Posts tagged ‘point of view’

June 5, 2012

Crumbed Apple Pie with a Scoop of Ice Cream

I am waiting for some apple pie: crumbed apple pie with a scoop of ice cream to be precise. Ordering apple at a bar-how bizarre it must seem to the bartender. Sitting, with a book in hand reading -a real hard cover book. Not one of those drone operated “nooks” that have violated the essence of books. Mhm the wonderful smell of hard drive and plastic.

Midday fills the bar with oddly normal people with golf wear- beige shorts and Polos. People who feel that the only way to flex their intellectual muscles is by pointing out all possible flaws.

“It’s a bit watery” Poshing his fingers to point at the beer glass filled with stout, he tells his friend as he prepares to paint his knowledge onto the world. His arrogance flows from his shoulders overpowering the bar. His voice calm and eerily friendly-a hey buddy sort of voice.

“Yeah, it is, the taste is a bit light,” mimics his friend who reeks of insecurity as his leg trembles rapidly on the bar stool. His elbows on the bar as if trying to hoist himself up in his self-delusional lie of actually being able to tell the difference.

The intellect vaunting fellow spikes his courage with the pleonasm of arrogance which drips from him as he waves down the bartender.


“The beer is a bit light”

A look of being taken aback paints over the bartenders face. Either a mastered act from years of dealing with pestering, soon to be drunks-or the honest look of ignorance.

Ignorant people reassuring ignorant people on vital matters. Welcome to our modern society.

“Really? Let me check the draft”

Key words to add flames to this blundering attempt of fire trying to be lit with logs of concrete. A Christmas gift. Food. Nourishment. Nutrition.

The bartender crosses the bar, no crumbed apple pie with a scoop of ice cream in hand.

Then a bantering of blind ping pong players tossing the same ball back and forth only to realize they are playing against a mirror with themselves.


“Very light”


“Almost coke like”

“I have this all the time”

The bartender on the other side helplessly pours himself a sample of this mediocre stout and tries it. -Nothing

“Eric, try this”

A smile cracks across my observing gaze. The oddity of the blind leading the blind on a treadmill being operating by an armless paraplegic.

He returns to the fellows being pestered by their watery stout. Confidently he stands for he possesses the very words which will satisfy any ignorant fellow.

“I know nothing about beer” -honesty? “But my friend there tried it and said it was good, and he is Irish” -Conviction and logical reason.

I sit there pondering the absurdity and wondering how long it takes to serve some crumb apple pie with a scoop of ice cream.

March 1, 2012

Novembers Third Thursday

*Wrote this Thanksgiving 2006, it was an experiment on prose, suffice to say I wrote some pretty dark stuff back in high school

In Novembers end…will you remember?
Grim Reaper has paid me a mortal visit.
Let the slashing laceration begin! Help! His bony, glacial hands cringe around my thin, slender neck. The pressure rustles feathers, crushing them.
His axe sails down. Bloods cascades off my body as thick and sour as cranberry.
A crimson river flows away. The strong current steals dreams…hope…life. Thieving each one with every drop of blood.
My life is a kayaking away, gushing rapidly into the cold cascading death!
An ice age begins from the core of my dieing flames of my heart. The heat, that once melted the deadly cold, is being cooled by the escape of my crimson water in search for warmer lands. All my rivers are being dried up and then frozen.
ENJOY! Enjoy me in the late afternoon as the sun is at its weakest and you are at your cruelest. Giving thanks to the Grim Reaper for doing your dirty work for you. All of your species come together, your pack all around me.
Hunger glows from their eyes as they try to escape their sockets so they too can feast on me.
They lunge at me! Clawing and slicing me into bits. Grease slithers down their claws as they get hold of my sizzling meat. And then…they smash their faces with my flesh. Their rabid mouths gnaw furiously as they crunch and gobble me.
“Why? Why must I be sacrificed so they can give thanks?”