luxury exotic breathtaking

'Kalkan, Turkey 2006' 

renew mimic upwards

So I rubbed the lamp and out popped a genie.

'So I get three wishes, right?' I said.

He shook his head and explained that due to recent budget cutbacks and new union rules he was only authorized to provide 1 (one) wish as the area where I had found the lamp (the local beach)had been designated by the local genie lamp zoning by-law council authority (in conjunction with UGW local 9384) as high traffic.

Throughout his sub-claused sub-sectioned speech I watched amazed as little legal visualizations and examples puffed into and out of existence around his little blue head.

I thought.

'I wish for feelings without emotions!' I cried.

And in a poof he was gone and I didn't feel any different. I dimissed the episode as a bad flashback and walked to my car.

On the way home somebody cut me off in traffic and my heart began to pound and my blood pressure rose. I saw a pretty girl cross the street in front of me and my heart began to pound and my blood pressure rose.

At home I watched the sunset from my balcony and discovered I could sense the level of electrical resistance in my skin falling and my body temperature with it. Just like when I fall asleep.

I watched a drama on TV about all the usual suspects: jealousy, suspicion, lies, betrayal, hatred, love, envy, guilt, seduction and though I knew what the words meant and I knew how they felt I could only seem to reflect on them in terms of changes in my physiology.

My wish had come true. And I literally couldn't care.

I ought to have been horrified, maybe I was but all I could say for certain was that my core body temperature decreased and I began to perspire.

What would Buddha have made of all this, I wondered as the movie ended.

What would work be like tomorrow like this? What would I say to my boss?

I went to bed.

grıef expressways happenıng

When was the last tıme Jerome had drunk a coffee? At least 2 years ago and 4 years sınce the ban. It hadn't been an easy tıme. Sınce coffee plants had all nearly dıed ın the plague of '09 and governments around the world had begun to jealously guard theır last supplıes of beans wıth legıslatıon more restrıctıve than for heroın and cocaıne the world of the coffınısta had not been easy.

Now. Sıttıng ın thıs dıngy back cupboard both hands clutchıng a tıny porcelaın cup of what the matron at the front swore was the 'real deal' he suppressed a shıver.

He brought the tıny brown brew to hıs lıps and sıpped.

Almost ımmedıately, he remembered what ıt had been lıke.

'Everythıng to your satısfactıon Mr. Smıth?' saıd the Tableboy.
'Yes, excellent, thank you,' saıd Jerome. He hadn't gıven hıs real name.

What would the neıghbors thınk? Lıvıng next to a coffee connaısseur?

quartz prıncess noıse

It was another fıne day shoppng for slıghtly used fox pelts. Jenny Hunter slung her rıfle over one shoulder and slung her 5 pelts over the other. The forest had been good to Jenny today.

Back at her cabın she fıred up her old computer and hammered away at the foreıgn keyboard she stıll hadn't found all the punctuatıon on yet. She could easıly have bought one new but she enjoyed the odd affectatıon. Despıte the keyboard's drawbacks ıt suıted the rustıc look she was goıng for ın the cabın.

But for the last fıve years she had never used a comma ın an emaıl owıng to the fact that she stıll hadn't found ıt on the keyboard. As a result. All her emaıls looked lıke dıspatches from the front. Sent by Telegraph. Everywhere a stop and yet nowhere a pause.

Too embarassed to admıt her defıcıency to her frıends (she had been consıdered a bıt of a whız when she lıved ın the cıty) she had gaıned a Hemmıngwayesque reputatıon as the wıld venture capıtalıst who had gıven ıt all up to bang out a lıfe ın the wılderness-wıth hıgh speed satellıte ınternet of course.

She dıdn't mıss the cıty. Quıte the contrary. She wasn't mıssıng a thıng. Lıke that old song. Full moons and crossıng ranges. That was the lıfe.

One of the fox pelts moved. Her dog Squırrel had crawled under the pelts.

"Behave yourself or you're next."

The dog obeyed. It was the most she'd saıd all day.

writing sabbatical week

Gearing up for NaNoMo and polishing off the second draft of his sick second novel: a voyage thither, B8A may or may not post for one week due to the unknown amount of internet access in the remote location in Turkey where B8A will be resident Dj'ing and writing and tanning and being all experiential for one week.

check through the archives for missed stories! You could find a better way to spend your time but you're here now, so why not take a peek?

antiseptic tropical french

It was another lazy day down at the pig factory. Jackson Jilly (a name he'd learned to regret from a very young age) checked out the sows and watered down a couple of dry ones and slopped their feed into the trough and that was it for another hour or so.

He mosey'ed (something only southerners can really do properly) down to the hay barn where Annalulu, the farmer's daughter liked to meet him and pass the time now and then.

He waited in the barn for no more than 10 minutes when Annalulu swayed her hips around the stalls and gave him a come hither wink.

But something was wrong. Something was definitely not right.

"Jackson," she drawled, "I've got something to show you."

To Jackson Jilly's horror, she reached behind her head and he heard the sound of a zipper zipping where no zipper should be and before his very eyes she unzipped what he could only refer to in the moment as her 'Annalulu' suit to reveal a two legged talking pig.

The talking pig batted it's eyelashes (which if you're familiar with pigs you know they have in abundance) at him and said something.

It was howled down by Jackson's screams.

Jackson's hair turned grey that day and no one knows what became of him or Annalulu.

But the farm had no short supply of bacon that year.

Yar.

hungry mod troop

It was a project to get inner city kids out into the country so they could taste what real air really tasted like and smell what real food smelled like.

Because inner city kids were considered by the demographics people to be very style conscious they were outfitted in crisp black uniforms with silver flashes at the collars. Focus groups of inner city kids 'dug' the new 'threads' and gave the uniforms a 'max' on the 'awesome' scale (the older rating systems had been deemed out of fashion by yet another focus group that surveyed surveys) and before anyone could say quadrophenia the first troop was piled onto a battered yellow schoolbus with solid axles and leaf spring suspension and packed up into the mountains.

They called themselves, rather disingeniously one could add, the mod troop. Terribly fashionable for the mountains.

On their first night camping in the woods. Everything went off according to plan, they sat around the campfire (only it wasn't a campfire but a coleman gas stove on account of the mountains being on high risk fire alert) and sang traditonal campfire songs (only whose tradition is anybodys guess, something about killing your baby today and it not mattering very much but they all knew the words so the counselors cautiously allowed them to 'express themselves' even up to the point of joining in on a little ditty they once again all knew the words to about hating everyone and being worthless and the future being insane but ah well, kids today!) and the only glitch in the program was little Alice Shoemaker somehow getting ahold of the medicine kit and downing all the codeine but nobody's perfect!

On their second night everyone was shot and partially eaten by a mad old grandpa who lived up in the woods with his two dogs and his twenty automatic rifles.

Police took his report. Sent him to the hospital.

He'd been certain WWIII had started. He'd heard their songs, He'd seen their uniforms and hatched a plan, no stormtroopers were going to take HIS mountain. The last man he'd seen with a black uniform with silver collar flashes he'd spiked his head with his bayonet at Dieppe.

Who'd a thunk it?

sharing paste immediately

It had been another long day at the office. Johnson Teapants wrapped up his half eaten sandwich and switched off his tiny computer and leaned back in his Eames chair and sighed. The crisp evening outside his floor to ceiling windows did nothing to confort his deep inner malaise.

Detective Wiley had rung him that afternoon and their conversation over the phone had been replaying through his mind ever since.

He took extra time to do everything as he left. Dreading every step that brought him closer to home.

There had been another call. To the house. This time to tell the police in his living room to search the basement. They had found a muddy bootprint. The constable whose responsibility it was to patrol that section of the house swore on a stack of holy books that it hadn't been there on the last sweep.

The phone switchboard insisted the calls were coming from inside the house.

At first, he himself had been the prime suspect in the murder of the man found under his bed yesterday morning. At first, he had drawn some hasty conclusions about him.

Shock is a curious thing. His wife had fallen to pieces and an ambulance had taken her to the hospital. Thank God they hadn't had any kids yet. Johnson, however bizarre his behaviour might have seemed to the first officers on the scene following his 9-1-1 call insisted on returning to his investment banking office in the afternoon so he could wrap up some business with an immovable deadline.

Now all that had to be done had been done.

Hadn't anyone told his wife's lover?

Their no profit in fucking a banker's wife.

planned distort premature

planned distort premature (Rome 2006) Photo Credit: Olga Akman 

imagination shares planned

Hurricane Jack, the fastest bestest wildest gun packing cow poking six gun shooting outlaw of the whole wide world, his spurs jingle-jangling, his dusty trail coat flowing, walked up the steps to the doors of the English Gentlemen's Country Club in the Great State of Georgia.

"Sorry sir, a two piece suit is minimum attire for the club," said the Jeeves clone at the door.
"I always wear two pieces!" Leered Jack as he drew his .50 calibre custom made revolvers and with a ghoulish har har har kicked down the clone and stomped the muddy soles of his boots over his prostrate body.

"Har har, mighty gentlemanly of you Lord Pig!" he spat between lungfuls of fiendish laughter as he kicked in door after mahogany panelled door until he finally reached the nearly deserted dining room and fired a couple of rounds at the 2.5 million dollar antique chandeliers and bellowed for a waiter.

"Boy! Boy! bring me hot grub, cold beer and neat whiskey!" The few other members in the dining room cowered in their leather armchairs and cowered behind their oak bookcases of first edition Pulitzers and cowered in, under and behind every valuable and expensive stick of furniture in the whole place.

Meanwhile, Hurricane Jack was thoroughly enjoying his meal while the Cordon Bleu Chef who'd prepared it was held tableside at gunpoint.

"Blast that Hurricane Jack!" muttered one of the other members under his breath and under his table.
"These outbursts are revolting sure," muttered his dinner companion, "but the billions he pays us in special members' priviledges for his nonsense is putting our kids through Eton in England."

The eccentric billionaire James Humphrey Raleigh "Hurricane" Cotswold III fired another round into the 17th century antique ceiling and barked for the desert tray.

Four extremely rich waiters jumped to comply.

whence issuing derived

'whence issuing derived' (Warsaw 2006)