| Squid Blog Day-to-Day with Squiddy |  |
| Squid Blog Day-to-Day with Squiddy | |
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "Ice Cream". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]
Ice Cream - Squiddy Geiger - February 29, 2012
It is blistering hot
The sun high in the sky
As I walk down to the corner
to get some relief
As I approach, I see the crowd
Milling and filling the shop
Yes, it is normal, and all is well
My Favourite Ice Cream Shoppe is open
The building is old,
The fixtures are charming
The number of choices
Is really quite fantastic
I stand in the long line
Anticipating my purchase
What will I get this time?
What flavour, of the many?
I pay for my purchase
I walk up and down
The selection is vast
And difficult to choose
What about pistachio?
No, maybe grape
Or perhaps Neapolitan
Or simply vanilla
How can I possibly choose
There are too many choices
So many delicious flavours
All of them beckoning
At last, in desperation
I settle for my favourite
It has been a few weeks
"I'll have two scoops of Tiger Tail"
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "Rush". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]
Rush - Squiddy Geiger - February 28, 2012
Rush, rush, everywhere in a hurry
Never taking time to see the sights
Scramble, scramble, must get done
Missing the beauty left and right.
Rush, rush, living in the fast lane
Forgetting the little things in life
Helter skelter through the day
Small delays causing strife
Saunter, saunter, smell the roses
See the world as it really seems
Slow, slow, in quiet contemplation
Make the best of natures dreams
Rush, rush, ignore the world
Even when it gives you beauty
Stop, stop, don't miss the world as it really is because you're too stupid to realize it doesn't get better than this and all your running around acquiring things is so much smoke and mirrors and you -
- oh, excuse me
Stop, stop, don't miss the world
As it would wish for you to be.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "spark". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]
Spark - Squiddy Geiger - February 27, 2012
The mood in the house had been tense all day. Everyone was angry with everyone. Nobody had a reason, they just were. Or rather, they had the same reason, they were stir crazy. All of them had been victims of the sniping that had taken place all day; harsh words were said, without thought or care of the damage they did.
They'd been snowed in a week ago, and such close proximity with no way to escape, four people together in such a tiny cabin, unable to avoid one another. It had started that morning when one of the men had taken the women to task for tying up the bathroom for so much time, before the men had even been able to pee. It had simmered, with small outbreaks of argument throughout the day. By the time dinner arrived - cooked sullenly by the women, unhappy the men refused to help with such "menial tasks".
After dinner, it worsened. The two women asked the men to clear up and do the dishes. After a half hour of argument over why they should or should not do so, one of the men agreed, the other still refused, and sat with a beer by the fire. Both women and the other man glared at him.
The final straw - the spark that ignited the powder keg - came when the dishes were done, and the one who had done them grabbed a beer and sat down, at which point the other, already up to four beers, made a comment about being pussy-whipped and letting the women wall on him. In an instant, they were locked in battle, exchanging vicious blows.
The fight was savage, each landing hard, damaging punches, followed by wrestling and slamming against furniture and walls. The women pleaded for them to stop, but neither heard. The blows ended when the lazy man fell back and his hand landed on the handle of the fireplace poker. The result was inevitable.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "Connection". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Connection - Squiddy Geiger - February 25, 2012
The drab little house on the drab street garnered little attention, and the drab little man in the drab little house liked it that way. Occasionally, someone might say hi as he came or went, but mostly they ignored him, if they saw him at all.
What they didn't know was just how little drab applied to what was going on inside the house. In every room there was computer equipment, with monitors displaying information, and blinking lights on communications arrays in cabinets, receiving vast amounts of information which the computers crunched, and spit out again, the results zipping off to locations all over the world.
This unprepossessing man was instrumental in supplying information to individuals of questionable or suspect loyalties and affiliations. He had gone out of his way to build his network quietly and efficiently. He hid the massive power usage and data connectivity by owning several other houses in the neighborhood, and rerouting their power and data connections to this house.
He also used various means to mask the true locations of each of the data sources coming into the house - each appeared, to a casual observer, to be in a different country altogether. The resources behind him were quite well funded, and allowed this to function. His clients did not know his identity, and did not know his location. Even if they had, it was in their interests to keep the secret anyway.
The man had a cover job, which he worked from home, allowing him complete freedom. Nobody ever checked on him, and he was free to keep his system up and running. The Connection, as his clients referred to him, was always there. He made sure of this.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "trace". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Trace - Squiddy Geiger - February 21, 2012
It occurred to Ted that this would be a good time to acknowledge the presence of the two men waiting patiently in the other room. He opened the door, poked his head through and nodded to them, then closed the door again. They could wait. Although on second thought, he wasn't sure the older of the two was all that patient.
Wallace was not a good man to keep waiting, but Wallace knew he was the best, so Ted wasn't too worried. He'd found people before, many times, but this time was different. This man had put Wallace's wife in hospital, and killed another man. This time it was personal, and Wallace had made sure Ted knew it.
Ted did know, however, that if the unlikely should happen, and he was unable to find Stewart Plandon, he would suffer. So he would just do his normal great job. He turned back to his computer, and combed through information. Any information, all information, it was there somewhere, the tiny tidbit that would point to the whereabouts of one Charlie Jones. Ted was patient. Ted would find him.
The traces he'd put on various leads started to pay off. He knew Jones was in Alabama. He'd moved fast. He sent off some queries to contacts, and waited. It was just as well his wife and kids were away this weekend, because with the pressure on him, Ted wasn't sure Wallace would keep up the pretense all that well.
He went into the other room, and sat in the chair opposite the one Wallace was in. He waited until Wallace nodded, then spoke quietly. "I'm narrowing it down, I know generally where he is, but I probably won't be able to give you an exact location until tomorrow, morning maybe, most likely in the afternoon. But it looks like he's in Huntsville."
"Are you sure?" Wallace asked, equally quietly.
"Yes, no doubt he's there now. He may go elsewhere, but I doubt it, he has some college buddies there, I'm checking them out now - discreetly, as always. You'll have your answer tomorrow."
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "steam". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Steam - Squiddy Geiger - February 20, 2012
Mitchell wiped the sweat out of his eyes, and leaned back against the wooden wall. His eyes closed briefly as he thought about how good for him this was supposed to be. He wondered what drugs the person who invented the sauna had been on. He'd promised Marcy he'd do this, so here he was, dying a slow death.
He got up and dipped the ladle into the bucket, and poured some water on the hot stones, causing a burst of steam. He did it again three more times, like she'd told him to do. Why he listened to her, he wasn't sure at first, but he noticed it did feel a bit better with the steam in the air. He sat down again.
He'd set the alarm clock outside the door - the steam in here would kill it - to make sure he didn't stay longer than necessary. He'd heard of people staying too long and dying or being injured. He wasn't sure it was true, but he wasn't taking any chances, either.
God, wasn't the time up yet? It felt like he'd been in here for hours already, but it couldn't be that long. He sighed, and wiped the sweat away again. He was glad he'd had some water to drink before he came in here. The steam was almost gone, so he poured more water on, and sat again.
He rubbed his arm, which was starting to prickle a bit. Was this normal? Is this what it was supposed to feel like? He should have made Marcy come in with him. He wanted to quit, get out now, but he'd promised to stay the full time. He kept his promises, always. God, this didn't feel good.
His head was starting to hurt, not badly, but this certainly couldn't be a good sign. He stood up, went to the door, then turned around again and sat down. No, he'd wait for the alarm. But he was damned if he'd do this again, it was stupid. He growled to himself about how he'd tell Marcy off, tell her what a stupid idea this had been.
Suddenly the alarm went off outside the door. He got up, turned off the heater, and opened the door. The blast of cool air hit him, and he gasped, held his breath briefly, then let it out, relaxing. When he went upstairs he raved to Marcy about how wonderful he felt, why hadn't she told him about it before. He vowed to sauna every day.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "cross". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Cross - Squiddy Geiger - February 19, 2012
Zeb watched the proceedings quietly. The wind from the fan above him proved ineffective in taking the edge off the heat. He grew bored with Court TV, and flipped channels, stopping briefly on one or another, but only to move on again. He sipped his cold but rapidly warming beer. His mind wandered back to the fight that had put him in this fleabag motel in the middle of a heatwave.
He'd gotten home from work to new locks on the door to his house, and a note telling him he could not come in, with a copy of a restraining order attached to it that said he could not come within 100 feet of the house. He took the note and the order, and picked up the two bags she'd packed for him, sitting on the step.
He couldn't afford a real hotel - not until payday - so he'd ended up here. He'd called his best friend, Karl, who said he sympathized but couldn't offer him a bed because the in-laws were in town, so here he was, in the Flea Bite Inn, watching crappy television on a crappy television. He'd made the rounds of the channels and was back watching Court TV.
He should have been angry, but he wasn't. As Karl had told him on the phone - it had only been a matter of time. His friends had all warned him not to marry her, but he hadn't listened. He'd made a few mistakes, nothing serious, but she got angry each time, out of proportion to the sins, and it was always the same - she'd say in a quiet, controlled voice: "You'll be sorry you if you cross me one more time."
He hadn't worried about it. They'd always gone on, the grievance forgotten until the next time. Now, it seemed, he'd done it. He'd crossed her once too often. The worst of it was, he had no idea what he'd done, this time. He couldn't reach her.
He'd tried to call her, but it went to the answering machine. By now, all their friends would know, because of the machine. He'd called, and gotten "If you're not Zeb, please leave a message. If you're Zeb, I told you you'd be sorry if you cross me again."
He finished his beer and grabbed another one, and wondered idly if the poor schlub on Court TV had crossed someone. It didn't matter, and he started surfing channels again.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "satin". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Satin - Squiddy Geiger - February 18, 2012
Yannick snickered. The boy had been here five minutes and already he'd made a fool of himself, making statements that were easily refuted as nonsense, and telling jokes more suited to grade school. The boy had been soundly chastised, and was now sitting alone in the corner. Easier pickings, later.
Yannick stood, and called the meeting to order. He took the roll call and was pleased to see fewer than 10% of the members were missing. The minutes were read, the agenda was given, and several items added to it. His mind drifted. It was so much drivel and after this long, he could lead the meeting while his mind was occupied with much more important things. Like how he and Satin were going to have fun with the boy, later.
Satin, such a wonderful girl. His companion. She'd been with him far longer than any of the others had been. Most died quickly and violently, defending him when they were discovered, that he might get away. Satin was different. She was smarter. They'd never been discovered; they'd traveled at will. It had been a fateful day when he'd turned her. He smiled, then hid it quickly, realizing it didn't quite fit the mood of the meeting. Careful, old man, he thought to himself.
At last the meeting was over, and the members milled about, discussing trivia over beer or pop paid for by the slush fund. If these men, knew. If he were discovered by this Catholic mens group he was part of. Delicious. It had been Satin's idea to hide in plain sight. And they were careful never to dine on the members or their families
The boy would be an exception. He was a new arrival and had no family here. He was a student. An easy target, who would miss him. Satin had picked him out herself. She would intercept him on his way home. He didn't have a car, so he would be walking. After dinner, ravenous lovemaking would end the glorious night. He couldn't wait to get home, but as leader, he was always last to leave.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "Mischief". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Mischief - Squiddy Geiger - February 16, 2012
She hid the food, she pulled some hair
She wrote upon the walls
She told bad jokes, she filched my pen
She made prank telephone calls
She stole your lunch, she broke the keyboard
She skated through the halls
She keyed his car, she tripped the teacher
She gave the dog ex-lax
She broke her chair, she flushed while you showered
She changed your income tax
She ran the battery down, she jimmied the lock
She would not let you relax
When she's around, she causes headaches and
The going is usually rough
When she's around, she won't let you down
She makes life extra tough
When she's around, you wish she wasn't
She's known by name: Mischief
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "Strip". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Strip - Squiddy Geiger - February 15, 2012
Concentration, sweat beading on his brow,
The controls tight in his grip, his
Knuckles white with concentration
Where is the strip, it should be here
He shouts in frustration, searching, searching
Scanning the horizon, desperate to find it
Low on fuel, and out of other options
He must find this strip and land, to save his
Passengers and crew - it's what he's trained to do
At last his copilot shouts and points, the strip
Is off to the left, and he fights the controls to
Bring the lumbering old beast around.
The weather is bad, but not the worst
He's landed under much more dangerous
Conditions but always with extra fuel aboard
How did this happen? who cares, right now
His job is to get all on the ground again
Safely and securely, and preferably in one piece
Time enough for recriminations once
The investigation is complete. For now he
Sweats and fights the plane as they approach
The strip is little more than grass, flat but
Fully fuctional. The landing at best be bumpy
At worst? He tries not to think on that.
At last, almost down, he flares the plane, and
Fights to keep her steady, and then the wheels
touch, bounce once, then bounce and roll on steady
The passengers are completely still as the
Flight Crew bring her to a safe and final stop
On grass, then a sigh and relieved cheering.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "Blur". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Blur - Squiddy Geiger - February 14, 2012
Harry blinked. Great, now he was seeing things. He shook his head and went back to his book, reading the last paragraph over again before he continued. He blinked again; something had definitely moved.
He got up and put his book down on the coffee table. He looked around carefully, but saw nothing. He stood still, waiting. Something was there, and he was going to find it. One minute passed, then five more.
A blur, out of the corner of his eye, but when he turned, again, nothing. It was like a hint of movement, indistinct. A memory. Like when his cat had passed away - he'd seen Fester's big black butterball self everywhere, and nowhere, for weeks afterwards. But this was different because it was not Fester's memory, he knew that. Something was there, it just wasn't there when he looked at it.
A movement from the other side caught him off guard, only this time it preceded a searing pain in his leg as he collapsed onto his left side. he grabbed his leg, which now ended just below the knee. He gaped at it in disbelief, then fumbled for his belt, realizing he needed to do something to stop the blood. What blood? it stopped just below the knee and was perfectly cauterized.
Another movement, and pain took his right arm at the shoulder. He looked as it too was gone, the wound cauterized as well, but this time not perfectly, and a small amount of blood seeped through. His head started to get woozy, and his body was cold. He recognized shock, but couldn't move, paralyzed by the fear and shock.
The next blur took his right leg, above the knee, then his left at the hip. His screams of course were unheard. He was alone in the house, the nearest neighbor almost a mile away. At the end, as his eyes started to glaze over, they saw the blur as it coalesced into fangs and a gaping mouth, that paused, then moved again quickly and his life stopped abruptly.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "Dubious". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Dubious - Squiddy Geiger - February 11, 2012
Inconsequential, trivial
Lacking in serious qualities
Minor, without substance
An experience of dubious value
You try your best, you fail
No matter how you struggle
Your efforts muted by mediocrity
Treated as the triviality it is
You put up with it as long
As you can, the barbs, the jabs,
The jokes at your expense
Until one day, you can take no more
You march into the office,
Demanding to see the boss,
You fling an envelope down
And say "Enough, two weeks to go!"
The boss looks up mildly from
Behind his big oak desk, and says
"Oh, that's ok, my friend, you see
Your efforts were dubious at best."
You look at him and fantasize
That his head explodes completely
But keep yourself in control
And leave the office serenely
You leave the building,
Heading home. You see his car
Is parked right next to yours.
Flat tires? Oh yes, he'll notice.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "Fine". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Fine - Squiddy Geiger - February 07, 2012
The work was painstaking, mindnumbingly so, but it was worth it. Ultimately, their discoveries would revolutionize thought on the history of the ancient Waslav Dynasty. Of this, Aaron was quite sure. He just wished sometimes that it would go a bit faster.
He was working the grid location known as J12, an area that included sand in a densely packed, almost concrete-like conglomeration that forced him to remove small bits of the sand structure slowly and very carefully, then sweep it away with the brush, careful to make sure there were no tiny artifacts in what was removed, hoping to find bigger artifacts, the ones that brought fame. Tiny artifacts might prove a theory, but people remembered the cool stuff. The big, beautiful, spectacular finds made the news. The little stuff made the obscure journals of his profession.
Half of this level was done, and they'd only found small indicators that anything interesting might be here; hints at something important, a big find, but nothing yet to prove their hypothesis - that Waslav the Seventh had indeed lived here, rather than in the capital at Porcaba. He sighed, pausing a moment, then went back to the painstaking removal of the fine dust and sand.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "case". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Case - Squiddy Geiger - February 05, 2012
Case is very important when you're
Writing in the English language
If you ignore the rules of case
It brings on feelings of umbrage
In the people who must read
Your unduly tainted miscarriage
of literary creation.
Unless, of course, you make a career
Of this lack of respect for the rules
e.e. cummings is perhaps the best known
Of the mavericks who twisted the rules
Creating a world quickly and easily
Recognized, but not emulated in general
His character a cockroach unable to reach
the shift key and the letter he desired
Case is very important when you're
Creating a work of literary genius
You still need to follow the rules
To make the reading that much easier
A work without proper use of case
Like a work without proper punctuation
Leaves the reader annoyed and vowing
Not to support the writer further
DoN't Do It Or I WiLl
PuNcH yOuR lIgHtS oUt!
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "Shadows". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Shadows - Squiddy Geiger - February 04, 2012
Night falls, darkness reigns
Obscured sources of light
play over the darkness
Highlighting some things
hiding others
A perfect playground for The Beast.
She leaves the security of home
Heading to a friend's for coffee
and maybe for cards
Heedless of the danger
hidden in the shadows
A perfect target for The Beast.
He follows, watching carefully
Timing his movements from shadow
to obscuring shadow
Each move bringing him closer
to his prey
so close he can smell her now.
She stops, sensing something
A feeling of being followed
as she walks quickly
Through the chill of the evening
towards more safety
She listens, shrugs, and continues.
The Beast pauses, then follows again
Heart racing with the anticipation
of the kill
Almost there as she enters a deep
patch of shadows
Never exiting, a victim of The Beast.
[note: this was written during a writing exercise: we had 20 minutes to write something inspired by the word "solar". This is the result, unedited, exactly as it appeared when time ran out. You can read all of them in the waves category]]
Solar - Squiddy Geiger - February 04, 2012
Dan kicked the console angrily. Stupid piece of shite never worked right in the first place. And now he was stuck out here. He should never have left with it - should have listened to Molly and upgraded. As always, she was right.
He sighed, and went to the other room to calm down. Working angry wasn't going to help. And as scary as it was, he had to admit the view was spectacular - the sun towards which he was being dragged was gorgeous, solar flares shooting above the surface. His ship's dampers made the view bearable; and even through the filters, the colours and the mayhem of the surface were amazing.
The fact that long before he reached the surface, his shields would fail and his ship destroyed were worrisome, but if he couldn't get the console repaired, he had other issues to worry about. He sat and watched the show for awhile. It calmed him, as always.
He thought about Molly. Dear sweet Molly. Whom he might never see again, and who would wonder how things had ended so badly. If he got the damned thing working and made it home, he'd do his best to make things right. It had been a stupid argument, and much of the blame was his, if not all. He sighed again - he was sighing a lot today - and got up to work on the console again.
He whistled while he worked. Thinking of Molly had cheered him up, as it always did. He could fix it. He had to fix it. He would fix it. He was not going to die out here, an insignificant speck in an incredibly huge tableau of solar beauty.