mosler safe co.jpg

round we go.jpg

through the grating.jpg

To tell you the truth, I always wanted robot eyes, as it would lend itself to such an easy life. No more uncomfortable eye contact, no one reading what I'm thinking. Just cold, metal eyes, jutting out from an infected socket, processing as fast as the limited capabilities of bionic technology at the time can. I would finally be comfortable because instead of just being paranoid and thinking that people are talking about me every time I walk down the street, I can be secure in the knowledge that that is most CERTAINLY the case - and I know what they're saying.

My robotic eyes tunneling into their thoughtwaves.

That and I have robotic eyes, for Christ's sake, these sharp metal phalli wired into my brain, scanning the area all around me for video input. I think that my only regret, if I were to get robot eyes, is that I still wouldn't be able to wear sunglasses.

is this the way out.jpg

found something odd in the park.jpg

I finally found it. The bastard master of all jungle gyms, and for once, I would be the tyrant of the playground. No more being pushed aside, and being forced to the see-saw. This time, I would claim the bars as my domain, and look down upon the subjects of THIS playground with an everwatching eye.

if I could only get you oceanside.jpg

So Noah drank a little too much, so what? Maybe after being stuck on a boat for all that time with hundreds of damned animals he deserved a little time with the bottle. And while you look at him, in shame, laying naked by the tree, maybe you should stop to think. Maybe he's got the right idea! He just navigated this arc into a mountain, the animals have sprung free, the waters gone - it's time for a little down time. Leave him alone!

Besides, we weren't even going to bring you, you know? Two by two, right? It didn't say anything about the kids. We could have had more! But, now, we tempted God's wrath by bringing you brats along, and all you can do is point at your father and say what a lush he is? I've never been more ashamed of you two. After all he's done for you.

and to think I get to see this every day.jpg

We built a better mousetrap, and, as expected, they beat a path down to our door. But things quickly got out of hand as they proceeded to beat down the doors themselves, and then beat us. We made our escape through the cold hallways of our laboratories, but, our research was all but destroyed, the mice liberated. And with their new horrible freedom, they made took that place, made it their own, and those that had freed them were never seen again.

as I looked out my car window I realized the hulk was real.jpg

Another victim of the giant monster parading through the streets of New Orleans. As if they weren't having a bad enough time of things, with the hurricanes, floods and fires. The chemicals that spilled into the gulf produced some horrific mutant, ten stories high, destroying all in its wake.

Most citizens fled the city, once again, abandoning it to the beast. However, not all were so lucky as to have a place to go, or a means to go there. In this instance, our story focuses on one man who had lost everything to the floods. The waters took his home, his family, his health. The doctors tried to help him, but all they could find and fight was a minor infection - but he was afflicted with apathy, no medicine was available to him.

So he wanders the streets, sleeping where he can. Sadly, he found his way into this vehicle - it provided the warmth he needed from the rains that came, kept him hidden away from the others who wandered the roads.

The rampage led the monster directly into the poor man's path. His pain was extinguished under the heel of New Orleans' new horror.

Wordless Wonders

The reverend seems to have a bit of a backlog on his hands, so I'm just going to go ahead an post the submitted photos, sans words. I'm also considering leaving comments on each individual photo, saying where it was taken and so on.

behold the plastic.jpg

Having fled his native waters, Crawfish Johnson rode the driftwood on the land in hopes of finding a new home. His travels upon the surface had been the most amazing experience he had ever had. He rode a tide of passing cars, talking dogs, pedestrians and bicyclists.

All the while, his thoughts turned back home. He had promised he would send for his family, when he found a safer, warmer place for all of them, but, held out little hopes for ever being able to do so. The attacks had increased threefold, when he made his run. But, Crawfish Johnson let these thoughts pass, as soon as they came, washing them away with the tide of traffic.

death of a treant.jpg

Whenever I get down, I just think back onto that day. Thousands of tiny, screaming elves bring a smile back to my face. Maybe they'll think twice before making the proclimation that "Everybody Loves Fudge" without checking if everyone, in fact, does.

immaculate.jpg

It was too fucking bright out, that's what it was. And it's been too bright for days now. Night hasn't fallen for the past 72 hours, and, honestly, I was getting a bit concerned. There wasn't any damned blood-filled sky, no lions laying down with the lamb, just this constant light, this cloudless, perfect sky, and the sun staring down on us sinners, as if it angry with us.

Still, the weather remained remarkably pleasent. Apart from people having trouble sleeping in the light, and, of course, the occasional outburst of both scientific and religious panic, nothing much had changed.

I turned off my TV, and squinted out the window again. Instead of joining in with the panic, I thought I might at least try to catch a nap in the sunbeam that was pouring through the glass in my kitchen.

crime scene photography.jpg

When I came across it, I had this overwhelming desire to put it back together. Not so much out of any desire to help people, of course --- I was never that altruistic. It was simply a compulsion. "Things shouldn't be this way," my mind would signal to me, and my hands were powerless to argue.

Soon, I had fixed a dozen things that I had come across, or at least put them back together in a fashion that made them look a good deal less like junk. And I couldn't stop... lamp posts, swingsets --- I've rebuilt an entire car, simply out of instinct. The world wasn't a better place for it... except maybe aesthetically. But some would say that's all that matters.

Sleep became a foreign notion. Food was no longer to be enjoyed, simply to be consumed to continue the rebuilding process. People followed in my wake... or would you call it a wake, when things are being built up, not torn down? People followed, regardless, and soon, people began to rebuild things on their own. A group of small children put together a working motorcycle from errant parts. An elderly couple put the roof back on a house. These idle hands, that were once simply content to wait for something new, to allow things to fall apart... began working.

And still, to me, this is not a charitable notion. I'm not doing anyone any favors. I'm just putting things together, simply because it pleases me to see them that way.

I like this one a great deal and will probably double post it to da.jpg

The numbers began sprouting on trees, and tree stumps, and forming as oil slicks on lakes and ponds. No one knew what to make of it, and, after hundreds of years, science gave way to apathy. The numbers were simply accepted, and then, ignored. And, long after men had become a thing of past on the tiny little planet, a group of celestial travellers arrived, finding only the messages they sent, and a dead civilization they were too late to save.

My sinuses are hateful.jpg

I had banished entire potential civilizations to a cottony doom, violently breaking them away from the alien atmosphere that supported them. Thousands of tiny priests, prophets, scientists and heroes, all whisked away on one evening's whim. They could have grown up and saved the world, but, you had to walk up to me, whisper in my ear, and walk away, without me.

How many more worlds have to die?

this was meant to be the picture a week ago, tomorrow I start anew.jpg

All of his schemes seemed to involve some bizarre prop or another. This time, the getaway vehicle just happened to be this violet bike, which was at least a step towards the practical, given the almost Dada-like oddities of his previous ideas.

It was always me that got stuck actually looking absurd though. He'd always stroll away from a caper, cool as a cat, cigarette in hand, and smiling like the cat that ate the canary. I'd somehow find myself on a street corner in a pink leotard, again.

I could not find my reader so here is an old one.jpg

I dared not take another step foward. I knew he was waiting, somewhere on the treeline; his sights had to be centered on me. But, why hasn't he taken his shot yet? It didn't make any sense. He could end it all right now.

It didn't occur to me that I might have been a bit overzealous. I was so intent on finding some phantom sniper on the horizon, I didn't hear the two youths sneak up behind me. When I awoke, my pants were around my ankles, and my wallet was missing.

the eye.jpg

I stood there, examining the two bins, thinking what the world would be like if some sort of supervirus eliminated all of the world's vegetables and fruits, except onions. Would it be the act of some conspiring goverment, or onion-freak? All ground would be fertile to the onion, and we'd soon come up with names for the different varieties.

Vast civilizations of meat-eaters would spring up, soon becoming feral and violent, because the onion was unpallatable to them. Their madness would soon result in skirmishes in the farmlands, an irrational hatred of the acrid bulbs. Pitchfork would clash with butcher's knife.

Then, some dick hit me in the back of the ankles with his shopping cart, replacing the thoughts of an only onion world with pain.

broken and blurred.jpg

The party was going badly for me. I've never been much of a party person to begin with, but, this was worse than I had expected.

One of my girlfriend's friends at the time decided that they'd invite me along. That's usually how these things go, when you're in high school, if someone's dating someone you know, you feel obligated to invite them along as well, so as to avoid any altercations with your friend. You know how the conversations go. Why didn't you invite my boyfriend? one would undoubtedly ask. You two have been going out for a week and a half, I didn't think it was that important , the other would reply, confused.

All that was thankfully avoided. No friction between friends. Just that girl's boyfriend, standing silently in the corner, trying to make the night go by as quickly as possible.

Anyhow, miraculously, my girlfriend actually made some degree of effort to talk with me during the party, with her friends. Somehow it got around to the subject of masturbation, which was something of a relief, as I felt I was something of an expert on the subject. I was privy to some knowledge that my girlfriend wasn't new to the idea either, but, apparently, wasn't as proud of the fact as I was. So, when it came her turn to say if she did or not, she said she didn't.

I, however, made the mistake of bringing up the information she had given me.

Now, I can tell you, that went over real well with her. I don't know, maybe I set something off; I would discover, as the weeks passed during our turbulent relationship, that she wasn't the most stable of creatures. But, she grew really upset at this revalation, denied it, and began crying her eyes out.

It was only a matter of time until someone decided to play the part of the white knight. Another kid came along, asked why she was crying. But, this only set her off more, until she was at the point where she was only gulping for air between bawling. This made me feel ten times more uncomfortable, which was a feat, considering how uncomfortable I already was, even before the conversation.

Then, he busts out with the ultimate make-me-look-like-an-asshole question. "Did he hit you?" he asks her? She's too busy crying to reply. So, he plays the part of the brute, comes towards me.

"Did you hit her?" he demands. He stands about six inches over me, and decides to drive that point home by getting in my face, much as he can. No personal space. I'm still confused at what had initially set the girl off in the first place, so, it takes me a moment.

"Wait, what?" I ask, befuddled.

"Did you fucking hit her?" No one's saying anything.

"Wait. Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Hey!" he puffs up his chest, alpha ape, "Did you fucking hit her?!"

"Jesus, someone's projecting," I say, proud of what little I learned in Psychology.

"What?!"

"I said--- fuck it. No, Jesus man, calm the fuck down." This, apparently, was the wrong thing to say, again. Never been too good with words. Upset by... whatever it was that I said that upset him, the mongoloid shoves me into the wall. There's the sound of glass, as I hit and I slump to the ground, dizzy. I swear at him, but, don't get up, instead, moving my hand around to the back of my head.

There's a wet warmth on my hand, as it touches scalp. I bring it around, see blood. The crowd gathers around, and finally, another kid speaks up. He didn't fucking touch her, man he says, with a hint of disgust. He helps me off the floor, brings me to the kitchen to get some paper towels.

zoomed out appropriately it looks wobbly.jpg

When the workers discovered what it was that they were building, there were no protests, no arguements, no altercations of any kind. Instead, they all fell silent, then simply gathered their things, and left. One by one, all of them walked towards and into the ocean, never to be heard from again.

I am.jpg

It was young Timmy Shapiro that found him there, decomposing on the woods. He had heard so much about the Dark Knight, and it came as a shock to him to see him in such a state. But, instead of becoming some avenging vigilante on the streets of Gotham, Timmy merely decided to see how much authentic batarangs could pull in on eBay.

An explanation

This began harmlessly enough, I thrilled with my new digital camera and the reverend joyfully playing with words like so many childhood legos. Out of a strange desire to work these latent creative muscles, we decided to force each other into producing . . . something. He would force me to use my camera, and I would demand words and thoughts on those pictures.

To date, we are both quite satisfied with continuing to do so. We have also decided to drag this little project out from the dusty folders of gmail and into a more public venue. I do hope you enjoy.

Squee

P.S. The titles are my original names for the files, the text is by the reverend. You know, you really should've been able to figure that out if you read the rest of this.