Salt in the Wound Part II

You'll all die,

Unless you watch our cast.

Watch our show,

And we'll do our best to keep the terrorists and the Swine Flu at bay.

(Oh, excuse us, we mean H1N1. We don't want to offend the swine.)

Drive up our ratings,

And we just might stop the mudslinging,

Or maybe we'll wallow in the dirty stories just a bit more,

(We want to make more cash for our commercials.)

So, please keep watching,

We want to make you happy

With our depressing news.

Through Rose Stained Glass Chapter I Scene II

The coffee tasted terrible. Maybe if it had been freshly brewed, the taste would be a little more edible. Even the stalest donuts would be an improvement. Patterson continued to drink the distasteful stuff out of courtesy. He didn't know the next time he would get a chance to investigate side by side with police officers. At the moment though, the opportunity didn't seem so lucrative.

The scene sat as it had before, so many years ago, except this time the caution tape had been removed. Any obvious evidence had long been cleaned up as well. Patterson didn't see anything but dry pavement. Rubbing his face, and glancing at the murky coffee, he sighed. His companion, Officer Randall, stood next to another policeman, drinking the same coffee. They huddled close together, trying to block out the icy air and slight winds.

A bit impatient by this point, Patterson voiced the question he knew must've been on the others' minds. "What are we looking for again?"

Randall gave him an impatient look. "Evidence they didn't catch years ago."

Patterson took a sip of the coffee, trying not to make a face. "Run through the case for me one more time?" He had heard it several times, but each time he tuned it out. It seemed so typical, and it didn't seem like his thinking skills were necessary.

Sighing, Randall explained. "We received a 911 call the night of the fight. A lady driving by the scene witnessed a gang fight on the corner across from the furniture store. Dispatched officers arrived to find the lot empty save for a corpse. Medical examiners identified the body as Michael Roberts. We knew him as Bobby Butcher, a gang hit man, if you will."

Patterson narrowed his eyes, thinking out loud. "Only one man dead in a gang fight, and he was supposed to be the one pulling off a hit. It doesn't make sense." His eyes narrowed further, making it harder to see. "Didn't someone already confess?"

The others nodded.

He rubbed his forehead and sighed. "Then why are you trying to reopen the case?"

Randall swallowed, and answered quietly. "We think she's covering for someone else."

Patterson side. "Is there any witnesses we could ask?"

The officers glanced at each other knowingly, and one of them reluctantly admitted, "Well...there is one person."

Happy Anniversary!

It's roughly been a year since the Forty-Fifth Paradox first opened its doors. I looked up on Wikipedia typical anniversary gifts, and I came up with these: Paper, Cotton, and/or Clocks. Apparently Americans ( "traditional" ones give paper, and "modern" ones give clocks) need a concrete reminder. British people apparently need to clothe themselves more. While I'm too poor to actually buy you a pad of paper (or a card), or a time keeping device, I do want to wish my guests a Happy Anniversary!

A lot has changed in the past year. One thing you have have noticed already: the colors you're staring at will long longer give you a migraine. I do try to give my guests the most comfortable (or most engaging) experience possible, and believe me, the old theme bugged me too. Another thing that's changed quite a bit (and quite often) is the rate I post. For a while (out of guilt) I tried entertaining everyone everyday, which proved to be too big a drain on my time and mental resources. At one point last fall, my guests would be lucky to find fresh accommodations once a month. I'm still trying to find a happy medium, but at least everyone will stay alert and on their toes (or subscribe to the feed.) Probably less noticeable is one giant upgrade the Paradox went through earlier this week. Some unlucky readers would have noticed the locked door and technological gibberish spread at the top of the page. I do apologize, and I can assure all of you it won't happen in the future if I have anything to do with it.

How can you participate in the celebration? I have a few suggestions:

• http://www.facebook.com/search/?q=Melody&init=quick#/pages/Melody-J-Jacobs/44045265045?ref=ts.
  


• Comment here with your favorite poem, drabble, short story, or novel excerpt. Your input could very well change the direction of the Forty-Fifth Paradox.

Come on in,

It might not be what you expect,

But who wants the expected?

Who wants the old, the used, the endlessly recycled ideas?

Come on in,

And have a seat by the fire,

Continually burning with the bluest flames,

And warm yourself,

But try not to get burned.

The Woman at the Landromat.

Her shirt had already begun to stick to her skin, but she couldn't wash it today. As she pushed the glass door open with her foot, she wondered if anyone but the employee had bothered to show up. No one had. Sighing softly, she figured it was for the best. She really didn't want the company anyway.

If only building had air conditioning. Most of the women in her neighborhood did their laundry in the morning, or the evening, when the sun didn't turn any suspect building into an oven. She couldn't bear the stares. And so the woman came here alone, even though it made her more thirsty, and the heat sapped her strength.

Thirst. She knew the feeling all too well. It only took her an hour in this heat, surrounded by hot clothes dryers to empty her water bottle. Everyday she emptied her water bottle, and every day she headed into the convenience store to buy a fresh one. Even though the store had better fans than the laundromat, she looked forward to those even less. Better fans meant more people, and more people meant harsher stares.

She would just have to bear up and bear every moment like she did every day. Things wouldn't get better any time soon, if ever, so she'd have to accept the way things went now. As always, she'd have to settle for anything and anyone, when no one nor nothing would settle for her.

The minutes dragged on, each one making her wish she lived somewhere else, as someone else. As she waited for her clothes to dry, she noticed a man outside. He wore a plaid shirt and ragged jeans, and his hair seemed a bit unkempt. So far, she didn't find anything out of the ordinary, except for what he carried in his hand. She swallowed, recognizing it as a leather bound book with gold print.

BEEP! The dryer called from across the aisle. She walked toward it, pulling her hot clothes out slowly, hoping the man outside would walk away. He didn't. Why would he even be here? Bible thumpers didn't come here, not to laundromats in trashy neighborhoods. They just didn't. So why him?

She picked up her basket, heading toward the door and slipping out as inconspicuously as she could. Unfortunately, the chime on the door gave her away. Turning quickly, she tried to duck away from his glance. It didn't work. Thankfully he didn't follow when she walked away...yet.

The water bottle purchase went through without anything unusual, and it served to get her hopes up.  The sight of him served to dash any hopes she had of avoiding him, and anything he had to say. She walked past him quickly, hoping something would distract him. It didn't.

"Excuse me, miss."

She didn't stop to look, she only slowed her pace.

"Could I have a drink of your water?"

He seemed sincere enough. "Do you even know what I am?" She asked. "If you did, you wouldn't want to share a drink with me."

"If you knew who I am, you'd be asking me for a drink." He replied evenly.

The outrageousness of his statement caught her by surprise.

"But sir, you don't even have a water bottle...or a wallet for that matter. How do you plan on giving me water?" Her eyes narrowed. "Who do you think you are? Just because you're a preacher, doesn't mean your beliefs are better or higher than mine."

He took the water bottle from her hand studying it casually. "Anyone who  drinks this water will just be thirsty again. Those who drink my water will never thirst again." Then he handed her bottle back to her. His eyes met hers as he said levelly, "Those who drink my water will gain eternal life."

It would be nice to not have to buy water every day after leaving the laundromat. She could finally hide from the eyes of the public. And to never thirst again... "Please, give me this water! Then I’ll never be thirsty again, and I won’t have to come here to get water.”

"Go and get your husband."

The request caught her by surprise. "I don't have a husband." He still didn't understand....

"You're right; you don't have a husband." He smiled slightly, not to be condescending, but to show some sympathy. "Actually, you've had a husband, and four boyfriends before. The woman you're living with right now is your girlfriend."

Okay, maybe he did know. In fact, he knew more than she felt comfortable with. "So maybe you do know something." She quirked an eyebrow expectantly as she asked "How can you be sure that you have the only way to heaven? The only right way to worship?" Turning her head to glance around the street, she added. "We're good people with good intentions. How could God exclude us?"

"Who are you to judge God? You hardly know him." She could see a sparkle in his eyes, as if he had seen the punchline and she hadn't. "Salvation comes through me, and there will come a day when how you worship God won't matter, except that you do it truthfully and in his Spirit."

"I know a savior is coming, who'll explain everything to us." She folded her uncomfortably, wishing she knew what was so funny.

"I am the Savior." His grin exploded onto his face.

"You are?" A car blaring its horn a short distance away diverted her attention away. A moment later she turned her head back to the man only to see him gone. The woman only knew of one thing to do. She left her water bottle and her laundry at the laundromat as she walked away.

Soon walking didn't seem fast enough, and she ran. She pounded her feet against the pavement as she made her way back to her neighborhood. Knocking on doors and making phone calls, she told everyone she could think of what she had seen and heard. Some followed, some didn't. At first she didn't know where to lead them, until she spotted it back at the laundromat. The preacher had left his book behind, leaning against the wall on the sidewalk.

She knew exactly what to do now.

Salt in the Wound

Something cathartic would help:

A little candy-coated sympathy,

A drop of tough love  cough syrup, or

A constructively criticizing get-well gift.

I need more than a hand to hold mine,

I need an arm to lean on to, and

A footstep to follow with mine.

I don't need salting gossip.

I don't need frying publicity.

I don't need a journalist for a nurse,

So send in a clown instead.

(At least he can make me laugh.)

Classified Ad

Kidney for Sale! Kidney for Sale! Black market kidney for Sale! Costly kidney for sale!

Comes with pot-infected vessles, but from an otherwise healthy owner. Original owner can not guarantee his moral health or mental heath.

Kidney comes complete self-doubt, incrimination, and a lack of ethical boundaries. Buy at own risk (and the risk of others.)

Plot can be a rather cruel master

How could you!?

All these moments past,

Pages turned,

And thoughts tightly wound up in such a story...

And you give me this!?

I thought we had something, you and I,

A relationship at most,

A trusting appeasement at least.

I gave you my time, my mental energy,

Heck, even my imagination.

The least you could do is not kill off my favorite character.

I'd end what's left of our friendship,

But I haven't finished the book yet.

First in my class

I would like to start off thanking all of those who got me where I am today. My adoptive parents, who raised me these six years. They're quite an agreeable bunch, raising me from the day they found me in a ditch on the side of the road. All these weeks they've encouraged me to pursue my education, and tutored me on my online exams. I owe them a great deal.

If it weren't for my moral support, I would have never earned this diploma. I especially thank my special dry food diet, for feeding my brain as well as my body. A shout out to my toys, even the catnip flavored ones, who helped me keep my sanity. Most of all, I'd like to thank my bed, for taking up space and making me feel like queen of the household, even if I'm by far, the shortest one around.

It's truly an honor to be the first cat to earn a high school diploma, even if it's from a diploma mill.

Objection

I do confess, I felt tired that day,

Barely able to keep my eyelids from falling,

Even as they sentenced my cousin in court.

I suppose it was bad form, to open my mouth

When the judge was busy opening his.

Maybe it was a bad idea to let that yawn take its course

And allow my diaphragm to do it's solemn (and dynamic) duty.

But six months in jail?

For yawning?

With Ketchup

Slaying dragons really isn't all it's cracked up to be. First off, they smell terrible. Just one whiff of dragon's breath makes my stomach do somersaults and my head feel funny. It's difficult to even approach them, because their skin does little to block the heat burning inside.

They're difficult to reach too. Dragons tend to chose nests at the bottom of canyons, at the fard end of caves, or my least favorite: mountain tops. By the time I reach the dragon, I'm nearly too exhausted to fight. But at that point, it's kind of too late to turn back. And so I entered the 'dragon's lair', as it were.

Did I mention they're mind readers? I never dare think of anything but the dragon and its scales. If I thought about my fair maiden, the dragon would surely attack her when he'd finished with me. If I thought too much about the fight itself, surely the dragon would know my attacks before I made them. But I should avoid not thinking at all...for that would have surely lead to my certain death.

As for the reward, I'll just call it awkward. I mean...I'll call her awkward. Marrying the princess sounded like a wonderful idea...until I married her.

Traffic

A complete stop on the freeway,

An ironic twist along the way,

As I was driving home one day

My hand digging into the carryout tray,

Asking my friends 'yay' or 'nay'

To change lanes, if I may,

As I came to a complete stop on the Freeway.

Having a Cake and Eating it Too

The smoke gathered around the smell of cooling bodies. Everything from the last toe to the last finger laid in silence, save for the clattering of forks. Two men sat in fortified thrones on a marred hill in a scared valley, oblivious to the destruction without forgetting its cause. They licked the frosting from their fingers, ignoring the taste of blood they had been taught to crave.

One glanced at the other. "Good cake, isn't it?"

"It is." The other replied, as he twiddled the fork in his fingers. "Why did we never share our cake before?"

The first thought it over as he took another bite. "I suppose it was selfish impulse."

The second stood up with a start. "Are you calling me selfish!?"

Then the first had to stand up, to defend his honor. "You dare question my judgement?"

Finally, they both threw down their forks, and abandoned their cake. And so the war began again. The two men never discovered why they never stopped to have two peaceful slices of birthday cake before.

Troubling Statistics

The mayor met with the coroner

On the morn, after the night.

"Dear Coroner! I've heard the most distressing news!

It seems one out of one people die!"

The coroner frowned, glancing almost guiltily at the casket next to him.

"It's true, Mr. Mayor, but I'm afraid I can't do much about it.

I bury people. I don't raise them from the dead."

The mayor's eyes on the mayor's head stretched like the ripples from a raindrop.

"But coroner! Can't you prevent them from dying?"

The corner frowned, sadly, regretfully, like he had just killed a kitten.

"I'm afraid not.

Even if I could, wouldn't that put me out of a job?"

The mayor quirked his head like a dial on a clock.

"I suppose you're right, Coroner.

We'll just have to let them die as usual."