bramblebound

Freda May Sims,

my first crush

I get a clue

Aw jeez, it was her father. 

It occurred to me along about then I was starting to get off.

Pammy

We were 14. I loved her.
She didn't choose to know me.

mudman

"...and there I beheld a tiny mudman, a mass of vari-hued earths in the shape of a palsied and malnourished child. He stood stock still, watching me, showing not a trace of fear. He was sizing me up."
- from the final journal of Reverend Archibald Hotchkiss

Manley

Tuesday. Came upon what's left of Manley.

Diary Entry 8 - In This Pod

Precious little air is left in this pod. The glowstick is dead and I'm writing in total darkness. The silence is unbearable, so I hum the theme to Green Acres over and over, drumming on the side of the pod for emphasis: KEEPmanHATtan, GIVEmetheCOUNtryside.

Looking back, maybe it wasn't a good idea to depend on Dad to come up with the ransom. After all, fifty thousand's a lot of dough. His millions are all tied up in annuities and hedge funds. His new wife wouldn't allow him to sell off any of her jewelry, I'm sure of that. Maybe we should have asked for twenty g's instead of fifty.

I wonder who will dig me up. I can't see Dad doing it. Maybe one of his building crews. Maybe the police. If it's Mattie and Glenn then I'll know the deal fell through and we'll have to find another way to get to Brazil. That Glenn seems to be taking control of everything lately. Maybe Mattie and I will go to Rio on our own. I'm sure she won't stay mad at me for long. I know I complain too much, but I doubt she'd like being packed up like a sardine and lowered into the ground. She'd scream too, I'll bet. Anyway, she shouldn't have called me a baby boo hoo. Then they both laughed. That was mean.

theCHORES, theSTORES, freshAIR, timesSQUARE...

Diary Entry 7: Embedded

Vicky Brock reporting for duty.

Yes, it's true. Being an embedded reporter is, as our President says, hard work. When this reporter was summoned to serve her country in a time of war, she hesitated a moment. After all, being a journalist on the front lines of a war is dangerous, not to mention messy. But once she had attended the rigorous regimen our military requires of its embedees, she came to realize it was a far, far better thing for her to go and serve than never to have gone at all. And so go she did.

Due to her fundamental need to directly communicate with her diary, Vicky Brock is about to change her tense. She has - no, I have - decided to direct the rest of this dispatch in the first person, as much as it pains me to do so.

I have been embedded for lo these many months in an exotic foreign war zone somewhere deep in the Mideast. (Or it could be the Near East; I get those two confused.) My embedders inform me daily that the war is raging outside my hotel, in the very streets of this embattled city. And indeed, as I write, I can hear the sound of distant explosions in the distance. As the woman who changes my sheets so poignantly observed just yesterday, "War is Hell." I have to agree. And yet, it is important that our mission here be accomplished. Many soldiers and mercenaries have lent or sold their support to a beleagured people desperate for something. What is different about this war, I am told, is that many American Corporations also have roles to play. From repair of what we call the infrastructure to re-educating the populace to training the New Army, everyone here is busy getting the job done. Even reporters such as myself are part of the big equation, the answer of which is yet to be determined.

I have to sign off now. Captain Michaelson just phoned and he needs me to take dictation. This is Vicky Brock, embedded reporter.

Diary Entry 6: Rapture

Oh, fooey. Another day gone by and I'm still here.

What's the deal? Wasn't Judgement Day supposed to be here by now? All the literature says it's overdue. Pastor Raney's been telling us for the last fifteen years that the sky will open any day now and the saved will ascend to glory. The heathen will turn to ash and their souls will be damned for all eternity, but the rest of us will float to the top like Ivory Soap, 99 and 44/100ths per cent pure. I've been wearing my Sunday Go To Meeting clothes daily for about three years, and so far I've got zilch to show for it. Zip. Nada. Bupkis. I don't get it.

I have a good mind to demand my ten per cent tithe over the past fifteen years be returned to me. I mean, I have a health savings account that starts paying off at a certain point if I don't get sick and die, so shouldn't my soul be afforded the same luxury? If this Rapture doesn't happen soon, I won't be held responsible for my actions. Not a threat, Diary; just a simple statement of fact.

Diary Entry 5 - Snipes on a Train

I've had it with these motherfonking snipes on this motherfonking train!
I mean, when Billy Dean fetched me up this morning to hunt the bastards, I went along cause I figured a snipe steak cooked medium rare with a side of onion rings would really cap off the day. That was before I ever tasted snipe, seen a snipe, or even knew what one looked like. The way Billy Dean made it out to be, a snipe's sorta like a warthog, only wrinklier. Hell, ain't no such a thing. A snipe's a little wretched feathered thing with a beak the size of its body. And sharp? Let me tell you. You never know pain til you get stabbed in the eye with a snipe beak. That happened to me somewhere's between the Hollister and Chidester stops. I decided then and there, bleeding from my eyeballs, that I wanted nothing more to do with any snipe. I got off at Chidester and Billy Dean rode on. Said he'd catch every one of them motherfonking snipes on that motherfonking train or die trying. What a dork.

- Jeeter

Diary Entry 4

Today a woman came into the store, she was a tiny little thing, no bigger than three feet tall, couldn't have weighed more than 50 pounds, though I didn't lift her, mind you. She was needing batten for some bunting she was sewing. Anyway, all the other clerks went their own ways when they saw her coming, so I had to wait on her. Wasn't no problem to speak of, except sometimes, she gave me a funny look on account of I was looking at her a lot. Anyway, it turns out she wasn't with the circus or anything, she was just a small person. You coulda knocked me over with a goose feather, but I had no idea there were such things outside of the circus or the Wizard of Oz. If that don't beat all.

Diary Entry 3

Today was awesome! Billy the Squid got out after two years away. We hooked up and did the bars. He was fuming. Smoke was everywhere we went. This old trophy named Maggie latched on to him, tried to turn me loose. It wasn't happening, especially after the Iceberg made an appearance. He'd just gotten out, too, and was positively melting. Billy told Maggie to pony up some extra snatch and next thing we knew, we each had bouncing buns on our laps. It was sweet, let me tell you. Anyway, we all ended up in my Camaro, headed for Greenville for some reason. Only made it to the county dump, though. Just the natural course of events.. We left the broads there and now we're off to find a liquor store. Billy and the 'berg are joking about robbing the place. Least I hope they're joking. Man, it is HOT!

Diary Entry 2

I am so perturbed, I mimed to my co-worker, Natalie. She was doing her nails while waiting for her My Space page to update. That phone just keeps ringing and ringing. I've a mind to answer it. So I did. It was one more jerkwad asking for a product brochure. I gestured gagging to Natalie, who rolled her eyes.

Diary Entry 1

"Bloody Hell!" I exclaimed in disgust. For I had lodged my posterior so tightly into the throne, to free myself was a wickedly difficult manoeuver. I shook it to the left and I shook it to the right, but all to no avail. I was flustered.

"Thompkins! I'm..." I sighed, exasperated. Thompkins appeared forthwith. "...stuck." I whimpered.

"Oh dear," said Thompkins, grabbing hold of my arms and pulling. "You have got yourself in a sticky wicket, Your Majesty."

"Confound it all, man!" I cried. "It's not my arms that are stuck. It's my bloody arse!"

Thompkins then grabbed me by my midsection and we cavorted about in a sort of sailors' jig. It was not altogether unpleasant. Under other circumstances... But the ministers were waiting and I could tarry no longer. With a Herculean twist of my body I at last popped free. In doing so, I lost my balance and fell to the floor, taking Thompkins with me. We lay there for a moment, utterly flummoxed.

Now that I look back on it, the entire dreary morning was made up of events such as this. The look of astonishment on the faces of the ministers when I arrived at Lancaster Hall; how was I to know my hairpiece was askew? The hideously awful cup of tea I was served there; I spit it out immediately and unfortunately, in the process, drenched Lord Timsbury. The whole business of having to sign my name to all those depressing dispossession and imprisonment orders; my hand was veritably racked with cramps afterwards. And the ministers, those appalling old waxworks, kept intoning the most ridiculous rigmarole about sovereignty and rule of law and who knows what. It was all so monotonous, I must have dozed right off. Next thing I knew, Thompkins was tapping my shoulder and the room was empty.

"Where is everyone?" I blinked.

"Gone, Your Majesty" said Thompkins. "Gone for fish and chips."

"Fish and chips? Without me?"

"You're expected back at the castle, Your Majesty. For veal and prawns."

"Such is the end of empire," I sighed to myself.