Thomas Paine's Incredible Time Machine of Doom

The car's engine heated slowly. It was in a bad way and the cool temperature outside did not help matters. Smoke dove out the exhaust pipe, covering the view in the rear with a foggy look that appeared most ominous. Anne rubbed her hands together in an attempt to keep warm while her car struggled to understand the concept of heat. It would take many minutes, but she soon grew impatient and drove the car off anyway. The engine was not hampered much more than it already was.

After a time heat began to make itself known as it fumbled through the the car's interior. Anne's cheeks began to show color and her hands stopped shaking. The car drove in a normal fashion as a result, because she could steer far more precisely.

Then an alien jumped out of the glove compartment and ate her head so fast she could see it happen.

The alien was of a simple nature, composed entirely of one cell. So it didn't so much eat her head as it did absorb it into its collective cell and fiddle with it for a while before it realized it had no reason to eat anything. After the car inevitable crashed, the alien rolled around for a bit and into a bar. It could not quite tell where it was, being of only one cell that lacked eyes and any other means by which to understand its environment, but it did somehow have three beers and a tequila while hitting on a barmaid.

Then it exploded.

Beer, it would seem, is perfect for a once cell organism. Barmaids, however, are not. The alien, not sure how to deal with the woman surrounding it, thought best to attempt a sensual event by exploding. As a side effect of this it died in the process.

The barmaid was quite befuddled, but it would be of great coincidence that the alien's remains doubled as sun tan lotion. In the end, she didn't get skin cancer, all things to Thomas Paine and his incredible time machine.

Avers Pitch

The legend of Avers Field is one few dare to recollect. This is largely due to the fact that most people in the town of Avers Pitch are mute and illiterate. The few that do dare to recollect it are the few that can speak, but being around those that are mute they haven't garnered a proper grasp of the English language and so they really do have to dare to speak of the subject because of how unlikely it is they'll be able to convey anything to an individual.

The town of Avers Pitch is an oddity, filled with stories to tell and yet cannot be told because of the residents that are knoweldgeable of such events. It has made numerous world record collections as "the most people mute in one town" and has also be voted as the town most likely to be confused with a zoo. Many tourists have visited the land in hopes of seeing one of the gorillas that wear clothes. If they knew they were, in fact, people, they'd probably flee right away and accuse the land of being of a perverse invention.

With no real education it is up to the residents of Avers Pitch to communicate in their own means. They can't talk and they don't know sign language and so they communicate to each other with a series of abusive threats. No one in Avers Pitch is a very happy person, least of which the mayor who is frequently beaten to a pulp when someone votes for him during an election. And just last week a young boy was killed in an attempt to explain to him the birds and the bees. His mother, in an attempt to explain the need to revise their popular form of communication, broke the knee caps of twelve members of the city council. This proved most effective, not because they understood the message very well, but because they wanted to have knees that worked. Something had to be done, but first a doctor's visit was integral.

The doctor in Avers Pitch is the richest man in town. At every checkup he slaps his patients in the face and bites them on the hand to tell them they if they are healthy or otherwise. For the knee surgeries of the twelve council members he had to rough them up in the face quite a bit before putting them under.

Yes, something must be done.

But about this legend, the legend of Avers Field, that is...

Oliver Bilton

"It is widely known that the largest animal on the face of the earth is the Blue Whale. According to Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home it is near extinction. I can understand the alure of killing such an animal. The amount of food on one beast is outrageous and therefore a keen bounty to chase. However, I am more startled by how this beast of the ocean could near extinction at man's hands. I have never studied whale biology or the history of man's hunt of the creatures, but I know one thing. The height of whale hunting existed in a time of spears and small boats. How is it possible that man could destroy the blue whale? Where on earth were they going to put the darn thing? These are the questions that keep me up at night."

"Who is this guy?" The Senior Marketing Analyst was quite confused as to why someone who was supposed to be selling sneakers was discussing the near extinction of the blue whale.

Oliver Bilton bit his lip. He was not usually prone to reacting as such, but it is justified this time by the fact that he was well aware of who the speaker was. He had hired him. "I'm just a 'Minor' Marketing Analyst," he joked. "What do I know?" The two of them had been colleagues for many years and were quite prone to such lame jokes.

"In conclusion, ladies and gentleman, I propose a way to end this conspiracy." The speaker pasued for dramatic effect, but no one seemed to buy into it. "I propose shoes." He paused again, but instead of the expected gasp the speaker saw his audience simultaneously turn their heads to look at the person next to them. Perhaps if they understood what was going on they could pretend to understand as well, but no one understood. Who could? Shoes were about to save the blue whales and they had no clue why this was the case.

The Senior Marketing Analyst began fiddling with his cell phone so fast that none could tell this was so unless they had video taped it and slowed down the playback. Oliver Bilton sat completely still. "If I'm very still," he thought, "I will also be invisible." It turns out that not only was this not the case, but the fact that he was the only one being so still in the conference hall caused him to actually stand out from the others.

Eyes turned to Bilton. Somehow they all knew he was to blame. Then he caught on fire.

Oliver Bilton awoke to find that he was not on fire at all. He ony had a fever, which was considerably worse. A fire, at least, would be a good excuse to skip work. A mild fever accompanied by no symptoms was, meanwhile, a good excuse to have a bad day. He sat up in bad, staring at his blue sheets. He did not move, he waited for a cough or sneeze or something that would give him just cause to return to sleep. After a few minutes of silence, he groaned and prepared for work.

While he had breakfast he pondered why he would dream about being a 'Minor' Marketing Analyst when he had never even heard of the position. Oliver Bilton was a janitor at a mental institution. It was a respectable job as far as janitorial work went, but he was often hassled by the occasional OCD patient for not doing a good enough job five times in a row while standing on his head. The schizos were much nicer, he had always thought, seeing as how they thought he was a kangaroo and would leave him alone. Kangaroos, after all, are fierce gamblers.

Bilton's morning routine was filled with irresponsibilities. Namely, he dressed and then he ate. He did not shower before his shift because he knew he'd get dirty as said shift progressed. He always showered when he returned to his home. Oddly enough, this home was a mansion.

One thousand cultists killed themselves as they jampacked themselves into the mansion. They did not have time to take any posion drinks, however, but instead died of carbon monoxide poisoning. Of course, the mansion was very cheap as a result. It was believed to be haunted by one thousand spirits and thusly no one wanted to stay there. Bilton was not too concerned, however. Most disturbances he noticed involved lights flashing and he was not that big on maintaining consistent light levels around the place anyway. He did avoid the third floor entirely, though, because of the time he once saw a man dressed in black. The man had a very stern look on his safe and met eyes with Bilton instantly. He did not walk, he slid along the floor, his dark cloak hiding his feet. Bilton had let out a quiet scream and retreated back downstairs. The dark man called after him, yelling obscenities and explaining that he was quite bored, but Bilton did not wish to fall for it. The third floor is now used for the storage of christmas cards from family and friends, which he does his best to throw up the stairwell.

Carrots

I'm afraid there's a problem with eating disorders. They're spelled very oddly and I dare say that all current pronunciations of them are incorrect. In fact, it is widely speculated that these words (anorexia, bulimia) originate from an alien tongue; anorexia meaning "fumigate" and bulimia meaning "the walk from the library was hard and long."

I find it reasonable to believe that the words became a part of human vocabulary due to a complex string of situations involving worm holes and carrots.

[Hrm, well this didn't really go anywhere now did it. Today's lesson: Improv writing while sick ends up having things not make sense. Hrm, let's try a little more though just because.]

Dirk Avenger and the Forthcoming Squad realized, at the last possible second, that he was a carrot.

[Yes, this really isn't working. I seem to think that there's something about me being sick and something about carrots existing that makes us related somehow. Perhaps a carrot was my father. [that really didn't make much sense at all. Well, at least I'll be updating this blog more. Improv writing is fun. Too bad I forgot about it a bit ago.] ]

Later

I see stars. The effort in sitting up is enormous. I feel sickly to my stomach, about to vomit. I suppose then I'd smell close to how I feel.

What a cruel thing the mind is. I know that it has created this place for me, this world of rust and blood. I know it's just my mind because despite where I feel I am I can smell where my body really is. I can still smell those fake flowers my wife sprays out of the can.

It will take great effort to move, this much I know. It's so comfortable to just lay, even while on a rusted metal grate. And the darkness here is so thick without interfering with my vision. Perfect to sleep. Perfect to be watched. I'd rather stay still, be seen as no threat.

Oh, if it would end. How happy I would be if it'd all end. Not just this place. All.

I'm afraid this place exists because here I find justification for the suffereing I felt in the other world. Or maybe this is the other world, but now I see it for real. But that smell, the can flowers, they cause me to linger. I curse their hold on me.

I can't die while she needs me, but I can't help her while I'm here. These are thoughts for later. Sleep will take me again, lest the beast does. Later.

Improvisational Writing

For those dealing with writer's block, or a severely cancerous word processor, I recommend the art of improvisational writing. I find it to be a very soothing practice. Every now and then, as a writer, I get the indescribable urge to write and yet I have no ideas in my head at all. Sure, I tend to always have a story I need to finish, but I don't always want to work on it. Sometimes I just don't want to think.

Sometimes I just want to write. With improvisational writing I can do so.

If anyone has stumbled upon this blog I'm sure they're thinking, "But, well, this isn't very original...? I mean...this isn't exactly a new concept." As I can read all thoughts I simply reply that this very post is improvisational writing for a blog introduction. As a result it ended up being about something quite boring.

I intend to use this blog as my own personal library; a collection of all of my improvisational writings. I will do some improvisational writing whenever the heck I feel like it as it is most definitely the point that I feel like writing at the time. Luckily enough, for absolutely nobody, I get this urge very often.

I'll leave my LiveJournal for my posts about life, which I assure you are quite boring, and my posts with actual writing I want to show my friends because I may intend to include it in one of my larger stories. I imagine that it would be unwise to publicly unveil any writing I intend to get published someday, after all.

Also, poop.