A Walk Through East Jerusalem

The tour bus rolled to a stop but didn't open its doors quite yet. Shadows rustled behind shaded windows, eagerly anticipating the stop. Meanwhile the engines whined and hissed, before finally settling into silence. A hawk cried through the sky as it glided on drafts of air. On the streets below vendors displayed their wares for all potential customers to see. Finally the doors opened, and the rustling increased.

First out came the tour guide, a short woman with curly hair, sunned skin and a crooked nose. After her streamed a single file line of men and women glancing about with their eyes and their camera lenses. The line collapsed into a swarm of eager eyes and chittering mouths. They half-listened with their ears while they half-watched the world around them through the lenses of their cameras.

I on the other hand, ate my fallafal and pita bread as I tried to shut out the noise. With my feet planted on the sidewalk, my eyes took in the two streets, the alley way on across the street, and the door two booths away. Even when on vacation I couldn't help but identify all the possible exits. Glancing at my makeshift meal, I tried to block out what had become instinct.

One bite of the crunchy treat and I wondered if someone had poisoned it.Sighing, I tossed my meal in the trash and pulled out my camera. I snapped a few pictures before I realized I had been searching for evidence. Evidence of what? A stray cat sitting by the bus? The man with the hair gelled so heavily I could snap needles off of it? The girl with a bomb strapped to her chest? ....

So much for a vacation.

Basically, when you encounter a suicide bomber, you have one of three options. You can run, you can scream, or you can try to stop the bomber, all of which will makes the girl to pull the trigger. You could shoot her hand off, but there's no guarantee that one shot will take out both hands at the same time, and it only takes one hand to trigger the bomb.

If you have rifle loaded with disruptor shells, you can hit the trigger with a casing filled with water and avoid igniting the explosives. Though, if you're on vacation overseas, airport security usually removes this option , and you'll be lucky to even make it to your destination. Liquid nitrogen could be used to freeze the wires, and disable the triggering system, but good luck finding that in a street market. You could put pressure on her coratid artery, but you might have trouble getting close enough to her neck.

In some cases the bomber will choose to use a wireless trigger because they allow more subtlety before the blast. This counts in your favor because a wireless signal is a lot easier to disrupt than a wired one. You could call a bomb squad, but that takes too much time. Thankfully, when vacationing in a tourist trap, satellite dishes with strong broadcast signals aren't too hard to come by. All a spy has to do is call the nearest TV news station, and wait for the reporters to take the bait.

Within a couple minutes they'll come roaring through in her van, eager to broadcast the news first. They'll park their van, bust out the cameras, and turn on their satelite router. The actual difficult part is getting the trigger from the bomber's hand before the news crews leave. I prefer the subtle approach. Simply sneak up on her using the reporters as body shields, and grab the trigger.

Of course, if the mob of reporters knock you into her, things get a bit more complicated. You'll have to move quickly to knock the trigger away from her hands as you tumble to the ground. And once the press vultures get close enough, they'll likely send the trigger skittering into a mob of tourists, allowing you to disable the bomb.

And once you can get away from the reporters, and the wannabe bomber, you can enjoy a fresh serving of fallafal, and hope it isn't poisioned.

My Dream House

Is a house of kaleidoscopes,

Solid colors,

Stairs and stairs and stairs, that sometimes lead nowhere but

Down.

Windows always show partly cloudy days,

And a living room is nothing more

Than a stepping stone

To exploration.

At least one room is filled to the brim with balls,

But I've yet to discover Randall Munroe.

And the neighborhood?

Don't even get me started.

I Want What She Has

When I add a cat to a thunderstorm, I'm supposed to get a wet cat, right? This time I didn't. She's been shedding like crazy, long after the storm's over. I think something's up, something...unusual.

Cat's have always given me the impression that they know more than they let on. They'll argue with me over the weather, but when I try to get their attention, they'll just wiggle their ears as if the reception's bad. Then they'll take naps on my lap like they care about nothing else, and then suddenly they'll interject their commentary into my conversation.

Do they really hate each other like they imply when they hiss at each other? Do they have secret meeting places? Dry ones? Force fields?

Perhaps, they've kept it a secret all along. I think they're from another planet. That has to be it. Cats, my friends, are aliens.

When You're 12 Years Old

It makes no difference,

If your mother's angry at you, or her ex-husband who made her angry

When you're 12 years old.

It doesn't matter if your father's beating your mother

Or the mother that beat him years ago,

When you're 12 years old.

It doesn't matter if your uncle wants you dead

Or the uncle that nearly killed him 22 years ago,

When you're 12 years old.

It doesn't matter who caused the blood to pool around your head,

When you're 12 years old and dead.

Filler

(Inspired by a Blindside Song)

Is there anybody less empty than me?

Is there anybody less empty without being full of themselves?

I always see hearts filled with green bills and silver coins,

Wedding rings and bridal gowns,

Contracts and high-rise offices,

Photographs with possessive smiles.

But I also see the insecure cracks,

The doubting holes,

The gaps gasping for air.

Is anyone full?

Is anyone fulfilled?

Apology Accepted

She sat on the front steps, staring at the yard. The wind brushed bumps across her skin as she watched the sun hide behind the horizon. If only she could do the same. Fiddling with her shoe laces, she watched the same wind caress the lawn outside. He should probably mow it soon, though tonight felt like the wrong time to ask.

The door creaked open behind her, and the hairs on her neck stood up. For some reason she didn't bother to look. She could only expect one person to come through that door. He didn't bother to say anything, as he sat down six inches from her. Normally he sat around two, but two inches didn't feel right tonight. Finally, after they both stared at the yard they knew by heart, they glanced at each other. Searching each other's eyes, they smiled.

Just a Little Bit, More

I suppose I could grow five inches taller. I could shrink two inches thinner. I could even make my hair three shades lighter. Would that make you like me four degrees more?

Or maybe I could climb one more mountain, swim one more ocean, run one more mile. I could write one more song, save one more life, cook one more meal. I could change just once more, would things between us change?

But we both know the secret you've never kept, but I've refused to believe.

I can change a thousand ways a thousand times, and you'd remain unchanged. All those times before I even tried to earn your love, you loved me. And even past all the times I'll try to do more, change more, save more, it won't make you love me more. I think I love that, and hopefully I won't try to change it.