Occasional Sputterings

(ref: here ) The feel of sunlight on eyelids The touch of compassion The taste of a refreshing beverage The scent of clean laundry The warmth of freshly baked bread The crisp crunch of fresh vegetables The sound of the birds chirping The refraction of light by dew on a leaf The laughter of children The flow of brisk, elemental wind The SNAP of fresh inspiration The kiss of a loved one

(ref: here ) Licking his lips, the small man sat at his dinner table; beads of sweat walked down from brow to chin. "I can finally eat dinner," he thought, furtively glancing to the walls. A small, quiet scraping sound behind the north wall triggered adrenline and stopped him from chewing. "But, they couldn't have..." pondered the man, as he quietly laid down his fork. Looking to the window, the drapes swayed gently in the wind; with every pulse of the air, the curtain quietly slid against the window sill. "Ah, yes," considered the man, more at peace. "I should have realized." Pulling back the chair, the man stood up and walked to the window. Leaving trails of footsteps, moonlight streamed into the window; the full moon revealed much of the landscape. As the man stood in front of the window, the hill to the north appeared empty. "Ah, dinner awaits," thought the man, as he attempted to close the window. Pressin

(ref: here ) What would a newspapers in heaven be like? Would there be competition? Would there be stories of daring escapes, rescues, and other harrowing things? Would it be entirely stories about God? Is the premise, the fundamental justification for news, irrelevant in heaven? Or, is the means of distribution irrelevant? Will paper even exists? How about the new earth - will temptation exist from our own sin natures? Does temptation exist outside of sin? And if two newsreporters have a dogs, and the first picks up the feces of the second, did the second get scooped?

(ref: here ) Alice looked up the definition of 'degenerate'. "Yup, that pretty much is completely wrong," she said to herself. "Besides," thought Alice," the real question is: 'what's the opposite?'." Removing her clothes, her limbs, and her hair, the real Alice transcended the mortal shell of her human form and became ... something greater. "The largest aspect of compromise in that definition," said Alice to her mobtils, "clearly indicates a lack of comparison." "Yes, oh meloma," relied the mobtils; each vied for attention, attempting to distract Alice. "Whereas, if they had met me," replied Alice to herself," I'm quite certain they would have both redefined degenerate and allowed generate to be a noun." "Errgh," said all the mobtils, as they breathed their last breath. Looking toward the pile of organic matter that had once been mobtils, Alice sighed.

(ref: here ) The bear rose upon its hind legs and roared. Fifty feet of power, strength, and fur, stood in front of Mary, and she could do little but freeze in place; a single tear fell from her right eye. The moment the bear saw the tear, its rage suddenly quieted; moving slowly, the bear dropped to all fours and moved closer to Mary. It was all Mary could do to not scream. Lungs that had seized out of fear now collected oxygen fast - too fast! The bear walked a little past Mary and gently, ever-so-gently, nudged Mary. Mary, shocked at this action, yelled - and quickly covered her mouth with her hands. The bear continued lightly and gently nudging Mary, no pushing so much as edging toward her. Confused, Mary turned to look into the bear's eyes. Strength, power, danger ... and a deep need to be protective. Mary didn't know how or why, but she intuitively knew she could trust the bear. Grabbing the bear's neck tightly, she cried loudly into the fur. T

(ref: here ) "Nobody knows," replied the doctor. "Knows what," I asked, more bored than anything else. "Nobody really knows what chaos looks like." "Well of course they do - it's simply the opposite of order, right?" "No, order doesn't have an opposite. 'order' is simply the degree to which something is organized." "Right ..." "So saying that order is the opposite of chaos is like saying chaos is the degree to which something is disorganized." "Right ..." "But that's not it at all ... we can't measure disorganization and so we can't identify chaos. All we can measure is organization." "Yes, but isn't this simply one of those negative definitions - where you identify something by what it isn't?" "No - you can use them for analogies but not definitions." "Oh, I see; I guess you're right. But that doesn't

(ref: here ) Charismatic, though she was, she never knew the simple cause of problems, her elegant gause to ignore, putting her life on pause Harmonious, she tried to be, seeking surcease from reality, and instead of patience, mostly she was frustrated and finally, As anger filled her tangled breast, she finally let tide fall and rest; with patience borne of crying caressed, she stood quiet still, ache leaving chest Order seemed a mirage, a fake, as time, it seemed to bend and shake, and thousands of problems true, beset milady, violently blue. Slowly, the problems grew dim, as she released assumptive whim, and grew appreciative of truth without pride and, being released, sat and cried

(ref: here ) As the sun beat down, kissing the the mountain with unfettered intensity, John climbed the hill. One hand hold here, one reaching-pull move there, and John continued mastering the slope. Halfway up the slope, his sweat-drenched glove used to wipe his face again, John though to himself about the question his brother had asked. "When does historical record become myth," James had asked, "Is it possible that a contemporary event could ever be considered mythical?" As the sun beat down upon John's brow, the question seemed irrelevant and potent at the same time. Looking up, John noted movement fifty feet above his current position; the rock wall hid the source but he knew his brother was ahead. Smiling, John sped up his actions; taking the similar precautions as before, John literally lept from spot to spot, scaling the remainder of the wall quickly. As John silently approached his brother, he considered again the question. Climbing on

(ref: here ) In the 22nd century, politicians finally became honest; as a result, politics became a sport. And political science became some kind of variant of commentating. Applicants for positions as low as treasurer were expected to have at least an agent. Completely new areas of style, perfume, music, and expression developed around this sport. Outfits depicting the newest political party, and their associated kind of mud, were displayed in their own magazines. Television stations absorbed this in stride, devoting new stations to variations on mud-slinging (such as "mud-week"). And mud-slinging finally became an art-form. An element of satire was introduced when the Olympics, following in stride, added several new sports to their itinerary. This created the opportunity for pseudo-politicians; these were athletes bred, not for being statesmen, but for mud-slinging. Many of the politicians actively running for office and incumbents quit, training for the

(ref: here ) The queen slowly made her way to the center of the field. Her king had effectively made her a scout for the rest of the army. Perhaps it was that she moved more fluidly than the rest. Or perhaps it was because she walked the grounds with more ammunition than any bishop or rook. Arriving at the designated spot, she noted the field had a distinctive slope. "Why, it does seem downhill from my perspective here," thought the queen. "It would seem easier to defend; it also means I cannot see over the ridge to the south." Looking for some form of cover, the queen found a nearby tree with an exceptionally wide base. "Perhaps if I climb here, then possibly here, I can acquire an excellent perspective." A slow rumble, in the distance and down the hill, seemed to distract from her climbing. "What is that," the queen asked herself while finding her perch. First one head appeared from the bottom of the hill. As the chin,

(ref: here ) Francis stepped out onto the street; the wind whipped along the road, screaming loudly as it rubbed her ankles raw. Stumbling slightly, Francis moved onward, with the wind, as the air drew the heat from her body through legs, arms, back and head. "I think I can make it," though Francis, not daring to open her mouth. Forty steps brought her ten feet, and throughly barely-open eyes she saw the lit lantern right above the wooden door. Forty more steps brought Frances within the door frame; as the wind whipped about looking for other victims, Francis sighed. Seven more breaths, and Francis steeled herself against the wind. "I've done this before," thought Francis, as she gritted her teeth. "It is never easy but I CAN do this." Stepping back onto the way, the wind seemed to take perverse delight in discovering holes in her pants. Ignoring the biting, angry wind, Francis continued to slowly and deliberately step forward, one f

(ref: here ) The dusty militia-man stepped from his post. "Wow, these fifteen hour tours are getting longer," the thought to himself, as he rotated, acknowledged his replacement, and briefed his relief. Having no visitors was normal at the Memorial Museum; Jake, and others like him, had committed to watchstanding this post independent of tourist attention. Precisely seven minutes later, Jake found himself walking to his car. Like him, his replacement knew the drill - shift change was always fast and professional. Opening the door, the week unfolded in his mind; Jake thought on breakfast, considered a local diner, and found himself placing a to-go order at a counter near his loft. Waiting on a stool, Jake noticed staring; assuming his unorthodox uniform drew attention, Jake continued to appear lost in thought. One girl, no more than six, approached Jake; turning towards her, Jake smiled. "Hello," said the girl. "My brother and I wanted to thank