A Recipe for Freedom
By M. Castlewood

I took a long drag off my Marlboro cigarette, and then a
liquefying gulp of my whisky, then another gulp of whisky before I came up with this illuminating recipe for freeing Johnny Carroll.

Granted, Johnny was roughshod, and crude. He couldn't help the fact that he came from that part of Chicago that depreciates a man's European sensibilities.

A jury at the Fire Proof Nelson Courthouse would sentence Johnny at dawn. It was damn sure that Johnny would not receive approbation from Judge Constantine whose counterfeit ideology waffles like the Duke in catatonia over any imperative issue.

It was crucial that I act quickly. I contemplated the many ramifications that could ensue to foil my plan, nor would I
let any contradictory poodle business interfere.

Plan A: Burn a little incense and opiates in the

ashtrays. Yeah, that’ll get them confused, and tired.

They’ll think that they’re

honeymooning in Calumet City.

Plan B: Arm myself with a few paintbrushes and forks in
case things get nasty.

Plan C: Bring along my cochineal insect ejector. Once infested,

they’ll be in a decadent fantod and regatta outta the room

like a mad Angus steer.

With adept choreographed footwork, and guerrilla tactics, I burst into the room with absolute determination to free Johnny.

Now this really gets good, I utilize my Calgary football moves. Unobserved I crash into the room, and fling a
cow punch at this bloke from Homeland Security,
creating the biggest Hubbell-bubbell that is outta this world.

Next, with a bit of brainstorming, I feign adjectival threats at the peripatetic, Adriatic alumnae of Georgetown.
Then, with a surprise move, I jab the bufflehead, Congressman Drew, with my fork.

I finish this extravaganza by flinging a capacious hydrogen bottle filled with incandescent grub. The bottle disperses the grub with a frightening horrific boom. I
grab my belly, and laugh until it downright hurts as I watch them impulsively, dance the Harrisburg minuet around the room.

Outta breath, I grab Johnny by his fur collar, and hightail outta the courtroom; like a dark-eyed junco, in flight.

I’m stopped dead in my tracks, as I eyeball this blonde bombshell named, Glenda. She eyeballs me back, with those big hazel, puppy-dog eyes. The next thing I know…
up goes that damn flagpole in my pants, and the rest is presumable history.

A Farcical Yarn
By M. Castlewood

While munching on a slice of Wonder Bread, and browsing the web, Margo my wife came across Webmaster Johnny Alba, host of the infamous York Vogue Website. Mori, my dear, she says to me, Webmaster Johnny has the audacity to publish this unfavorable article with snapshots about someone dear to us. Come look at this. Rumors indeed, she mumbles.

Now Mori, my doll, Margo’s all excited as she tells me to listen to these juicy tidbits from the article. Can you believe what my eyes saw, our very own Rabbi Eitan Yardeni on the front page of November’s issue of York Vogue. The headline reads, Wedding of the Century. “There he stood beneath the chuppah, Torah in hand”, and can you believe… wearing his brother Josef’s blue plaid suit, not the traditional black. A rose in his buttonhole, and on top of his Jewish head, he’s sporting a black fedora, embellished with feathers, and all.

Now Mori my love, this gets better. This affair turns into a circus theatre with Amanda Peet, posing as a centerfold, you know, the sexy sports model. Why she has her hands all over Rabbi Yardeni, and her boobies are hanging out of her gown, to top that! Look at this Mori…on the following page there are layouts, and stuff, nude photos of Amada next to an abstract painting of the Wedding Party. Rabbi Yardeni’s eyes are glued to Amanda’s boobs. My God! I wonder what the family members, friends and guests that attended the wedding think of this exploitation? These photos are pasted all over the website. Oh no! Mori, they are calling the Rabbi, and Amanda Peet the “Freak Partners” of the year.

Now Mori, my dear, what is this world coming to? The decent citizens of the synagogue will be appalled by this kinda media coverage on the net.

Mori sat smiling ear to ear, shaking his head, and thinking, what a lucky man the Rabbi was.

Hello spamProject Writers,

This is an example of the New Wave of autoGenerated spam. Generally the text "story" is sent with a bit-mapped image of a stock exchange report. The folks who have a clearer idea of what they're doing generally know to keep the text hidden behind the bait, or the image--while those who aren't clear on what they're doing mis-align the image!:-)

I was thinking that although this sort of "story" appoach isn't as interesting as the first generation of random words, it is possible to do an almost "Ransom note" series. Basically a short story could be written around these sorts of desperate, or irrational messages. I've started a story...Any takers?

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Example:

Armada of Photos
by [yournamehere]

It was October 5, two years back when I received the first freak packet. It was a picture of Margo. She appeared to be on a vacation, perhaps attending a Registered Model's festival at a water park for reasons only the fashion industry could know. She was wearing a crown and holding a buyer's guide. The cover of this "guide" listed things like room rates, bookgifts, wifegifts, ideasmore, Under the photo, these words from nefarious magazines were pasted together:
Keep, aWay meDIa!

PAINTING.


Painting? The media musn't paint an image of Margo? Margo must keep away from a painting? None of it made any sense! The whole thing was so bizarre, that I just laughed it off, attributing the strange poster to her publicist, ex-husband Freddie.

Freddie owned and ad agency on the west side of town called Permission Graphics. His layouts materialized from the unattended wrecks of discarded sports photos like I would imagine Citizen Kane's sled to emerge from a bonfire; the original intent of the subject visible, but darkened.


One month and two days later, an email article forwarded from a local newspaper in Roswell, New Mexico arrived with a picture of Margo posing in her brother's suit, wearing a fedora.




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Redemption

It’s six in the morning and I’m on cloud nine
wrapped in my thermals oblivious to time.
Asleep in the clouds of a luminous sheen.
Engulfed in an airstrip of visual dreams.

For the twentieth time my alarm clock rings
I’ve tried to postpone this ineffable thing.
Granted I’m cranky with starch coated eyes
My biceps are aching its no surprise.

My breath smells like mothballs in search of a moth
jitterbugging in dance scouting for cloth.
One hundred steers have trampled my brain
traversing across its eastern terrain.

Am I angry? Well I’d say yes!

My neighbors next door, the barbarians from hell
encroached on my sleep, with their heinous yells,
these loud speaking carneys with their laze guffaws.
I’ll take drastic measures; I’ll summon the law.

With a supercilious smile that brims cheek to cheek,
and thoughts rather hazy from lack of sleep
I feel meritorious, my egos enlarged
I stood up to these scoundrels, and I took charge.

With impeccable tact I turn off the cautionary voice in my head
that is telling me not to go back to my bed.

The Blood From the Vines

The golden brass goblet with amethyst stones

Blessed by the Pope in Thailand and Rome

Yields of the grapes, jellied to wine

Bruised by the fingers of humankind

Mournfully plucked from its fibrous stems

Purporting of blood, a sacrament to men

Stained on the lips of all who partake

A cleansing of sins of the human race

Purple Thoughts
by Margaret Pomeroy

Sweet figs, rpened
Amethyst crystal
Cleopatra.

Dawn through stained glass
Goblet of wine
The Pope.

Cracked Easter egg
Grape soda. spilled
Joe Christmas.

Stormy desert sky
Prickley pear jelly
PFC Cori Ann Piestenva.

Queen's jewels
Priest's robes
Child's bruises
Soldier's medals--

PURPLE

and mourning in Thailand...

Here are more words!!!

mourning, Thailand,priest,queen, prickley, jelly grape, goblet, pope,amethyst,figs,repen,easter,burise,thought,art,man,top,flight,roller coaster,apparition,freemartin, twenty, open-ended, thirty, applegate,avenue,darling,antonia,georgia, doormat, candle,piano, tonsil, eatery,elephant,boa,peter pan,callipe,music box, caveman, dandruff,dublin,cork,county tipparary

I Scrutinize with Anamorphic Lens

I sit at the bar at Club Zero, a Marlborough cig
in one hand, as I sip on one of those
famous snowball martinis that everyone
who's anyone always drinks.

I enjoy conversations about anything
and everything extraordinary, crude or...
controversial.

Take for instant, the carcinogenic
memorabilia on the walls at Club Zero.
A plethora of nostalgia, like
that 1920's telephone, that Granny
probably talked on. An imitation flag
touting the Civil war (probably scavenged from
some auctioneer in sheepskin, from the Catskills).
Can you believe two pink boobs with strawberry tits,
interjected between pad Miro` Lithographs
and Leonardo drawings, and I don't mean
Leonardo DiCaprio, mind you!

It clearly screams invidious, venereal, and foul.
But, my friend Arlene says it's experimental art.
I say crap. She giggles; I laugh maniacally;
we toast to the vulgarity of the wall.

Through the smoke filled bar my eyes catch a
glimpse of this Harvard prima Donna in strange buckskin
plodding in our direction like Marshall Dillon.

Annie get your gun girl, I laughingly whispered to Arlene.
We'd better head for the Carpathian Mountains
before this flamboyant Prometheus with slingshot
below his belt deems us heirs to his seduction.

Well Casanova turned out to be a madcap version
of the bumbling Inspector Clouseau.
Just like the Pink Panther he was quite certain that
the bartender was really a fugitive mobster
with a sidearm under his white apron.
But we two little ladies were not to worry,
we would both be protected, and undetected
behind the green shrubbery near the wall.

We were both privy to his bottommost secrets
if we would only listen quietly, he lamented.

Arlene, being suggestible, was infatuated,
head over heals, I swear, for this asinine,
laughingstock dodo.

They would probably honeymoon on the Love Boat
by the end of the week I reckoned.

I sat back like a ringmaster, albeit with a bit of pessimism,
had another cig, a sip of my martini, and with anamorphic lens
I viewed the whole inglorious scene.