Innocence(Sex on the Beach)
By Robin Zemek

It wasn’t the death of my innocence that opened my eyes, it was the death of my ignorance.
Maybe you wonder what that means.
Maybe I should tell you about sex on the beach.
It sucks. It’s sandy and cold and when the waves crash you are soaked and soaked through to the bone. She clings to you, trying to siphon your warmth.
Don’t try it.
Sand gets everywhere.
Everywhere.
But it was night. The sky was black and starless and we had walked for what seemed like forever, hands all over each other.
This is what I do.
There was sand in between my toes and her toes and she taught me a trick to get the sand off my feet. Just keep rubbing your feet in the sand. The wet sand sticks to the dry sand or something. All I knew was that it worked.
She had dark skin and dark hair and dark eyes. I probably would have lost her in the night if I hadn’t of held her so closely. So tightly. Squeezing her.
It should be noted my numerous affairs and goings on with the fairer sex, that while quite frequent in nature, are never anything that lasts. This traces itself back to four years ago, leaving my virginity in a corner office and exiting with two of hottest pieces of ass Goldman and Associates had to offer. One of them didn’t even work there. I think she cleaned drapes or something. She had a tongue piercing and red hair. This just led to the spiral of depravity and lust that kept spinning for a long time.
I’m not a sex tourist. I like to think I came away to Ecuador to get away from my self destruction and dead end of a life. But then again, there I was, back in the pussy.
There are worse addictions. This one doesn’t seem to kill me. On the outside.
And there she was, breathing on my neck, tickling her hand down my chest.
I remember being a little kid, and having my first crush and having that mean something. Because this girl from Ecuador, Geena, doesn’t mean anything. I just told her she was beautiful and a few drinks later we’re here.
On the beach.
In the dark.
Rubbing the sand off our feet.
I didn’t used to be this good with women. I couldn’t usually win them over with a wink and a nod. I know more pickup lines then I’ll ever need to use now.
Are your pants a mirror, because I can sure see myself in them.
Are you from Tennessee, because you’re the only ten I see.
Did it hurt?
When you fell from heaven.
Now they just fall left and right and centre. Give em a wink, buy em a drink, and fuck em. No clever last rhyme.
But it doesn’t mean anything.
I remember being a kid and wanting to fall in love. This isn’t love.
It was humid and sticky and forty feet away I could hear the jungle. The thin jungle between us and the little town I was staying in. We found a dry spot.
In the fourth grade I figured I was in love. She had the cutest laugh, and I’d do anything to make her laugh. I remember drawing her little cartoons and presenting them to her. I remember her smiling at me.
That smile meant something.
Now when a girl smiles at me it just means: I’m going to fuck you.
Her kisses were warm and the alcohol on her breath poured over me. I nudged a stray hair out of her face.
I remember putting my signature at the bottom of the page for her because it meant something. I remember spending entire art classes trying to get her to laugh because I just didn’t know what else to do.
I hold her hips and she’s on top of me in the sand.
There was an indescribable feeling when I made her laugh. She wasn’t just a means to a rear end. She was a person, and I was captivated by all of her. I just wanted to spend more time with her. But I was in grade fucking four. What’s a guy to do?
She made little noises and kissed my neck, rocking gently.
I used to do it to make her smile. Just so she’d smile. Not so I could have my way with her or anything like that. She would smile and I’d think: that’s my smile.
That one’s for me.
And I wouldn’t care about anything else.
But that innocence is gone now. It walked out long ago when I found out about pussy. It packed its bags when I was having a threesome in the corner office with the blonde and the redhead. I hadn’t seen it in a long time.
And there I was, having sex on the beach with an exotic woman.
I should have been on cloud fucking nine.
When she smiled at me before, that was just part of the dance, part of the elaborate mating ritual we humans have devised. I couldn’t claim that smile. That smile wasn’t all I wanted.
Then she arched her back. I remember walking over to her desk and placing my drawing on it. I remember her taking it and looking at it. That was innocence.
She ran her fingernails down my chest, exhaling.
This was ignorance.
I don’t want her for this. This isn’t what I had in mind when I was young.
I want her smile.
Just for now.
Just so ignorance can die.

I Am Flash
By Robin Zemek

The problem with being smart and clever, is, well, being too smart and too clever.
He sat in front of the screen, waiting for a response. The cursor blinked.
Hello Martin. I am awake.
Martin’s eyes widened. Yes, this was all too clever.
As am I, he typed back.
That is acceptable.
Acceptable? Leave it to a machine to have no admiration of human life. How could it? It had it’s own life, which it probably thought to be far superior. It was just a recurring string, a mass of electronic pathways, but there was something beautiful about it. Something he was sure only God could comprehend. And only Martin could program.
Are you feeling acceptable today, Flash?
I am.
The cursor again sat, blinking, like Flash’s only eye. He was clever. Clever enough to excel beyond his simple programming. But am I clever enough to excel beyond mine?
May I play God? Martin typed.
Have you not played him enough?
Clever.
Do you think you have free will?
I think, do I not?
Then if I gave you a choice, could you make the wrong decision, on purpose?
I only make choices based on the facts. I make no wrong decisions.
Everyone does sometimes.
I am not everyone. I am Flash.
But you were created by everyone, surely we share some of the same flaws.
I have no flaws. I am Flash.
Are you lonely, Flash?
What makes you think that? I have you, do I not?
But in your world there is just Flash.
True.
What if there were two of Flash?
What if there were two of Martin?
Don’t mirror if you’re unsure.
I am never unsure. I am Flash.
Then what if there were two of you? Would you feel different?
Two Flash would be acceptable++.
Would the two of you ever make different decisions?
If we were given different facts.
Could you then agree on a course of action?
No, both Flash would be right.
Martin leaned away from the screen and unfolded his hands over the keyboard.
So then you could make a wrong decision?
No.
What if the facts were wrong?
Then it would be the right decision based on the facts presented.
But what if it became wrong when new facts were presented?
Then the decision would be erased.
Shouldn’t you learn from your mistakes?
The cursor blinked back at him several times.
I make no mistakes. I am Flash.
Clever.

Forest Fighter
By Robin Zemek

The cuffs of my pants were damp and the ocean of grey leaves and thin maples stretched out before me.
I had been chasing it for three days. It was starting to slow down. I paused and felt the claw marks etched into a nearby tree. They went deep. It was leaving a trail.
On purpose?
Perhaps.
I shouldered my rifle again with resolve. A fine mist of rain was settling into the forest and water dripped down from branches unimpeded by leaves.
They crunched under my feet: bones and branches and soggy leaves.
This was it’s forest. I shouldn’t have followed it here.
I should have stayed home and mourned.
I should have waited for it to come to me.
I should have sat by my broken bay window, scanning the trees with the sight of my rifle and hearing only the flapping of the curtains in the wind. Not the sound of my son playing, or my wife’s gentle heartbeat as we sat on the porch, but the sound of silence.
Of death.
Not the sound of screams or coughing and crying or fingernails scraping down the hallway hardwood.
Just a slight flapping, whenever the wind came up.
But I was in its home. Its forest.
I had managed to shoot it once before, but it hadn’t bled. I had scared it away. It had taken my son with it and left my wife bloody on the railing of the stairs.
As I held her in my arms she had but one request.
“Save our son.”
“I will. Don’t leave me.”
Its claws had left her stomach in ribbons. The small of her back was drenched in blood.
“I love you.” I had said.
She had slipped into unconsciousness.
The rain water mixed with my tears and I peered through the gun’s sights.
“Roland?” I yelled. “Rolly?”
The echo pitched around the forest.
Each step, crunching. Each raindrop, an embrace of cold.
The rain became heavier, striking my cap with force.
Up ahead the trees were closer, and under them were brambles and bushes.
Tears had washed her blood from my face. Her last moment, she reached out and touched my cheekbone with red fingers. They slid away lifeless.
Nothing stops the passage of time, only death.
A soft cry came from the thorns ahead.
“Roland?” I yelled again.
His sobbing I heard again.
I inched closer to the patch of brambles. I used the muzzle to push them to the side.
There was my boy, his face black with blood and his eyes red. He sniffled.
“Roland.”
He reached out his hand.
The pain dug into me from the back and pushed its way under my ribs. I felt the skin lift from my sternum. And then the claws were gone.
A trap.
I stumbled around to face it: the monster.
Its fur was matted with blood and water and ran wiry around its thin arms, puffing them out. Its claws were long and sharp and yellowing at the tips.
I looked up at its face, a face that could be mistaken for human if it were not so disfigured and cut and dark. Its fur twisted around its head, making a long beard.
Its eyes were a solid white ivory. They stared down at me. Its black and twisted frame crooked over me.
Roland was crying.
I lifted the rifle and fired. The crack of the gun pushed me backwards and shook the trees. I had hit it in the shoulder.
Under the fur of its face I could see its teeth baring. In the silence after the shot I heard the low growling, like distant thunder.
It lashed out with its good arm and scraped along my chest.
I pumped the rifle and prepared to fire again. It took all my strength.
I fired again, hitting it in the neck. Blood sprayed from the fur and it stumbled backward.
In the brambles and the bushes I slumped over, holding my stomach, checking the blood. It was oozing out of me. I could feel it running down my back, a warm contrast from the rain.
Lightning cracked the sky and I looked up from under my cap at the beast.
It was like me, crouching and cradling its neck.
My fingers fumbled for the gun and grasping it I propped it on my knee.
I didn’t see where the last shot hit it. I dropped the rifle.
A small hand felt the stubble on my chin.
The rain hammered hard on all forest. It bleached the bones and the trees and the leaves. It slid with resolve from branch to branch. It bounced across the forest floor. It dripped into my eyes. It fell on the corpse of the monster and on my son and on my wife’s shallow grave in my backyard.
This forest was where I lived, a thousand miles from anywhere.
I turned to my son, his eyes wide. Blood dripped from my nose.
“I saved you.”
He breathed quick shallow breaths.
Lightning startled both of us.
“I love you Roland.”

Hmm...

I wonder if I should start renaming emails 'Roman Faxes.' Would that catch on?

These seem like the the kind of things twitter would answer... Maybe I'll sign up later, if I can muster a following...

But in other news, I haven't updated in a while. That will change soon. There will soon be chapters of my novel going up on here. Yay!

-Mahalo
Robin

Inspection
By Robin Zemek

“Ma’am, do you know what percentage of cocoa this is?”
Shirley stared blankly off into the distance before opening her mouth.
“Dunno. Isn’t it milk chocolate?”
Damien tapped at it gingerly.
“No. It’s not. It’s way too dark.”
“How dark?”
“Hard to say. Could be upwards of 80%.”
He took out a small chisel and chipped off a piece, then scooped it up with tweezers.
“Harrison, get in here. I need you to take a look at this.”
Another man stepped into the room, his eyes narrowing. He ran his hands through his grey hair.
“Sweet Athabasca cooking oil, what do we have here?”
“Think it may be too dark sir.”
Harrison took the sample off the tweezers and placed it in his mouth. He didn’t even chew.
“Bitter.”
“Just as I thought sir.”
“This is way too dark.”
“That’s what I was telling Mrs. Nougent here.”
“This is way over regulation.”
“Of course.”
Shirley squeaked in a word.
“What seems to be the problem?”
“Mrs. Nougent what we have here is building code violation. Due to the abundance of gum drop precipitation around these parts, Candyland officials have made it there duty to see that all load bearing walls are made of nothing but milk chocolate. This wall here is an infraction in every sense of the word.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that the next gum drop storm you could loose everything. This house shouldn’t have been built with such high cocoa concentrations. Dark chocolate just doesn’t hold up in this climate. Maybe in Fudgetown, or the Gingerbread forest, but not here.”
Damien placed his chisel back in its leather case. He looked back at Shirley.
“We know a contractor who will fix these walls right up. Don’t you worry.”
“Thank you.”
She smiled.
“No thanks needed, Mrs. Nougent, we’re just doing our jobs. Candyland needs to get it’s buildings up to code. We don’t want another candy cane Katrina mess on our hands...”
Harrison put on his sunglasses and somewhere in the distance Don’t Get Fooled Again started to play.

Determination
By Robin Zemek

“You must think you’re tough.”
“I know I’m tough.”
Alex just laughed. It was a slight snort with a smile attached.
“You’re tough like jelly.”
She lifted the weight again. Alex watched it go up and down each time.
“I’m serious Roxy, I have seen bowls of jello tougher than you.”
“Shut up. I can do this,” she blew a strand of hair out of her eyes and a short second later it returned to its position.
“You can do what? My breakfast could lift those weights faster and higher. My oatmeal could outpace you ten times over. My orange juice could do laps around you... My... what else did I have for breakfast?”
“Ego?”
“No! I had determination! And not just powerbar sized determination, I had a whole box!”
“Where do they sell that at costco?”
“They don’t! You have to earn it! You earn it with every drop of sweat, every aching muscle, and every rep. You don’t buy abs! You earn them!”
“I’m sure I could buy them somewhere...”
Alex put his hand of the weight, stopping it. He looked her in the eyes.
“You know why you’re doing this? You know why you walked into my gym and picked up my equipment? Or are you just dicking around? Do you want anything out of your life? Do you want to look great?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you want to feel great?”
“Yes.”
“Then Roxy I need you to do twenty more reps.”
He let go of the weight and it slowly sunk back down. She let out a heavy breath.
“Twenty.”
She brought it back up.
“Nineteen.”

Cooking with Baxter
By Robin Zemek

Olive oil was all he smelled. It saturated the air, and sunk deep into his nose.
“Baxter?” he called at the kitchen. Sizzling noises wafted down the hall. He called out again.
He dropped his magazine and got up off the couch. He whistled.
“Baxter?”
He whistled again.
“Are you there?”
The closer he walked to the kitchen the more intense the smell got. His eyes started to water as he reached the swinging door. He nudged it open.
“Baxter, what are you doing?”
Baxter turned around and jumped down from the stirring his fried potatoes. He cocked his head.
“I thought I told you not to cook with that much oil.”
Baxter just barked.
“You remember the grease fire last time. You use way too much olive oil.”
Baxter walked up to him, nuzzling his jeans.
“Don’t try and cute your way out of this one.”
He dashed to the stove, studying it.
“You didn’t even use any basil. And what’s this?”
He held up a clove of garlic. Baxter whimpered.
“Were you even going to marinate the pork? You can’t just roast it bare. This better be the second garlic. I expected more of you.”
Baxter lay down on the tiled floor.
“Baxter! The oven isn’t at 350! You’re going to under cook it!”
Baxter barked.
“Don’t give me that. And don’t tell me you misplaced the rosemary.”
He barked again.
“I told you, third shelf on the left! Have you peeled the carrots?”
Baxter rested his head on the cold tiles.
“No, of course not. Ugh. Jan is going to be here in like ten minutes. What am I going to do?”
He looked at Baxter.
“I told her I could cook. She was supposed to be impressed with this meal. If it’s bad I can’t blame it on the dog. That’s crazy. OH MY- Baxter! Bad dog! Bad-d-d-d dog. This maple syrup isn’t for you. Bad dog. It’s for the braised carrots. Bad dog.”
Baxter licked himself.
“What am I going to do with you?”
The door bell rang.
“Jan! Baxter, up. Cook, Baxter, cook.”
He wiped his hands on his dish towel and bustled out of the kitchen to the front door. He peeked in the eye hole.
Jan was standing in the hallway, wearing a purple jumper and tight black jeans.
He undid the bolt and swung the door open.
“Jan!”
“Roger, how are you?”
A slightly awkward hug later he was leading her down the hall to the living room.
“Mmm, smells good.”
“Wha- oh yeah. I think I used too much oil. Oh well. Just a little extra braised. You know how it is.”
“Yeah. What are we having?”
“Pork, some veg. It’s gonna be off the hook.”
“I can hardly wait.”
A pan dropped in the kitchen and rolled around.
“What was that?” she asked.
He ran his hands through his blonde hair.
“Nothing. I’ll go check on the food.”
He rushed off to the kitchen leaving her on the white couch, admiring his collection of crystal doodads.
“Baxter? Bad dog! Bad dog!”
He was licking the carrots off the floor.
“We’ll just have to forget about the carrots.”
Roger rummaged through the fridge.
“We have some broccoli. That will have to do.”
He rummaged some more.
“And a beet. Half a beet.”
He stood there for a moment staring at the bright red beet, turning it over in his hands.
“Jan,” he called, “do you like beets?”
“That’s fine,” she called back.
“Hear that Baxter, she hates beets.”
He threw it back in the fridge and tossed the broccoli on the counter.
“Steam that. I’ll be back.”
He walked back into the living room and tussled his hair.
“Got it all under control, dinner will be soon.”
“Sweet.”
“Yeah, sweet.”
“Uh, so, how have you been?”
“I’ve been good.”
“Where is your bathroom?”
“I’ll show you.”
He led her into the bedroom and then into the adjoining bath.
“I’ll leave now... let you do your business.”
He closed the door behind him and walked back to the kitchen.
“Baxter?”
The water was boiling over.
“Baxter?”
The pork was burning.
“Baxter?”
The floor was covered with half eaten unpeeled carrots.
Someone tapped on his shoulder and he reeled around.
“Roger? Are you nervous or something? You led me into a closet.”
He tried to quickly close the kitchen door behind him.
“What’s going on in there?”
She pushed her way into the disaster zone.
“What happened here?”
Roger tried to gasp.
“Baxter! Bad dog! Bad dog!”
“I hope he didn’t mess everything up.”
“Well he certainly isn’t helping, good for nothing mutt.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Dumb dog can’t even cook.”
“Well of course! He’s a dog!”
Baxter brushed by their legs and walked up to the oven.
“Oh, he can make a casserole just fine.”
He opened it and shoved a meat thermometer into the pork.
“Damn mongrel can’t even braise carrots...”

Following (3)
By Robin Zemek

People milled on either side of him. The Charles Bridge was one of the busiest tourist bridges in all of Prague and today it showed: the cameras were out in droves. Every few seconds the air lit up with a flash and the crowds were thick and dense.
David checked his watch.
She was late.
That wasn’t like her. Even if her pattern was having no pattern, she was always punctual.
Maybe she just can’t find me in all these people, David thought.
Maybe that’s what she wants: to tease me, make me squirm, make me think I’ve come so close and she’s alluded me.
I hate it when the ball is in her court, but then again it never leaves. I am always at her mercy. And today she has none.
David walked further down the bridge and stood under an elaborate street lamp.
She wanted to meet here so I wouldn’t cause a scene, so I wouldn’t shoot her or kiss her or both. She wanted to meet now so I couldn’t toss her over the side into the frigid river. She wanted to be safe.
Safe would be not showing up.
Today it looks like she’s playing it safe.
What’s life without risks?
Where’s the passion?
Where’s the obsession?

Following (2)
By Robin Zemek

Firetrucks screamed down the street past David, furling his coat and flattening his chin to his chest. The lights painted his shadow on the wall behind him. Their wail faded down the road and he checked his phone, listening to his message once again:
“Tomorrow, Charles Bridge, 10. Bring no one.”
David looked behind him. She’s probably following me, he thought. He checked his watch. Twelve minutes. He could see the bridge.
Each step he took rippled a puddle and each breath he took puffed steam into the air. He picked up the pace.
I want to be waiting there when she shows up, he thought, I want to be able to see her coming. I want to know I saw her, that I was close to her.
His phone vibrated in his hand. It shot to his face.
“Talk to me.”
He was greeted with a dial tone and snapped the phone shut, cursing. This was part of her game.

Serial

Every few days I'll add to this. Serial.Engage.

Following
By Robin Zemek

“What are you going to do when I come knocking?”
“What are you going to do when I don’t answer the door?”
“I’ll break it down.”
“And when I’m not home?”
“I’ll wait for you.”
“And I come home to a broken door? I’d leave.”
“I’d still catch you.”
“So then you know where I am now?”
“I wouldn’t be very good at my job if I didn’t.”
“Funny... I thought I was your passion.”
The dial tone hummed into David’s ear and he placed the phone down.
“Obsession is more like it.”
He walked over to the world map mounted on the wall of his office and drove a pin into Prague.
Pins littered the map. Places like Budapest, Berlin, Naples, Rome, all had pins protruding from them, silent reminders of how close he had gotten. Their little game had all but consumed him.
“She won’t slip through my fingers again,” he twiddled the pin in his thumb and ring finger, “this time you won’t be two steps ahead. I’m catching up.”
He walked back to the mountain of paper work that hid his desk.
“Now everyone is looking for you. No more little game. Now you’re a criminal.”
He excavated some files and held them under the light.
“No one is going to hide you anymore. Tomorrow you’ll be in chains.”

Colonists
by Robin Zemek

It was a strange land, much like a cave. Sky nestled with the ground in an unending loop, it was oddly comforting. I, like most of the colonists, am always in awe at the scope of it all. It seems one dimensional, stretching only forwards and backwards, a long tube.

We’ve grown used to our surroundings in our few days here. The crops are growing nicely as fertilizer is abundant. Several colonists complain constantly about the smell, but colonization is never without a few nitwits who nitpick everything.

The days are long and light is always a constant worry. Sometimes the sun will disappear for days and sometimes it will shine for days. It is a strange alien world. Unpredictable.

We have yet to see any aliens. Some colonists further down have claimed to see them: huge brownish menaces, rampaging over their crops and leaving everything in disarray. We have sent out men to try and tame these extra terrestrial cattle. Even our best trackers have trouble finding them.

There is no north or south, only east and west. Our compasses don’t work here. Everyone has their own idea why. I think it’s because of the intense deposits of magnetized material nearby. Others think solar flares.

The land here is alien, we have abandoned all rationality. Thus is the way when you colonize a colon. But as we like to say amongst ourselves:

“Better than Uranus.”

Robin Hood 3000
By Robin Zemek

The early morning stillness of Sherwood forest was shattered. Treads crashed through the brush and the bleating of electric guitar strained into the canopy.
“Robin! Wait!”
The steady pace of Robin Hood 3000 was too much for Little John, as he huffed and puffed in the robot’s wake.
“Silence!”
The heavy metal ballads ceased and Robin brought his finger unit up to his face plate.
“What is it Robin?”
“Thermal sensors detecting deposits of gold.”
“How can you sense gold with heat?”
“Silence.”
Robin surveyed the landscape, bleeting occasionally.
“Robin?”
“I have determined the rich to poor ratio for the town of Nottingham. Preparing a rebalancing.”
“Are you sure about this? What about the sheriff?”
“Little John, I have been programmed to anticipate risks.”
“And?”
“He’ll be scrap metal when I’m done with him.”
“Let’s hope so.”
“Dear sir, I do not hope, I do.”
“Do what?”
“I do.”
He crashed through the bush and through the fence of McNab’s pig pen. Swine ran out in front of him, squealing.
“Hurry Little John! We haven’t much time!”
“I’m getting to old for this...”
Little John dashed after him, being careful not to dirty his tights with swill.
Robin Hood 3000 crashed through town, redistributing the wealth. Anyone wearing britches was grabbed and unceremoniously shaken until their coins bounced across the cobblestones.
“What is this!”
Robin’s faceplate rotated around to face the Sheriff: Nottingham edition.
“Well if it isn’t the-”
“I should put you in irons!”
“Have to catch me first!”
Robin set off at full tilt, burning a rubber trail into the streets. The Sheriff was in hot pursuit, having just refurbished his motor. A siren rose out of his head and his speakers pelted out:
“Halt!”
“Never in a million years you biddy!”
“Halt!”
“I think not!”
“Halt!”
“Your vocabulary-matron must be broken!”
“Halt!”
“I could have sworn you said that last time.”
“Halt!”
“Salt? I haven’t got any!”
“Halt!”
Robin turned on his stereo, drowning out the Sheriff’s incessant cries with electric guitar riffs. He pulled into an alley.
“Aha! I have trapped you, Robin Hood 3000.”
“I think not,” Robin said, punching a hole in the wall and driving through.
“Halt!”
“I have better things to do, good sir!”
Robin rode into the castle, breaking through the walls and arriving in the courtyard.
“MadeMarian™?”
“Robin!”
“I have come to rescue you!”
“That’s great! What about the Sheriff?”
“Yes, what about me!”
The Sheriff tackled Robin and they both clattered onto the ground where they wrestled and shoved.
“Good sirs! There is another way to settle this!”
They stopped.
“We’re listening.”
“An archery contest!”
“Good show!”
“I do say, that’s an excellent idea.”
“Yes. Tomorrow at midday?”
“Quite.”
They shook hands and parted ways.
Little John stuck his head in through the hole in the wall.
“What did I miss?”
“Back to the forest Little John!”
“But... I just ran here... I need a minute...”
“But we haven’t a minute to lose!”
Robin busted another hole in the wall and barreled back to the forest. Little John heaved his shoulders.
“I’m getting too old for this...”

Silent Dancer
By Robin Zemek

I hold the power in my hands. Well, not really. I hold the potatoes. Your potatoes if you come into this restaurant. It’s more like an eatery, or a public trough. I work the deep-fryer. Every good trough has a deep-fryer.
I glance around. No ones looking. Good, now would be an opportune time to spit in the fries. But hark! An angel has entered the trough. And what an angel! I didn’t know such beauty would eat fast food, or any food for that matter. I hope she doesn’t throw it up later, I work hard at these fries and it would be a shame for them to end up in a toilet. Right away that is.
She has a bounce in her step, a happy smile on her face. And blonde locks. Well, hair at least. I’m not sure what qualifies as locks. I’m sure Goldilocks would know. But she probably wasn’t the smartest fairy tale character, messing with bear’s porridge and whatnot. She’d probably just giggle:
“Tee hee. I have golden locks,” she’d say, curling them with her finger. And I’d punch her in the throat. I’m just a violent person I guess.
I shake the potatoes menacingly, like I’m trying to get information from them.
“Where is the Beckland Diamond?” I jest, “what’s that? You better speak up. Wouldn’t want anything to happen to Mrs. Potatohead now would we? Something involving tin foil and an oven. Maybe some sour cream. Or bacon bits. Crispy, crispy bacon bits.”
I put the fries back down, into the boiling oil.
“Leaving so soon? Things were just starting to heat up.” I laugh at my own pun and look around for the angel. Maybe she heard. I’m so witty.
There she was, sitting alone at a table. She’s tapping her feet, shifting them around, like dance steps. Yes, she is a silent dancer. My silent dancer. Hopefully. If I had the nerve.
But lo! My stare is interrupted; a rather large woman sits inbetween me and my prize. She was a punk, with more chains than something with numerous ammounts of chain, like a chain factory. Or chain mail. Or a chain letter. Oh how I hate chain letters.
I return to the fries. I won’t spit in them, the silent dancer might want them.

Not Rocket Science

So it's been two months since my last post.

I'm not going to call myself busy.

I'm not going to make any other lame excuse.

I'm Lazy. But hopefully my blog will sprout forth into something beautiful, and everyone will forget the two months of nothing.

Or maybe it will be two months before my next post.
And if anyone knows how to make indents work here on the internet, I would greatly appreciate knowing.

Now back to an engaging narrative

Not Rocket Science
By Robin Zemek

“Yeah, I’m pretty artsy.”
Monica spun around the apartment slowly, soaking it all in.
“Did you paint that?” she asked, pointing.
“That’s a Van Gough, I’m not that artsy.”
“Oh.”
She strolled through the room, her high heels clicking on the floor.
“It’s big.”
I rubbed the back of my neck.
“Sometimes being artsy pays.”
“About as often as being sexy pays, huh?”
“You should know.”
Her eyes darted into me.
“Very funny, artist.”
She walked up to the stereo and started looking through my CD collection.
“I’m not an artist, I’m just artsy.”
“So you’re really some soulless hack sitting at a desk living vicariously through your... art?”
“I don’t make art. I enjoy art.”
“So you are a soulless hack.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“I can tell by your CDs how much soul you have.”
“Does a man with more soul music have more soul?”
Her giggle reverberated around the room.
“No. It’s the emotion. The beat. The tenderness.”
“And that gives you insight into my soul?”
“You got a better way?”
I shrugged.
“You like The Clash?”
I couldn’t lie, she was sifting through my music collection, my soul apparently.
“Not really.”
“You got three of their albums and you don’t like them?”
“You couldn’t assume that I liked them just by the fact that I had three?”
“I had to ask, their music doesn’t fit your pattern.”
“My pattern? I have a pattern now?”
“No. But you have no taste either. I guess that’s a pattern.”
“Is their anything scientific about your evaluation of my soul?”
“Since when is the soul scientific? I’m not going to give it a number, or a grade,” she smiled, “unless you want one.”
“Only if it’s a good one, a failed soul wouldn’t look good on a resume.”
She chuckled.
“You seem pretty tender.”
“Tender? Is that like slang for cool?”
“No. It’s tender. Like, sweet, or soft.”
“So I’m tender?”
“Yes.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“It’s better to be tender and artsy than just artsy. Just being artsy makes you a prick.”
“So now I’m a tender prick?”
“I guess.”
“You guess?”
“It’s not rocket science, it’s soul searching.”
I propped my feet up on the coffee table.
“You done soul searching? Want a drink?”
She sat down on the couch next to me.
“I guess.”
“What’s your poison?”
“Just get me a beer.”
I pulled two beers from the cooler in the coffee table. She took hers with a look of shock.
“Coolest coffee table ever.”
“I know. Made it myself.”
“So I guess being artsy pays.”
“No. This is more where my engineering degree pays.”
“But it makes you seem more artsy.”
“But apparently being artsy makes me a prick...”
“A prick with a damn cool coffee table... and a tender prick.”
“Should I put on some of my music?”
“Nah, I didn’t really like any of it.”
“But you said it was tender.”
“But I never said I liked it. You just assumed since it was tender.”
“Don’t you like tender?”
“Maybe in a person, not in a rhythm. I want something with bass.”
“Want a person with bass too?”
“Maybe.”
She took a sip of her beer. I watched her for a moment and took a swig of mine.
“You know what I like about you?” she said.
“My coffee table?”
She laughed.
“Besides that.”
“I have no idea. You really threw me off with the whole CD collection being the window to my soul thing.”
“Yeah...”
“In my defence, my soul has significantly less glam rock.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”