The CuisinArt

When Brad caught up to his longtime crush in the domestic departures terminal of the Los Angeles International Airport, he had precious little time to dissuade her from boarding a plane to Europe. “Without you, I’m like ice cream without rainbow sprinkles,” a breathless Brad told Marcia, who had not until that very moment realized that she too loved him back. “And without you, I’m a doughnut without a hole,” Marcia replied before flinging herself into Brad’s awaiting arms. Their newly requited love took a tragic turn however, when a spontaneous round of applause initiated by an anonymous onlooker spun out of control, killing six and injuring 47.

Spontaneous applause, commonly referred to as slow clapping, has become a growing problem in America. Originally a German conception resulting from Woodrow Wilson’s Fourteen Points speech, slow clapping found its way into the American mainstream following the rush of John Hughes films in the 1980’s. Denise Trumbault, Social Communications researcher at the University of California remarks, “After Pretty in Pink, this largely elitist custom was suddenly accessible to middle class America. Soon after slow clapping became expected, if not downright mandatory in achieving catharsis.”

End of school parties, prom nights, and extemporized orations carry the highest risk for spontaneous applause related disasters. The possibility for moments of individualized glory present at these events creates an atmosphere of vicarious empathy, the ideal breeding ground for spontaneous ovations. Typically, crowd temperament and geographic isolation keep slow claps in check, but a particularly contiguous and heterogeneous crowd has the potential to fuel slow claps indefinitely.

Authorities describe the LAX ovation as one of the most devastating in recent memory. Deputy Fire Chief Timothy Lundy calls it the worst he has seen since 1996 Glenville State Championships when “that kid with terminal cancer showed up to do the opening kickoff.” Mart Stevens recalls watching the events unfold from the airport Starbucks. “I remember screaming at my son to cover his eyes and ears as I helplessly watched myself begin to applaud an event I had not even witnessed. I was clapping and clapping and screaming ‘did somebody win something’ at the top of my lungs.”

With the ovation poised to spread to the international terminals, airport sanitation employee Brock Jefferies stepped in to assist. Jefferies, a former prom king and starting quarterback, is no stranger to slow claps, and knew just how to subdue the rampant applause. “What most people don’t understand,” Jefferies told reporters, “is that slow claps require a down tempo cue to stop, just as they require an up tempo cue to start.” Taking control of the situation, Brock borrowed an automated baggage cart and drove the length of the terminal, slowing the clap gate by gate.

Authorities confirm that a majority of the applause has been subdued, though smaller, isolated pockets still exist in the outer food courts. The identities of the deceased are being withheld until the families can be notified, while the injured have been transferred to Cedar Sinai for minor skin burns and third degree calluses. Standing Novation, a non profit consortium aimed at promoting alternative methods of mass congratulation including whistling, foot stomping, and gold claps, will hold a memorial service for the deceased. Information can be accessed on their website

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

“All troops fire! Everything you’ve got! Now! Now! Now!” Bellowed Sgt. Vernon, as rounds fired past his face and those of his petrified platoon like swarms of insects on the warpath.

“Sarg! Why is this happening?” Cried Alfonso, a 19 year-old Peruvian. “One minute we’re sitting here, the next we’re bombarded!”

A horse and soldier enter the east end of the bunker. Vernon and Alfonso turn and shoot. Direct Hit. But, the horse evaporates, and in its place stands three African foot soldiers! Though ordered to engage anyone and anything that entered their land, the men never expected a dogfight approaching this kind of veritable savagery.
“What the hell was that?!” cries Eduardo. There’s no time- BAM! A grenade detonates 3-centimeters away, severing limbs of three young medics.
“Sarg! We’ve never had any conflict with the African Militia! It don’t make any sense!” Echoed Brazilian sniper, Carlos. “Why are they attacking!?”
Though plangent eruptions of mortar shells, landmines, and ululations of men’s final sentient moments flooded the air of the entire South American landmass, Vernon could not hear a thing.
“Brazil, Venezuela, and Peru have all fallen sir! We’re the last platoon! We must surrender!” Pleaded Enrique, the communications officer, with one ear the receiver to and the other to the rumbling terrain.
It happened so fast, and so unannounced. Vernon thought there was a cease-fire. He never believed in the war they were thrown, forced to fight in against their will. But now, minutes away from seeing his homeland, his family, friends, and enemies heretofore rearranged into a vassal state of Africa, he was no longer a Brazilian, but a South American.
“We surrender to no one!” He proclaimed. “If we die tonight. We die on our feet! Every man fires every piece of ammunition in sight!” Though knowing full well his last breath was moments away.
Outnumbered 10 to 1, it was a quick battle. But they fought to the end. Vernon watched his platoons expressions fall prostrate and frozen as they hit the ground, and suddenly disappearing from sight. Hallucinations?
“There is no logic or reason in this war we fight.” As he took his last breath, before crossing over, he heard a sonorous voice from above…
“Ha! You’re dead!” Exclaimed Anthony, as he moved his men into the continent of South America. “I’ll refortify six men to Venezuela, and take a territory card. You’re gonna lose!”
“Nuh-uh! Just wait till I explode out of Europe and spread like the plague across the entire board!” Countered Peter, as he placed 7 yellow plastic men onto the Risk board.
“Okay, I’m attacking Scandinavia from the Ukraine.” The boys pick up their dice and roll away.

We are all reincarnations, though short lived ones. When we die, our atoms will disassemble and move off to find new ones elsewhere, as part of a leaf, an animal, a swing set, the tire of a bicycle, or another human.

Atlan shifts focus from the book. He examines the chair he sits in: A dark shade of green. It’s a very peculiar chair, all of a sudden. He looks at the fibers in the carpet, the bits of dirt in his fingernails, the dust on the bookshelf across the room, the indiscriminate hairs sticking to his black turtleneck shirt. He moves to his room.

“Frankly, I couldn’t care less what she thinks of me…Who the hell is she to say anything, anyway…she’s trash…Not yet, I’ve tried it on, but I don’t want to look like slut…Are you sure?… He better, I’m sick of the games.”

Atlan’s room was more of a spacious closet (By Middle Class American standards), occupied by a twin bed (previously stored in the attic for 5 years; where he found the book he now reads), a small end table with a flat surface, which he uses for a desk, and some shelves (enough room for his wardrobe: four pairs of dark khakis, six plain white t-shirts, three hand made wool sweaters, socks, underwear, a few long sleeve tees, and two button down collared shirts for dinners).
Our moon is large in relation to us (1/4 Earth’s size). The moon’s steady gravitational influence keeps the Earth spinning at the right speed and angle to provide stability.

He takes a sip of coffee. He looks at the window, then through it: A child walks down the street, with a small sheep dog in tow. It pauses and squats.

“I’m sorry, I know not everyone is perfect, but if you’re her size, and you aren’t eating raw vegetables 24-7, then you deserve it. And she shouldn’t wear shirts that show her fat stomach. She’s asking for ridicule.”

A little further, is a small movie theatre: singles, couples, and groups walk in and out while the projector is re-threaded for the next showing.

Our planet falls in a perfectly located orbit. 5% closer to the sun or 15% further and we wouldn’t be here.

Atlan examines a camera that he received as a gift from an old man, during his sojourn in Atlan’s mountain town, three years prior to this day. Though outdated, by today’s standards, Atlan never considered updating. He took his first pictures with it- pictures that would garner an offer for a full academic scholarship in the United States.

“Do you really think I care? I have every intention of making her cry. I-do-not-giveafuck… Hold on, I’ll ask him….Hey Atlan, you want to come to a party tonight…Well, do you mind giving me and Sarah a ride? We’ll take a cab back…Thanks, we’re ready whenever you are.”

He breathes in slowly through his nose, feeling the air and the minute dust particles enter his nasal passage. He flips to a new page. He’s now moved to the bed.

An atom is mostly empty space, with a very dense nucleus. If you expanded an atom into the size of a Cathedral, the nucleus would be the size of a fly- but a fly many thousands of times heavier than the cathedral.

He takes pictures of a few pages, which he will print at the local library and mail to his best friend in Cypress, who is serving his required 6-months of Turkey’s military training.

“Ugh, I don’t know. They’ll be back afternoon tomorrow to take Atlan to the University. I will get him back here tonight, and I can’t wait to see her face when we leave together. I bet she doesn’t even show up to class tomorrow”

He examines the palms of his hands, the ceiling, the book, the wood floor (and each crack in it), the rock garden in the yard, and the steam from his coffee. She comes to the door. He examines her outfit, her hair, her makeup, her push-up bra.

“You ready?”

The Unified Field theory allows all of the fundamental forces between elementary particles to be written in terms of a single field. Every single thing, that is a thing, emerges from this field.

An update..

Two weeks ago I arrived in the city of Los Angeles. More specifically, my bus stopped at 6th and Wall St. Even more precisely, I was dropped right around the corner from this lovely neighborhood. There is a profusion of homeless people in this city, and given the recession and the halt of TV productions of late, I can only assume there are some former actors among them. Ironically, given the number of sidewalk dwellers, I have not been hassled for change too often. They seem preoccupied.

Luckily, being at the nexus of creativity, a unique solution to that problem was reached in late 2007.

C.H.U.D.’S aside, the transition has been smooth.

Marla got her camera’s shipped out recently - and she’s been on a photo kick, taking pics whenever we go out. Here’s me at the beach. I like the way she composed that shot. This one is Marla and I at a dive bar. It reminds me of Ithaca.

Since I don’t have a car, I ride the subway to work, which reminds me of being back East. Surprisingly, more people ride it than I expected. It’s crazy in the mornings. It’s a short ride to my office. Yes, all those desks are mine. I like variety-not lots of choices, the magazine. I read a different section at each desk.

We got a great apartment, although the neighbors are a bit loud, and I actually have to wait for the water to get cold in the faucets- everything is backwards in LA!

The best part of LA, obviously, is the weather. The weekend I arrived, the Santa Ana winds were blowing. This happens a couple times a year, when all the trash and air pollution, is essentially blown out of LA- the next few days are resplendent.

I asked Justin Long for directions at 1:10 AM when I got lost.

And yes, I do see naked women a lot in this sexy city. In fact, directly across my balcony, I can see a  sultry woman who walks around topless, often. Talk about bright morning.

So that’s all for now. And more stories to come.

From Adam

–

Pitiable destination, never to be reached
A weak stream drying
Droughts of love and verve, parched for a crest that would replenish strong rivers,
Flowing lush beneath a permeable blue
No solace, but the desert
Dried tears, salt and not much more

Weak streams creep
Creep toward a sea of dust
Stream to dust, dust to dust
Nothing here in the delta
Desolate, easily traipsed

I’ve come far in search of rivers, to the horizon’s end
Prayed they be wide and rolling; spare me weak streams

Abandon it, abandon the attempt
Before the arrival at the weak stream’s delta

Nay, I’ve pressed on in misery

An oppressive trail
Full of old dogmas and forbidden gratifications

The straight and narrow, like an arrow to the horizon
Black as bold typeface in a blurry, smeary green-gray jungle
Flagellated in contrition, I mush forth with eyes on the line
Limping gait favoring to the left, to the right
Footfalls lead, follow
My uncomfortable, uncontrollable arousal into brambles
In search of always sweeter fruit

Though I walk the line
I veer subconsciously,
In search of sweeter fruit, delectable indulgences
And sap on the trees
Scarred, mute, remorseful,
I trek haphazardly from the darkness,
Back to black as boldface

Guiding stars lay hidden
Cotton web clouds stick to my thoughts, my memories
Clouding my reason, chastity
Diffusing the black bold straight-and-narrow

Yet somewhere an alabaster moon, partially concealed
Hovers like peering over shoulder,
Threatening to expose the fraud, painstakingly spun
A looming apprehension and
A persistent, recurring erection at the wrong time

Amidst the uncertainty, the doubt, the lack of
A light to follow through the night,
There remains a steadfast guilt
Guilt of the circular penitent, succumb to his egression’s transgressions

A beacon, pulsing, warm, stands like a monolith deep in the smeary jungle
And I veer into brambles
I bow to my own obelisk in the wrong place, always at the wrong time
Huddled in the shadow of its respite, I am lost to the horizon and old typeface
I am tempted by something that stings to spite such things
Overcome by fructose and bramble berries
Red as sin in the smeary gray-green

Sullen, bedraggled, utterly sober, wading once more back from brambles
Again, still again, I follow footfalls
Those deep, weary drums that sound the dirge

I fail to grasp: no sweeter fruit but straight lines black and bold
Sullen, steeped in the languor of misdeeds and paths too often taken,
I tread the line
To the delta
Slightly off kilter, dead and closer to dead.

Hello Moto,

Recently, I was turned onto a website called HowCast, not to be confused with CastAway.

Basically the site accepts, publishes, and most importantly, pays you to make “How To” Videos. At first I was apprehensive, but then I heard that this website gave Quentin Tarantino his first paycheck for a film (How To Catch and Kill an Equine).

A friend and colleague of mine was recently selected to have his “How To” video posted on their website, and he received a check for a million dollars. A million F#U#$CK@##IN@#$G Dollars!!!!

So, if you want to make a movie, and make a million dollars, check out the site. Here is Russ’s…

Have you heard of Ted Talks? It’s a conference that happens once a millennium, where all of world’s most intelligent people - named Ted- get together and give speeches about what it’s like being so smart, and having the same name.

But this year, a major metamorphosis transpired. After stern opposition, Ted Talks let people who aren’t named Ted, talk!

Giving a speech on a different way to think of creative genius, was Elizabeth Gilbert. Her 18-Minute speech was recommended to me on three separate occasions and I’d like to do the same. So, here it is - in the first of three times I’ll make this same post - the first woman to ever speak at Ted Talks. Enjoy…

A new entry from Shea:

On Valentine’s Day, while some sipped champagne, composed fruitless love letters, or, more accurately, masturbated using homemade lubricant of tears and self-pity, others converged amid gathering storm clouds to exhaust their own romantic frustrations and sexual aggressions in a much different manner. Below is one man’s recollection of what truly happened that day.

–Two thousand, contiguous, nameless faces. A light drizzle. Heavy fog lingers over the Bay. In the distance, storm clouds foreshadow the events to come. Even the women and children have been called to arms. I scan the masses. There are no allegiances here safe what fellowship and love entail, and even these bonds are uncertain when pillows are involved.

–Phone calls from invisible sources. Where are you amid this madness? I’m next to the statue? What statue? Actually it is more of a structure? What structure? Its pretty abstract so I’m not sure what you call it. Nevermind, I’m going to wave my red pillow in the air. Yes, I am aware there are about a hundred red pillows in the air. Mine is the one near the statue. What statue? Actually it’s more of a structure…

–I am alone. Utterly, utterly alone.

– Off in the distance a light thwack of matted goose against corduroy. The sound precipitates a contagious frenzy that circles outward until my hand is no longer my own, raining down upon the button nose and ovular face of a bearded Spaniard in khakis.

–The fray has begun.

–It does not take long for the first feathers to burst from their cotton linings, leaving one to speculate what part their owners played in such an early release. Tricky knife work, or a premature exertion of excessive force? The feathers hang in the air listless, like ash from a volcanic eruption. Some see the airborne threat, and bring masks and bandanas to their mouths. We not previously versed in the terms of this peculiar battle must do without.

–A circle forms. Contained within a man in a chicken hat. “Chicken hat,” screams the crowd. We stop our small conflicts and swarm upon him like moths to the flame. We are the mob and the mob asks no questions. One feels sorry for the individual who thought a chicken hat would suit the festive nature of this battle. One feels sorry for all the hapless souls who brought backpacks, hats, or any clothing accessory easily identified in the sea of flesh and pillows. Panic sets in. I begin to question how my own outfit will be perceived amid the madness. Jeans. Black Shirt. Blue flannel. Wait, how blue? Medium blue. Phew. Facial scars? None of note. Hair? Sweaty and mousy, but not spiked enough to stand above the crowd. Pillow? Red—but, then again, its Valentine’s Day.

–Predictable, little warrior. You are a prisoner to your zealotry, and thus you must swing first. I find my timing. Side step. Grab your pillow between my elbow and ribs. “You cant’ Grab my pillow, it’s a rule,” you say. “Rule, MWUAHAHAHA. There are no rules in pillow fights,” I thrash your rule abiding face with my pillow of anarchy, bringing your perfectly ordered little world to a standstill in a shower of feathers. I watch in ironic horror as you twist my own maniacal laugh back upon me. I am left with a limp, tattered shroud of linen. You hold a mace of hardened goose and a score to settle. You beat me senseless. Without weapon I flee. The ground is littered with the dead. Gutted, sinewy strands of tattered goose lay muddied with footprints, and soiled with spit and sweat. I search the cotton gore for an intact pillow. Please. Please. Success. It will take some time to grow accustomed to the new weight. But I am optimistic, even in these dark times.

—Amidst a particularly hazy storm of white feathers and the pungent odor of farts, released comfortably and openly in the confidence that no one will ever identify the asshole of origin, two men fight opposite one another. Perceiving a presence behind them they turn, pillows drawn. Their eyes light up. Their embrace is as vicious as the swipes of their pillows. How long has it been since they last saw one another? How many have they lost along the way? The questions do not linger, and the reunion is soon shattered. Love has no place in a pillow fight. Not even on Valentine’s Day.

— Sandra Bullock and Keanu Reeves. You once taught me a valuable lesson. Relationships based on intense experiences never work. I should have paid heed to your advice. Knocked to the ground with a sideways blow to the face. A defensive reflex, my feet swipe the floor like antennae, feeling for my assailant. I connect with her shins, bringing her down on top of me. Eyes lock, lips meet. We do not part, but instead steal a moment. Our lips are sweaty and the kiss is sour. Yet we hold. “Make out,” I hear, and realize my mistake too late. Pillows guided by anonymous hands pummel us like shoes in a dryer. Is it their jealousy that fuels them? Or is it a painful reminder that one must never let sex obscure the task at hand? Especially when pillows are involved.

—A miracle. Among pillow induced pain and feather related emphysema, I find an old friend. We agree to join forces, fighting back to back. We fight small fish at first. Graduating soon to dual wielders, and similar duos. From the distance lumbers our greatest challenge. He rises high above the crowd like the Eiffel Tower in Paris, or an Ultrasaurus in a new growth forest. “Get the Giant,” cries the masses, and once again we are united by purpose. He has physics on his side. One by one he flattens his assailants like hapless moles in circular arcade prisons. Some attack his thighs. Others attack his abdomen. His blows are powerful, but they exhaust him quickly. Soon he ceases his attack. Was it the combined might of our pillows? Or in the distance did he glimpse more supple prey? Who knows what he sees with his giant’s eyes?

—Thirst consumes me. I meet someone and ask for water. She provides Fresca. It offers no refreshment and leaves a sour taste of over processed grapefruit in my mouth. What is Fresca? What is its purpose for existing? Why does grapefruit need to be carbonated? I spit the remnants about the crowd. The girl follows suit. Our actions enrage a pack of Asians. They swarm upon us, fueled by a sticky, grapefruit flavored vengeance. I look upon Lady Fresca. Her eyes speak of courage and loyalty. We are bonded in this Fresca debacle, she and I. I know then that she will follow me until the very end. I, on the other hand, will have no part in such madness. I grab her by the shoulders and toss her into the hoard. In the ensuing confusion I flee.

—The fray continues, but I will no longer play any part. I reconvene with my friends at long last in front of the statue, which is perhaps more accurately a structure. We share stories of battle, sipping interchangeably upon water and beer. We wonder had this been Lord of the Rings how quickly we would have died, and how we would have met our ends. We settle upon seven seconds, though allowances are made for protagonists.

—I arrive home. I go on to cap the night in true warrior fashion—with beer and pizza, though to me it tastes like mead and mutton. I revel in my moments of glory, and toast to the fallen. Finally, returning at long last to my chambers, I put the day to rest in a most fitting manner: I lay down my weapon, and allow it at last to fulfill its intended purpose.

It was 4:45, and Eric had skipped out of work a few minutes early. This wasn’t a problem anymore. He’d spent 10 years in the same office, learning the same people’s tendencies. He knew Susan always had a cigarette at 4:35, and stayed outside, pretending to talk on the phone till 4:50, at which point she would return and start packing her things. He knew all of their vices. He did nothing with them, but use them as a means to avoid them. Ducking out was no longer more difficult than slipping in 10 minutes late from his lunch break. He could probably stretch it to an hour.

He despised the outfit he’d chosen to wear today: a royal blue collared shirt tucked into a black denim pair of jeans over white sneakers. It was such a bland and self-loathing outfit. He despised attention being brought on him. It didn’t even match.

He’d arrived a time in his life where pleasures were a dying breed. Natural selection was taking over, and in the form of banalities and inconveniences. Almost everything was at this point- an inconvenience. There was his sister. He could hardly stomach the bemoaning scene - where she pried for money and support - that was lunch on Wednesdays. He watched the History channel, although he wasn’t particularly interested in it. But he didn’t want to be included. News, sports, celebrity scandal- he wanted nothing to do with it.

He stopped trying to meet women, or more accurately avoided them, as well- turned off to the whole concept of marriage after spending his childhood absorbing the noise of his bickering parents, and most of his young adulthood trying not to hear the shouts from what was once a marriage, turned adversarial co-habitation.

Standing alone, the only sounds in the alley were the gears churning on the ball return. The ball travels down the lane, up the return ramp and back to his hands- Time and time again; too repetitive to remember. Just an image. He lined up his shot, balanced his weight and approached with a smooth, upbeat stride reminiscent of a dance step. Down, forward, slide, release, pop up. His back leg kicked up behind, with the faintest bit of life and charisma, as the ball rolled its way down the lane. It was poetry in motion, but he never thought of it that way. The sport had become his escapist pleasure, but he hardly allowed it to be even that.

The ball glided along the second arrow from the right, rotating forward and diagonally on its axis toward the front pin, just off center and it followed the exact path he’d aimed for. The ball struck the pins just as he had planned, and evaporating in front of the ball was each pin, with the exception of one. He’d thrown a perfect ball and received imperfect results. He stared at the 10th pin, alone in the far corner of the lane. It should have fallen with the others; it should have been a strike.

But, being as rigidly stable and uncompromising in the release of his emotions as he was, he just spun slowly on the heels of his plain white sneakers, grimaced slightly - certainly not enough for anyone who wasn’t watching to take notice of - and waited for the ball to spit itself back out the return and into his hands. The result was almost as he expected. Of course he wouldn’t get the strike. He couldn’t get a break in any other moment of the last 10 years of his life, he thought, why would he get one in bowling? And had he gotten a strike, it was but a mere confirmation of what he knew should of happened. There was no pleasure, either way. If he couldn’t win, he’d at least be satisfying with predicting that he would fail, unfairly. Feeling justified, he picked up the spare and waited for the next frame. He’d already forgotten the last one.

After the game, he approached Ken, the establishment’s owner and only employee. A rigid business man; willing to purchase or spend capital on what the old fashioned and lifeless alley needed: snack machines, electronic dart boards, an updated food stand, but intransigent on spending a cent more than necessary. Before attending to Eric, Ken ordered a woman, who just entered the building that she’d have to throw her bottle of soda out. “We have soda machines, if you’re thirsty.” Eric gazed at the door, knowing kids were to follow this woman, and his own private lane amongst the beautifully desolate alley was moments away from being intruded upon in the crudest of fashions.

Ken turned to Eric, knowing why he was at the desk, and went straight to the bar. He’d always purchased a pitcher of water, for one dollar, as well. The days were getting longer. Each minute dragged. The weeks felt like they would never end, but conversely Eric also felt that so many years had escaped him, and faster than the pins fall upon contact. Eric hadn’t had any contact in some time.

Each day at the alley was beginning to feel that way. The games were long and grueling, and by the end, it felt as if he’d never even started. Ken returned, not with a pitcher, but with two plastic cups of water, and charged Eric nothing. Eric nodded his head and returned to his lane, a cup in each hand. Ken is a rigid businessman.

As he walked, he turned his head toward the door again, which had yet to have rowdy children burst through. He couldn’t stand children. He couldn’t even remember what it was like when he was one. Was he ever one? Rotating his head back towards his destination, he and the woman, who now sat, embittered and thirsty, met stares. He tried to divert his gaze, casually, but something in his neck kept him from turning.

She wasn’t particularly beautiful, plain but pleasant. Her hair, however, was stunning. It was long, rich, and flowed down her neck, around her shoulders, and dangled delicately and deliberately off her back. In the midst of the inauspicious attempt to be inconspicuous, he noticed that she too, was not turning her head, aimlessly staring at the ceiling, or pretending to find something to occupy her attention until Eric had looked away. 

Decidedly more curious, he saw that she unmistakably smiled at him. What was this happening? Could this be one of those real moments that he’d only seen on screen or heard told time and time again by a burdensome colleague? When you avoid people, you rarely see their eyes, or their smiles, or their hair. You see faces, and fabric, all forgotten by the mind as quickly as it was processed and before you realize it, you haven’t seen a person in years. But this time, he saw a woman.

Recently, we published Shea’s time travel tale “Past and Present Knights.” Shea also submitted his story to a Literary Magazine “Flask and Pen” who holds an annual short story competition. We’re proud to announce that he received a 3rd Place Honorable Mention recognition.

Now, while honorable mention seems like a pedestrian accomplishment to some, allow me to elucidate the gravity of this feat Shea has attained.

1. There were over 1 Billion Entries in this contest.
2. Notable writers who submitted to this contest, and did not receive Honorable Mentions include:
*William Faulkner
*Norman Mailer
*Dan Brown
*Dante Alighieri
*Josh Schwartz
3. And 999,999,991 other Losers like them.

So - check out his story and revel in the quirky story of revenge and movies.

Congrats Shea.

Here is the link:
http://flaskandpen.com/