The two men were silent as they watched the creature writhe and listened to him rant, as if he were some weird carnival animal. The creature filled his lungs and let loose an ear-splitting shriek. Both men winced at the assault. Bubba was the first to recover. “Say, that’s a good set of lungs you got there, boy. You keep practicing, you might grow up and be a hog farmer like me.
I'm going to a 4-day writing conference in San Diego this week, so no updates this coming Friday. I'll be back again though to quell everyone's addiction to my website. The alarm clock rang at five o’clock A.M. Oliver shut off the jangling alarm and immediately slid out of bed and went to the bathroom. Then he went into Preston’s room and shook the boy gently. “Time to get up. It’s a new day.
Oliver returned to his spot with a tray of food as Preston frowned at him from above within a transparent tube. He watched as Oliver said grace over his food and began eating, then turned his back toward Oliver and stewed. He spent the next half hour or so moping or playing, always eyeing Oliver for any sign that he was inclined to leave. Oliver simply read his Bible while he dawdled over his meal, to Preston’s mounting anger.
Oliver finished reading the paper in about a half hour, then read the other paper in about the same amount of time. He stood and stretched, then went out to his truck and rummaged through his glove compartment until he found a small Bible. He returned to his spot in the play area to read quietly. Preston played with other kids for most of this time, but soon the crowd thinned out and there were only two other kids, perhaps five years old, and Preston.
“Do you have an idea for some place to eat?” asked Oliver. “I know some places off the highway exits, but if you want to go to some place around here, now’s the time to speak up.” The boy remained motionless and silent, so Oliver turned onto the highway. He drove about a half hour, trying to engage the boy in conversation several times, but to no avail; he was frozen and silent.
It was a beautiful, sunny day when Oliver began his trip to his sister’s home in Columbus. Sunlit, fluffy clouds dotted the bright blue sky, and Oliver smiled with satisfaction. “What a day,” he said to himself, gazing at the scenery. “What…a…day!” It was about a two-hour drive to his sister’s house. He pulled into her subdivision a little before eleven o’clock. The entrance had long, curved, stone walls on either side with the words “Wellington Woods” fastened to the face in stylish gold letters.
On the way home, Oliver stopped at the hardware store to order a large quantity of galvanized wood screws for his fence, and said he’d come by the store sometime next week to pick them up and pay for them. On his way out the door, he ran into a man named Jarod Tate, a horse man whom he had met for the first time just last week. The two began to talk about horses, and Mr.
At six o’clock, Vickie called out the back door of the daycare, “Pres-toooooon! Mrs. Blendon’s here!” Preston laid in dirt under a tree poking at an ant with a piece of thick bark. He grasped the bark in his hand and plunged it, driving the ant into the ground. He got up, dusted himself off, and jogged into the daycare. “Hi, Preston,” said Mrs. Blendon who was just entering the daycare.
Oliver worked steadily without interruption and finished twenty-five new post-holes by the end of the day. He removed his hat, wiped the sweat from his brow, and whistled for Bayo, who came running. “How about I go take a shower and we go into town for some dinner, huh, boy? What do you think of that idea?” The dog wagged his tail furiously and bounded for the truck. Oliver followed. He drove home, rinsed off his tools and placed them on the porch, then took the two coolers from his truck and brought them into the house to refill.
Preston sat quietly in the large, brown “time-out” chair. It was a recliner. He’d spent most of the day there, unreclined, for various offenses. After lunch, he wiped a glob of snot on a girl’s new dress and made her cry. “That’s it!” cried the same worker who rolled her eyes at him that morning. “You can stay in that time-out chair until it welds to your butt, you little brat!
The early morning sun streamed through the large bay window and onto the broad shoulders of the man who knelt in prayer. A golden retriever basked serenely in the sunlight next to him. The man raised his eyes to the sunrise, voiced a low “amen”, and smiled as he stood to his feet. He placed his large, rough hands on the bay and leaned forward, drinking the beauty of the day.
The next several posts in Oberonics will be installments from my book The Tyro. I have not yet published it, so it is not available. I thought I'd post 20,000 words or so. I did the art for the cover of my book, and it will look like this: The idea for the book came to me after reading Captains Courageous. I was standing in a grocery line behind a young couple with a little boy, perhaps eight years old.
Here is my recent entry for a little poetry contest. I won second place. The Consummation It was the colors of the rainbow that attracted us at first… So bright and airy and light. They blended and merged, And we could not tell Where one ended And another began. But it was a trick of distance; As we drew nearer, We saw the cracks and fissures Between the colors –
The Mortician I ride the bus to work each day alone amidst the crowded seats. No person has a word to say– not even people next to me. The business section covers him Like sheets on corpses in the morgue. He squints to read in morning dim, And coldness fills me all the more. She paints her face with rouge and paint. She hides behind her living face. How many faces I must paint
I once watched a documentary on Oppenheimer and the development of the atomic bomb. Many people were against its development. That film inspired me to write a poem. Summer Snow It was early summer when the cold silence of our insanity caressed our home with an icy fist. When it happened, it reminded me of mushroom hunting as a child... so bright, so many different colors... but we knew which ones were best,
The final variation of attack can be disasterous if handled carelessly. It involves your patron's seeking help, solace, or commiseration from other humans. Sooner or later a patron is bound to seek out someone with whom he can "identify" (which is nearly any normal human). It is important to realize that at the present time, all of your patrons do not really want to be rid of their lust even though they may say they do.
2b Some artists are blessed with patrons who fall quickly to these various circular attacks which spiral them down into themselves and their sin. However, many patrons eventually realize the futility of the fight. Soon, they will take a sort of "breather" and try a different approach. They will learn all they can of the sin itself. "Know Thy Enemy" will become their credo as they begin reading anything on lust and how to combat it.
2 As you have much to learn today, I will waste no time in getting down to business. No doubt you all have compared dossiers by now and found that your patrons are all very similar as far as development is concerned. Although none are really what one would call devoted stalwarts, all are consistent consumers of pornography, though none of them would admit it even if confronted with the evidence.
Before I conclude this first class, I would like to review quickly some general spiritual anatomy and the mechanics of lust which you should have learned in the prerequisites to this course. Tedious though it may be to you, I am required to ensure that you know this information as well as you know yourselves. All humans have spiritual orifices in the areas of their stomach, head, and heart from which retractable tentacle-like appendages emerge when stimulated.
1 Pubis...Fellatius...Fetish. Very good. We're all here. Welcome to Sculpture 666, or more specifically The Art of Lust. I am Professor Rake, your lecturer. This is the introductory lecture session of a series of practicums in which you will participate. As such, I will be brief in discussing the history and goals of this class, and your responsibility and privilege of living up to them. All of you have been chosen for this specialized educational track for your outstanding ability in this particular area of art.
One of my favorite books is The Screwtape letters, by C. S. Lewis. I decided to write a spin-off from that book, more as a salute to Lewis than anything else. I call it Sculpture 666. The next several posts will be installments from that book. So, without further ado... Preface "A passionate or inordinate desire, especially sexual". That was the first definition I had of lust. However, as I thought more and more about the sin of lust, the more inadequate that definition became.
To most, I'm sure I appear to be the apex of manhood. I'm smart, healthy, devastatingly handsome, and just dripping with masculinity. But despite all that, there is a secret I hide, a secret that embarrasses me. But today...today I've decided to end the charade and out myself. I am a pathetic male. No, no, it's true. I know what you're thinking: How could a man who inspires such admiration in women and such envy in men be a pathetic male?
I live in a large city, and I drive a 45-minute commute to work. I happen to be one of the few who commute out of the city to work while the rest of the world commutes into the city. On the two-lane road I drive, the left side is a solid line of traffic during my commute, while my side is usually clear to Timbuktu. On most days, the commute is uneventful, but it’s inevitable at some time that I end up behind drivers who aggravate me.
This poem is about a shy man in love who fears to tell a woman he loves her, so he decides to write her a love poem. However, he feels too shy to write a poem and give it directly to her, so he decides to create an alter ego, a fictitious poet who writes a love poem to a woman he loves. Then the shy man decides he'll also have his alter ego create a fictitious poet to write another love poem.
I had a little debate with a fellow who called himself Liberal, and he ended his comments with the questions below. I decided to have a little fun in answering his questions. COMMENT FROM LIBERAL You say that liberalism is implausible. Is it implausible that global warming will have catastrophic effects if not immediately addressed? Is it implausible that less corporate regulation will cause the concentration of wealth to increase to the point of a virtual monarchy here in the US?
I found this piece I wrote during the Clinton administration. Unfortunately, it was more prophetic than I hoped. By John Oberon Family values has become a political buzzword lately. I have yet to hear it clearly defined, yet everyone tosses it around as if it were as common and understandable as a baseball. I don’t think it is. In the past, we defined “family “ easily: a husband, a wife, and their children.
I thought I'd post a story I wrote as a young man, at the height of my agnosticism. At this time, I entertained an unyielding apathy toward God and religion. It was an odd time as far as belief for me. I tried my best to completely ignore God, but harbored an anger that He was the sort of God that would not be ignored. I suppose I wrote this story more as a spiritual catharsis than anything else.
I just found out they discovered a new cache of Mark Twain stories from the mid-1860's when he was a young journalist! Here's the link to the article: http://www.theguardian.com/books/2015/may/04/mark-twain-cache-uncovered-berkeley And here's a link to actual new stories! I don't know if this is the whole cache or just a portion, but either way, what a great discovery! http://www.theguardian.com/books/ng-interactive/2015/may/04/mark-twain-san-francisco-cache Mark Twain was one of the authors I tried to imitate when I first started writing.
I thought I'd post a poem I wrote about twenty years ago when my son was very young. I wrote it as kind of a vision for a future I hope will happen. It hasn't happened yet, but I expect it will one of these days. Playing Catch You were nine When I threw your first high fly. I threw it as best I could. I lost it in the sun,
Alrighty...I'd like to kick off Oberonics with an excerpt from the beginning of a book I've started - a book which more often than not, strikes me as biting off more than I can chew. But I started it, then edited it, and pretty much like it, and I think the Muses are with me on it. But I can just hear the criticism - "John, you pompous, presumptuous, arrogant fool!
Come on...March 31 is not that far away. Until then, you can read About Oberonics. Oberonics... More harmonious than harmonics More penetrating than supersonics More powerful than tectonics More cleansing than high colonics More electrifying than electronics More soulful than ebonics More educational than phonics More exhilarating than all tonics More infectious than bubonic. One read spreads chronic Oberonics.