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.”