A Comment, Part Two 7/01

The wind is really picking up outside...becoming buffeting. I wonder if we will lose the power-yet again? For like the nine hundredth time in the twelve years that I have lived here?!

Comments

Some people like my stories (the satiric, minimalistic, realistic ones in addition to the bizarre, occult, strange, weird, wholly unrealistic ones) and some people don't, I guess. Or, I would if I had some goddamn input on them (not to mention my poems)!

Brief Notes on a Short Story Mixing Comedy and Horror that I Want To Write (Which Came To Me While at RA) 7/01

Simply, while I was waiting for my interview at Rite-Aid to begin today, I sat in the alcove near the pharmacy department, and an old, gross, ugly, red-headed, doughy-faced, short woman hobbled by with her cane, started to sit in a chair far from me, and then changed her old, foolish mind at the last moment and sat in a chair nearest me. She was waiting for her prescription to be filled; I was waiting for my interview to start, for the manager to come get me. Quite frankly, she repulsed me, and I grew sickened at the sight and thought of her...and I looked at her cane several times, wondering what I would do if she went crazy and started hitting me with it. I mean, what would I, what could I do in that situation? That was a major conundrum to me, for I would have to protect myself, if the decrepit lady somehow had the ability to really thwack a person hard with her cane, and thus damage me, and what would the penalty be for protecting myself from some wicked, crazy, witchlike lady? God knows given some of the stupid laws in our country, ones that don't protect people very well. And in that instant, as I imagined the old bitch hitting me over and over with her steel, rubber-tipped cane in some kind of insane ecstasy, I came up with the ultimate idea for a story. The story is of a young man, waiting for an interview, who an old woman hits with her cane, and he is forced to defend himself against her somehow titanic onslaughts and assaultive rage. Obviously, as he is young and strong and she is weak and old, he kills her, but most viciously. Perhaps his rage was stirred up by her insanity and repulsiveness and egregious annoyance. Whatever the reason, the result is especially gory...yet deserved, at least within the framework of the story. But the whole thing starts in the office of the manager as he, the young man of the story, Our Hero, is being questioned by the police and to them he tells the story, the very strange story of the two assaults, of the altercation. Perhaps even I can add a touch of the occult, macabre and supernatural to the story, by making the woman actually out to be a witch, a real, true, awful, evil witch...who must be killed; at least that way, the young man of the story, and not to mention me, doesn't seem so bad and himself insane, if the story is actually just a tale of a tiny battle between good and evil, with my main character naturally representing good, and the doughy-faced old crone representing evil. At any rate, it is, to me, a good and interesting and highly entertaining story.
Although, if fiction of that gory and awful and eerie sort, where the mundane turns bizarre, is not to the liking of other people, if they would prefer something more realistic, then I could always tell the actual tale of what really happened today. That would be a good story, too.....I guess.

A URL of Intense Technical Poetry of which I am Informing The World Entire (as it is of Singular Importance...AH's!) 6/23

The following is my URL on my Tagged.com profile: http://tagged.com/neophyticdotcomergiventoarticulateness27

Advertisement;Self....Magic Bus...Comment On. Built-in Instant Comment/Ad 6/21

I don't want to cause a fuss, but can you ride my magic bus? That is, visit, join and follow my goddamn blog? I have no comments, no readers, no followers-nothing! This is unfortunate, for I am a nice, funny, interesting, wonderful, wondrously intelligent, great person, and a damn good writer to boot...therefore you or someone (especially considering I have had the courtesy to follow your blog and that of others, as well) should read, comment on and follow mine...or at least check it out and vote on my polls that I made. Something, anything. I hate having to advertise myself in this way, plus like almost force people to look at it...but it is fine, good, intelligent, wholesome and normal...if a tad intellectual, and it should be read and commented on. So, as I have had the courtesy to comment on and follow your blog, the very least you could do is follow mine. Thank you very much. Goodbye. Follow, read, comment. Bye :)

My Resume 6/21/2010-Monday; Et Cetera,

Douglas Earl Cate

Contact Information


Email Address: dougcool66@yahoo.com

Website: http://writerlypainterlykitteryman-dcool27.blogspot

My Profile and Personal Paragraph


I am a very interesting, intelligent individual who often takes the initiative in any and all work-related matters. Thus, I do not always have to be ordered about...unlike some people, people who constantly need to either delegate or relegate...neither one applies to me, I am a hands-on sort of person; which is somewhat of a contrast given my overall immensity of intelligence, but despite that palatial gloriousness of word, thought, action and deed and speech, I can be just as manual as the most menial, unlettered sort. However, I would prefer not to, and would prefer to have my less tangible talents be given a chance to thrive. However, such is not always possible in this world of ours, which I understand-for I am nothing if not also a realist.





Employment History : 1999-2009




Sacker [From 3/2006 to 2/2009]
Market Basket
Portsmouth, NH
At this job I:
Retrieved Carts
Provided Customer Service
Sacked Items,
Disposed of Refuse
Cleaned
Mopped
Followed Orders
Reorganized Shelved Items
Worked Closely with The Grocery/Stocking Department
Performed Various Occasional Odd Jobs
Etc.


Freight Clerk [From 8/2005 to 12/2005]
Kaybee Toys
Kittery, ME
At this job I:
Unloaded Trucks
Priced Items
Arranged Items
Opened Packages
stocked shelves,
Cleaned
Mopped,
Customer Service
Disposed of Refuse,
Etc
.



Sacker/Deli Clerk [From 10/2002 to 1/2004]
Market Basket
Portsmouth, NH
At this job I:
Sacked Items
Sliced Meats and Cheeses
Cleaned
Retrieved Carts
Mopped,
Provided Customer Service
Disposed of Refuse,
Item and Shelf Rearrangement
Etc.


Cashier [From 4/2001 to 7/2002]
BJ's Wholesale Club
Portsmouth, NH
Cashiering,
Cart retrieval
Customer service,
Refuse disposal
Cleaning
Mopping,
Item Replacement
Food Prep,
Etc.


Recovery Clerk [From 6/2000 to 10/2000]
BJ's Wholesale Club
Portsmouth, NH
Cart retrieval
Cleaning
Item Replacement
Replacement
Mopping
Customer Aid
Refuse Disposal
Shelf Organization
Etc.




Sales Associate [From 7/1999 to 9/1999]
Converse, Inc.
Kittery, ME
Sales
Customer Service
Cleaning
Refuse Disposal
Mopping
Vacuuming
Cashiering
Stocking
Inventory,
Etc.







Education



High School Diploma [ From Sep-1998 to Jun-2001]
Marshwood High School
South Berwick, ME
GPA: 2.84 High Grades in: Introduction to Film and British Literature
Five other classes attended.



HS [ From Sep-1997 to Jun-1998]
R.W. Traip Academy
Kittery, ME
GPA: 2.35 .
Seven Courses Attended

Untitled, Unfinished Short Horrific Story....at least for now 6/17, 6/20

There is a tiny town along Route 7, and placed along the Ohio-West Virginia border, in Ohio, called Clarington. And somewhere, about a mile into on the eastern side, the side closest to the Ohio River-which ever since 1830 has been as black and opaque as soot, this is a rest stop and a small, nondescript plaza housing only a motel. The sky was black (as it always was these days; at night and during the day) when Jacob Golden pulled his scavenged dull-gray 1986 Buick Century off of the asphalted rod of Route 7 and into the Brockaway's Motel's squarish parking lot. Of course, as all things were now, it was deserted. Some snow began to fall, but it just as dull-gray as the paint on the Buick-but there was nothing outlandish about that; that was quite commonplace. Inside the faded burgundy interior of the Buick, Jake, a tall, balding, stoop-shouldered man in his late forties, sat smoking an ancient, stale cigarette and flicking on his headlights and torn rubbery wipers sequentially. Although the windows of the Buick were rolled down, the interior of the car was redolent with the sickening, yellowish scent of stale tobacco and nearly befogged with grayish cigarette smoke. This was the last cigarette of the last pack that Jake had......which, incidentally was also the last cigarette in the world, or at least continental America. And he should've known, too, for ever since that day, two years ago, Jake had scoured the U.S. looking for more-and there were none. And no more were ever going to be made-not ever. The oddest thing about his two-year trek, not all of which had been in the Buick; only about half of that journey had been done with this particular vehicle: the original had been a flesh-colored, wood-paneled 1979 Chrysler Lebaron Town and Country Station Wagon which had actually been his car, for the Buick wasn't his, had never been, but it felt like it was "his" now after a year of travel with it; still, the oddest thing about this quest whose only goal seemed to be the finding of (more) cigarettes, was the fact that for most of his life, he had been a staunch, patent nonsmoker.....but that had been before. Now, there was only this car, this one, lone, last smoldering cigarette, and the cold certainty that he was one of the last people in America. He knew that he wasn't the only survivor and inhabitant left, but he was the only sane, good, normal one-of that he was sure. His travels crisscrossing America had more than confirmed that to him. No; America had become a vast, mostly deserted wasteland, and all the cities and towns, from California to New York and Maine to Florida and all points between, while technically still intact, were in ruins. He didn't know about those municipalities and metropolises in Alaska and Hawaii, however-he had never been to them. Not even before. Besides, he hated Canada and was afraid of the ocean. Not all water and bodies of it thereof mind you; no, just and only oceanic bodies.....so, he had been summarily confined to the contiguous 48 states. Not that he minded; for no, he didn't. There were millions of miles, tens of thousands of towns and cities-most deserted-for him to explore. Plus, endless miles of terrain-for America was nothing if not vast; vast enough for him, for any one person. He knew that in 200 years, let alone 2 he wouldn't ever see it all, but now, in this new world of which he was practically the sole inhabitant, he must perforce be nomadic, constantly moving, even in the winter. But though it was nearly winter now, he tarried in Clarington, a town on the border with West Virginia, which he had lately departed. In fact, in the east, behind him, some vast brownish, forested hills loomed like great mountains, and they were clearly West Virginian. All the area around him, in front of him, was vast and flat and hairy with once-green grass-and there was, naturally, nothing remotely tonsorial about these plains: they were gray or white or yellow, blank, cold, decumbent, disheveled, dead. But, with the exception of the gray Ohio grasslands, that was all before him. One that hadn't changed that he always basked in, remembering it wistfully from his boyhood, was the purplish tint that ever and anon suffused the sky and lay over the land at dusk, at twilight and it was quickly nearing that time now. As the car slowly rolled into and began to sluggishly traverse the parking lot, headed for the squat brown wing of the motel, Jake looked forward up and beyond, at the purple light beginning to distill and disseminate itself in the mostly black sky...but during the day is was more like a gray or perhaps it was dun-colored. Another odd thing, a thing that, like the purplishness, should have changed but didn't, hadn't, was the fact that, somehow, all the electricity was still active, still flowing, still brightening the devoid cities of America. Thus, all of Clarington, or most if it anyway, was lit up and sparkling-even the neon sign of the oddly named Brockaway's Motel was on, spilling it's pinkish, waxen light onto the swiftly darkening parking lot. The Buick rumbled along, finally halting it's traversal in a slanted perpendicular space directly in front of the simple, sparse brownish facade of the dormitory-like motel wing. Jake sat, contemplatively smoking the rancid cigarette and scanning the motel through the smoky glass of the Buick's windshield, listening to the roar of the gusty wind outside-and the roaring heater, blasting heat on the inside......................