Friday, October 8, 2010

Brainstorm #14

The banner, satin and red, near the entrance doors of the city hall, showcased it for all who opened its doors. One would stand erect to pay honor to this gentle symbol of Cardezina, circa 1871. I was said that the West was a wild liqueur bar of demons.

As for Handers, he knew quite well where he stood on the issue. For his assured expectation was of virgin white. Long eyes viewed ahead; upon a blurred horizon. Gracing on a grassy knoll feeding for hours at a time. Some of the time the dirty blades would intoxicate me into a slow motion pace. And, yes, it's all short-lived.

The revolver in Johnny's back was cocked and ready if things turned in a deadly duel. Standing yards apart, and face-to-face, a pair of eyes focused on those of his enemy. It was a fight to the death; the woman, the price for the living, stood still behind the railing with tears and outcries filled the air with supplication.

A second after, a gun shot: He was dead, shot in the heart; and surrendering his soul to the unknown. The woman fell weeping and yelped her pangs outwardly. But before the gun man grabbed her by the arm, she quieted and followed him with a bowed head, and as a trophy washed in dark blood.

Wednesday, October 6, 2010

brainstorm #13

A blind dog in a meat house is exactly what Wilson classified his money maker - Milford, a heavy weight monster plundering the body and head of his bewildered opponent. Milford was bloody and worn from the interchange as he returned to his corner. Milford was glad the twelfth round was over as he dropped heavily on the stool; his breathing lumbered, and his right eye, a baseball size bulge, purple and inflamed; a small cut just below his other eye. 

As soon as Milford sank into his seat, Wilson, his trainer, started his routine of commands - bring up your elbow, bend your knees more.... Wilson pointed out all the weaknesses in the opponents stance; and, just before the opening bell sounded, Wilson spoke some encouraging words while maintaining a frown of assured confidence. 

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brainstorm #12

A blind dog in a meat house is exactly what Wilson classified his money maker - Milford, a heavy weight monster plundering the body and head of his bewildered opponent. Nonetheless Milford was bloody and worn from the interchange at the bell. He was glad the twelfth round was over as he dropped heavily on the stool; his breathing lumbered, and his right eye, a baseball size blot, purple and inflamed; a small cut just below his other eye was not deep enough to bring concern. As soon as Milford sank into his seat, Wilson, his trainer, started his routine of commands - bring up your elbow, bend your knees more.... Wilson pointed out all the weaknesses in the opponents stance and, just before the opening bell sounded, Wilson gave Milton some encouraging word as he maintained a frown of assured confidence. 

Milford listened to Wilson for the simple reason that during Wilson’s hey days, the man was crowned not once, not twice, but three times as champion in his weight class. But as with anything else in life, father time striped him from his majestic, yet brutal, craft of boxing. In the end, Wilson found refuge in teaching prospects, potential somebodies  with a healthy dose of pearls and demanding training regiments.

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Friday, October 1, 2010

Brainstorm #11

Something was terribly wrong with the formula, a fly in the serum as they say. Jack knew that one of the two liquid samples was causing an array of devastating consequences. From the start Jack did not suspect any mishaps for he had, so he thought, perfected the measurements that produced a robust elixir, bitter and thick like mud. Within a few minutes after taking the potion, he dropped to the floor and a small portion of the digested concoction expelled out his throat; he quivered, coughed harshly, and felt his every muscle tighten firmly. Jack was able to stand soon after the cultivations relinquished. In his thoughts Jack searched for an answer to what he had just experienced. But before he could connect the dots an extraordinary serge of energy stormed his limbs and chest making him feel sturdy; fortifying all his faculties.

His vision, crisp and focused, captured an oddity that made Jack fall back, tilting the table to a one side and fragmenting the glass implements - test tubes, funnels and beakers - onto the floor. Jack could not hardly believe it for the walls seemed to quiver like cooked spaghetti strings. The wonderment resumed, becoming even more peculiar as the mix flowed in his veins. An almost translucent brush of sight became apparent to Jack – a distorted perception that made Jack see through the walls themselves!

Jack did not know it but something equally as dreadful was happening to his skin – from head to toe, Jack's skin became callus and scarcely scaly. Poor Jack did not notice his flesh metamorphosis because he was literally burning-up his upper lip and anything near his face. He instinctively bent his shoulders forward in a panic. Fire, small whispers igniting from his nostrils, shot outward in exhaling spurts. Jack quickly found a way to remedy the abnormality: he squeezed together his nostrils, feeling a sharp sting shoot back into his skull.

It was then that Jack started to realize that when he swallowed, his tongue, dry and swollen, did not produce enough spit for his buds to register a taste in his cortex - he was unable to taste anything! Jack found, by feeling his way around the room, a chair in the empty laboratory; he sat in haste. It was then that he felt his skin for the first time. He jumped in horror, settled himself down a bit and, with an easy touch, felt his torso. His eyes could not register anything, transparency veiled reality as Jack sat motionless in fearful blackness. What had he done? What poison possessed him?

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