Father, on the other hand, told ol' Johnny boy to shape up or ship on, as his beard's grown for more than a fortnight and he has the appearance of looking all too well fed. His credentials now represent everything a young Slovakian would like to have appear on a paper resume. E.J., however, prefers to keep everything tip top in the digital world, running amuck with blogging scallywags all too crafty for his diagnosed attention deficit, growing worse every day. As cyberspace continues to grow, so does his impatience with everything paper and palpable, and he's found himself very well doomed and damned.

He's gone now - So far gone. We may have lost him for good in what we've come to know as our great tangible world of papers, metals and liquids. But he lives on most certainly and infinitesimally in megabytes and email stories for all of the ages to come - That dear ol' Johnny boy.

Sincerely

Curtis von Tacky