I don't particularly like the ending of this one. I haven't bothered to rewrite it yet. I do like the idea of guessing who is actually writing here. Is the author truly nuts? Or is the demented pen altering the message to make you think the author is nuts?

What Tourists Will Do To You
date: Tuesday, June 24,1997

I have a small store
at the middle of the block.
Big windows and an awning.
I sell Indian beads to the tourists.
I hate them. The tourists.
The Indian beads are OK.
They don't bother me.
Not as much at least.
The tourist though,
they are so annoying.
Always asking questions
Always demanding service
Always wanting more
Always under foot.

Come to think of it,
the beads are always
under my feet as well.
Ok, that's it.
I hate the beads too.

Not much to say about that one. My home town is a tourist town and I had to deal with tourists in some of my jobs as a kid. Perhaps this is why I don't like going on vacation. I don't want to act like a tourist.

date: Friday, June 27,1997

"I should've been an Elvis." Copywrite � 1997 FSell

Really, I should have been an Elvis. I can't stand him, but I should have been one.

Untitled I

I can hear the screaming in the distance. Though the volume is low and muted by the long journey, the shrill urgency survives intact. I can only imagine the terror that could cause such a sound. I sit and wait, almost helpless, for the screaming to stop. What is it that creates such a panicked noise? Can it not cease? Who could endure such horror for so long? Certainly not I.

I cannot bear it any longer. It must stop! It must! The scream grows louder in my mind; or does it draw closer to my lair? Of which I do not know. All that is sure is my need for it to cease. "Silence!" None. Where is it now? In my head or at my door?

I
date: Friday, July 25, 1997

For a while I felt as if I was trapped. You couldn't tell from the outside because I was buried inside a facade. The real me was deep inside screaming; clawing to get out. I had envisioned my tomb there inside the facade. The walls had a texture of unfinished iron. They conformed to my body, just enough to limit my movement. Like a cocoon. There was a small hole in front of my face with bars across it. I could see out but there was only darkness. Immeasurable darkness. In the tomb I would writhe and claw and scream. Scream, and scream again. Turning mad from my capture.

I was stuck inside a life and personality I didn't want. The person (the facade) that was portraying me was a lie. He had forgotten who I was. I had forgotten who I was. And at any given moment who was I? The prisoner or the facade. I couldn't tell. One of them was slowly going insane. It was hard to know who was going mad. The bad part was that no matter which one was going insane, it was still me.

Back then I started to ask, "who is the real me?" Is it the facade of the prisoner? I couldn't tell. Was I once like the prisoner, but forced to change for some perverted reason? Or have I always been the facade; never letting the prisoner out; pretending to be whatever was needed at the time. Did I ever have a true identity? Who am I? Who was I?

I haven't heard the screams lately. I'm afraid he is dead. I see no sign of him having gotten out. It doesn't disturb me that he might be dead. What does disturb me is not being disturbed. Maybe the facade is feeling so agonized and twisted in knots that it doesn't care anymore.

I still sit and dwell on these questions sometimes. I'm rendered inoperable by the complexity of the questions. Staring as if lifeless into the distance.

Being hit in the back of the head by what is to come.

You can interpret these last two however you like.

Favorite
date: November 13, 1997

I am walking quietly through the crowded streets around Time Square. Immersed in my thoughts. Carrying my favorite gun in my hand. Taxis stop to greet me as I stroll by in front of them, walking quietly through the street. I wave with a pleasant smile and a cheerful hello. I guess they can't see the peaceful posture of my wave from behind my favorite gun. They must be stunned by their encounter with such a temperate soul; not being used to pleasantries on these streets. I can only imagine the feelings welling up inside their hearts as I pass by with a smile, walking quietly through street, carrying my favorite gun.

I am filled with joy at the love I am spreading. Pedestrians stop to gaze and point my joy out to others. I see all of my onlookers and I can't help but raise my hands and dance in my wondrous joy. Twirling about in the middle of the street; just me and my favorite gun. City officers run to see the sight. They join me in the street wanting to be part of the celebration; raising their guns before them for my inspection.

I do not own a gun. Lets just get that straight right away before you call the authorities. I like this one for it's different perspective. The protagonist actually thinks he is spreading peace and joy, not terror and violence. It's a point of view thing.

The Whimpering

The following six scribblings are an attempt to make fun of poetry. Aaron Zunkermann is a name I made up for these bits. A few people have thought they were humerous. Or maybe they were just being kind.

Green Cows Float Through A Field
by: Aaron Zunkermann

Green Cows
Float
Through A Field
Green
Cows Float Through
A
Field Green
Cows
Float Through
A Field
Green
Cows
Float
Through
A
Field
Green Cows Float Through A Field

Horkin' in the Backseat.
by: Aaron Zunkermann

Horkin'
In the Backseat.
Horkin'
In
The Backseat. Horkin'
In the Backseat.
Horkin'
In the
Backseat. Horkin'

In the Backseat.
Horkin' in the Backseat.
Horkin'
In
The
Backseat.

Hienz.
by: Aaron Zunkermann

Hienz
Hienz
Hienz
Hienz Hienz
Hienz
Hienz Hienz Hienz
Hienz Hienz
Hienz Hienz
Hienz

Hienz.

Rubber Baby Buggie Bumpers
by: Aaron Zunkermann

Bumper Babys
Buggie
Rubber Baby Bumpers
Buggie
Bumper Rubbers
Buggie
Baby Rubbers
Buggie
Buggie Buggies
Buggie
Bumper Baby Rubber Rubbers
Buggie
Rubber Baby Buggie Bumpers
Buggie

A Luncheon Meat Product in a Metal Container
with Rounded Corners and Blue Coloring Tasting
Similar to, but not Exactly Like Ham with a
Combination of Turkey and Hamburger Added to
Clear Geliten Like Stuff All Sealed Tightly to
Lock In Its Freshness for a Pleasant Flavor,
Aroma and Texture.
by: Aaron Zunkermann

Spam

A Light Snow Was Falling
by: Aaron Zunkermann

Hienz!

Ok, enough of this nonsense.

Fall

Have you ever noticed that your relatives smell funny?

Sparrow

The brown sparrow was quiet all morning. The nest shuttered and quaked with every movement of the tree, but not a sound would be made by the bird. Content to be nestled down low in its nest; a handful of brown would be the only image the bird would create. "No more kegger parties", would be the only thought the sparrow would muster; swaying in that lonely tree.

I was obviously still in school when I wrote this. And suffering from a hangover.

Free squirrels for everyone.

This is something I firmly believe in. If everyone could have their own squirrel I believe we would be that much closer to whirled peas. Thank you for your support.

Untitled II

Only a few days before certain death.
Only a few days before dying.
Is the pain so intense that I no longer feel it? Am I breathing? Exept for my thoughts, I'm not even aware of my own existence. Loved ones are around me. I don't know who they are for I don't have the strength to focus on their faces. The sensations of their touch sends energy through me. Sparking another heart beat. Keeping me here. My body is suffering, but I am not. Has my soul already seperated from my body? My blood still flows, my skin's still warm and the nurses still probe and prick me. My breath is not as hot as it used to be, but I am still alive.

Where should my thoughts be at a time like this. What is coming will come, whether or not I ponder its arrival. So I will not waste valuble time on such useless thought. This is not the time to contemplate faith. If I did not already have it, I would be unjust in trying to seek it now. My fate has been decided and my place has been prepaired; wherever it may be.

Untitled III

There is no presence of a spirit in my body. Barely a soul.
God is there, but he is alone. Waiting for me to return...

If I were to return, what would I find? The tattered remains of a body that was once filled with life; now relegated to only portraying life. would I recognize myself? Would I still remember my old wants and desires? Or would they be so foreign that I might shriek away like a frightened child at the sight of his parent in a strange light? Would I want to be my old self again, or would its needs not be of benefit to me now? And if so, then who really is this person I call "Me"? Is it the old with a desire to come back and be full and confident, or is it the present with its voids and confusion?

Will you please leave my little teapot alone!

Got to lighten things up a bit here.

To All of Mos 2 Implant;

I feel I should take this opportunity to sincerely apologize to all of the
Production Impaired Wafers of Mos 2.

On Sunday, July 24, 1994 I wrote a notice that was placed in full view of everyone in the implant area. In writing this notice I used language that was completely inappropriate and offensive. My actions have consequently hurt an important group within Mos 2, and for this I am truly sorry. I was never my intention to harm anyone and I will take full responsibility for the incident.

Production Impaired Wafers are an important part of the Mos 2 family. They are always ready and willing to help at a moments notice, and for this they should be recognized and respected. Though I try daily to be the best I can be, I will never be half the wafer a Production Impaired Wafer is.

I hope we will all be able to put this behind us and look together to the bright future we have at Mos 2.

F Sell
W/E B Process Control

People that work in the semiconductor industry should understand this one. This is an apology I wrote in jest to the comment that we needed to be more sensitive to everyone's individual dignity at work. A coworker, Carol Bishop (more from her later) pointed out that I called the non-production filler wafers "dummy wafers". Even though it was the common term used for them I wrote this apology in the spirit of being politically correct.

Please continue to leave my little teapot alone!

Hey! I'm not going to warn you again.

I call upon thee-oh great one of myriad useless scribblings and proud panderer of ponderous pontifications! Hear thy unworthy servants pleas to seal up and put away thy great book lest the heathen female once again rapes thy unwilling pages with unwanted and blasphemes attentions.

Thy will is royally screwed as I quake at the mighty rumblings of thy stomach (feed him cheese omelets and rejoice...)

Somara Bridge

Caravan I

The dry desert heat and lack of any drinkable water is beginning to take its toll on our caravan. Even the camels, accustomed as they are to this climate, are beginning to show wear. I think tomorrow, if water cannot be found, I will have the lackeys kill Ronnie, so that we might drink his vital fluids and carry on to another day.

Caravan II

Somehow, through all the trouble we have encountered, our caravan has managed to survive. Drought, darkness, cycle time or storm, none has disabled us on our journey. Our ranks have shrunk though. Last night, during an encounter with a large group of sheep who were blocking our path, Ronnie disappeared. By late today, he still has not been found. However, bare footprints were found among the tracks of the sheep.

Troop

Writen by: Carol Bishop

The heat was abated by the arrival of thunderstorm clouds from the northwest. The troop was tired and welcomed the relief of the cooler breezes. We were resting by an oasis in preparation for our performance that night. The bushes rustled to the south and we were amazed to see a man emerge; thirsty, tired, filthy and clothed only in matted sheep wool. Could this be the man reported missing from the caravan? If only there was a reward. Then perhaps one of us would investigate. For now we will taunt, tease and throw sand. Maybe later we'll steel his wool.

Caravan III

Scantily clad women dance for me. Life is good here in the valley. The land is fertile and the women are...

...happy.

It has been a month since we fell into this paradise. The caravan is doing quite well; though we do not resemble much of a caravan anymore. We have begun to settle in here. Our ranks are growing with new births and we are spreading ourselves out farther across the valley. Everything is peaceful. Only occasional rustling disturbs our nights. Several times it has sounded like the troops horses riding across the top of the ridge, chasing some poor screaming sheep herder. The screams remind me of someone I once knew, who is now forever lost to us.

Ronnie has been gone now for... Well, I can't remember how long it has been. Its been so long now that I can hardly remember what he looks like. I do remember the beach party though. Who could forget. Ronnie was the belle of the ball in that full length taffeta gown. I still think the tiara made the outfit, but others will claim that it was the pink fuzzy boa that did it. No matter, Ronnie is gone now. We have come to face that. His memory will always live on within us. (His VCR will work well with my TV too.)

Copywrite � 2000 Frank Sell
(Except where other author noted.)