In Memory of Lilly

By Carson Speight in PerSpeightives 2 Comments

On August 17, 2017, our sweet Lilly passed away. Though words cannot sufficiently express our sadness for her death, nor the memories she gave us, nor the joy that she brought us, I’m going to try. Because what would be worse would be to stay silent, something old ‘Lil would’ve never stood for.

What Lilly stood for most was, of course, food. Literally, on her hind legs, stretching her diminutive yet plump frame to the extreme to extend her snout over anything holding grub. Lilly may not have been a purebred beagle, but her head and her stomach couldn’t have been more pedigree.

Lilly lived to eat and had a knack for finding food. While she did have a good sense of smell, any of us could find food if we spent our whole lives sniffing for it. When we were in the kitchen, so was Lilly. Like a night watchmen on patrol, Lilly paced back and forth surveying the scene with faithful vigilance. Often she would position herself directly beneath us while preparing food, and she didn’t seem to mind that we were always tripping over her.

But she was keenly aware of when her favorite foods were out, accentuating her puppy face for carrots (her healthy favorite), popcorn (her favorite to catch out of mid-air), and any meat imaginable. I never saw a deeper sense of purpose and urgency in Lilly then when I would pick the carcass of a rotisserie chicken. As her generous keeper, I’d always drop her the disgusting part.

But more than anything, the prospect of food led Lilly to incredible mischief, from the hilarious to the infuriating. On her first Christmas, she found and ate Uncle Billy’s entire fruit cake, then pooped in his room. One Easter she ate a bag of chocolate candy, then spent the night howling and racing around the Gnisci’s backyard while Charlie held the leash, watched her frantically poop, and prayed she didn’t die. Then there was the Thanksgiving where Lilly ventured upstairs during dinner, came down and moseyed under the table, and then hacked up a Brillo pad she’d seized from the laundry room. I have witnessed Lilly jump on a table to eat a stick of butter, a wedge of cheese, and a plate of cinnamon rolls. I’ve witnessed Lilly overturn a trashcan to eat a sweet potato, a bratwurst, and a whole chicken drumstick. We learned that true rage ensued when we attempted to remove something delicious from her mouth. Over time, we simply followed the sage words of Cousin Eddie: “It’s best just to let her finish.”

Lilly’s mischief extended to her love for adventure. She didn’t stop being a hound dog when she ventured outside. I loved letting her out on spring days when there was a rabbit or two in the yard. She would put her nose down immediately and begin zigzagging at the scent, then blast off like a greyhound as the rabbit took off. The rabbit would always find its way through the fence and into safety.

But a fence didn’t always stop Lilly. Half my yardwork over the last decade has been patching holes she dug to exit the premises for an excursion. Sometimes she’d be gone for a few minutes, sometimes for a few hours. She typically returned with a grin, panting and ready for water, often needing a bath due to something awful smeared on her coat.

She loved the outside and her fellow creatures. We’ve watched her run squirrels up trees, bark at hawks in the sky, and come face to face with a groundhog. A week before she passed, I had let her outside in the morning to do her business. Minutes later, Danielle awoke to what sounded like barking and scratching under the house. I went out to inspect and opened the crawlspace. As I peered in, there was Lilly (how did she get under the house?), pawing at an open storage container. I stepped in to the crawlspace, approached the container, and tapped it. Slowly and creepily, two black ears rose above the container and immediately alerted me to what Lilly was so excited about: a raccoon. I whisked Lilly out of there, and thankfully the raccoon found its way out too through the hole Lilly had dug under the A/C unit. It was a disaster averted, with the end result being a little bit of duct repair and cleaning up some poop Lilly left behind in her excitement.

While she was definitely a Snoopy dog, Lilly broke the mold with her zest for swimming and retrieving. When she was young, we took her to the beach to fetch sticks in the ocean with her friend Boone. Lilly was a natural, and simulated an otter swishing through the water, using her tail as a propeller.  So arduous was her effort that she suffered a sprained tail, which sadly couldn’t erect for a few days. In our backyard, we’d have her run down sticks, tennis balls, and the occasional frisbee. Occasional because when she flagged down a frisbee, she ate it.

But there was one thing that Lilly loved more than food and adventure: people. No, not people outside of the house like joggers, bikers and UPS men—she barked like hell at them. But Lilly loved her people. She’d let us know it when we returned home, jumping on her hind legs and moaning with glee as we pet her. She loved to be with us, whether it was under the dinner table, on our couch, or in our arms. She loved to be pet and scratched, and she loved a good belly rub. Even after the rub down, she would still slide back and forth on her back, then jump up, sneeze, and shake it all out. It became a ritual she sought out, often turning over immediately on her back when we went to pet her.

Lilly loved Hudson and Ella Jane. On her last night with us, when she lacked the energy to move about, she mustered the strength and voluntarily came into the room to say good night to the kids. She let them hug and kiss her, and even stayed in their room for a moment as we put them down. She was a best friend, unto the end.

We miss Lilly and are reminded of her, or her absence, every day. For one, we have to clean up any food that falls on the floor, something we haven’t had to do in 10 years. As I walk around my yard, I chuckle at my beat-up fence and all the rocks and twisty-ties serving as barricades. Mostly, we are reminded of Lilly in the quiet. No sniffs, barks, growls, jingles or scratches that we’d grown so accustomed to.

Lilly lived an incredible 10 years. That’s a good life for a dog, but a really good life for Lilly, considering all the messes she got herself into and, remarkably, got out of. If all dogs go to Heaven, then I’m sure Lilly had a good shot. Perhaps she’s feasting at the Lord’s table, or more accurately, on top of it. Wherever her soul is, there is laughter there.

No, Lilly never caught a rabbit. But she was a damn good friend of mine, and of all of us. She’ll forever be treasured as our first family pet. We’ll miss you, sweet girl.

 

Your Favorite Sports—Announced by Kids

By Carson Speight in OddSirvations 0 Comment

As a sports fan, I can really get into all of the analysis and deep-dive breakdowns of players and match-ups. However, I also realize what a simple activity a sport actually is. Which is why I love watching little kids talk about sports, because they break sports down to the most basic levels. Sports really aren’t much more than some people striking a ball.

Which made me think, what if networks allowed kids to broadcast a few games every year? I think it would do us all some good to get a proper perspective on the games we love so much. Here’s how it might go:

Dylan sitting in studio: Hello everyone. My name is Dylan. What’s your name? Welcome to the best sports day. It’s the best sports day because today they’re playing basketball, baseball and football today. First, my friend Nathan is at the basketball game. Nathan, is it a good game?

Nathan: I think it’s about to start. The ref throws the ball in the air and that guy gets it. He is bouncing the ball down the court. Oh, now LeBron has the ball. LeBron has the ball. He is the best basketball player. Now he is bouncing it. Oh he gave it to his friend. His friend gave it back. LeBron always catches the ball. He never drops it. LeBron James is the best catcher. Oh he shot it. The ball went in the goal. That’s more points for LeBron. He has so many points, he’s winning by a lot.

Dylan: Thanks, Nathan. LeBron James always wins the games. Now let’s go to Kate. She is at the baseball game. Kate, is the good team winning?

Kate: No team is winning. There are no scores. The game is starting I think. The guy on the pile of dirt is the pitcher. He is throwing it to the batter who has the bat. The batter is Bryce Harper. He swings the bat hard and fast. He can run hard and fast, too. He is the hardest and fastest player.

OK I think the pitcher threw it. I didn’t really see it but the guy behind the batter is throwing it back. So I think there was a throw. Now we’re waiting for the next throw back to the batter…Still waiting…I don’t know why he’s waiting, is there a timeout? OK he threw it back to the batter. Whoa, he swung and I think he hit it. Did anyone catch it? Not sure, but that sounded like a big run. Did the good team win? I’m not sure who won, but Bryce Harper was the fastest swinger.

Dylan: Bryce Harper is such a good swinger. Antonio is watching football. Is it a good game, Antonio?

Antonio: OK Dylan, all the men are getting in a line. Oh, that guy has the football. He just put it on the ground. He kicked the ball really high and far to the bad guy team. He caught it and he is running hard at the guy who kicked it. Oh, he got jumped on and beat. Was that J.J. Watt who beat him down? J.J. Watt is so good at grabbing guys and beating them. One time he beat Tom Brady. Tom Brady is the best thrower ever. But J.J. Watt beat him. J.J. Watt beat him.

Dylan: Whoa, that’s so cool that J.J. Watt can beat anyone down. That’s all for the best sports day ever. We’ll be back next week to see the guys with the sticks on the ice and all the best soccer kickers.

Dadxiety

By Carson Speight in Just Poems, Homes 0 Comment

There once lived a dad who went crazy.
He took 12,000 pics of his baby.
Worried he’d miss a moment
Missed a vital component
Of actually enjoying her maybe.

Another dad had twenty kids
Thought twenty-one could be better instead
So he obsessed for years
‘Til his kids were his peers
Now just one gran would do before dead.

Some dads agonized over names
Like boy one who should’ve been James
Boy two needs new initials
Boy three’s isn’t real special
With boy four we’ll perfect the game

Some dads freaked to miss an event
Leaving kids’ fragile minds with a dent
The dads muttered and moped
Hung their heads like a dope
To the kid it simply came and went.

All these dads so concerned for no reason
Often fearing the change of the season
Can we mutter “Enough”
To ridiculous stuff
Be at odds with what makes us uneven?

Survival Guide to Beating the Heat in Your No A/C Beater

By Carson Speight in OddSirvations 2 Comments

The summer is upon us and there’s no worse time to be without A/C in your car.

It’s not likely you suffer this affliction; most of us will buck up and fix the A/C so that we can remain comfortable.

But comfort is costly, and the frugal among us just aren’t willing to shell out hundreds of dollars to prevent perspiration. Dang it, I was given sweat glands for a reason and I intend to use them.

If you’re like me—without car A/C and distressed about the looming summer—have no fear. I’ve published a little guide here to help you through the heat.

Here’s my Survival Guide to Beating the Heat in Your No A/C Beater.

1. Make Plans to Bake – You know it’s going to be hot as equatorial crap in your car. Don’t be a fool by failing to prepare.

First, always have ice water handy. Of course, this will melt in mere minutes in your Saharan tank of a transport, but if you can get your hands on a Yeti or Yeti-like vessel, you’ll always be just moments from a modicum of refreshment.

Next, you need a towel nearby. Five minutes into your drive you’re gonna be sweating like an Amazon warthog. While the sweat beads do nicely to temporarily cool, they’ll leave your clothes a damp mess. Unless you are indeed off to the gym, this is not a good recipe for people wanting to be around you. A towel nearby will temporarily save you this embarrassment.

2. Get a great parking spot – People with A/C know their car will cool fast, but you don’t have that luxury. And it is a luxury, cooled cars. Much of the world is still confined to bikes, camels and donkeys for their commute, and no freon on the planet can make those suckers comfy.

Of course, premium parking spots are often in the baking sun. Let those rich motorists have them. What you need to do is find the shady spots in the lot, if there are any. Observe trees and the daily movement of the sun. Park your car in a spot with maximum daily shade duration. Be willing a walk a little longer to your destination. If you execute all of this perfectly, you’ll reduce the initial thermal blast of entering your car from a blistering 137 degrees to a balmy 113. It could save you approximately two minutes of sweat. #worthit

3. Think “sauna,” enjoy the heat – Even with shade, you’re still gonna be roasting like a Chinese duck in minutes. So you might as well embrace the warmth on your skin. I, personally, sit in a cool office all day, and the feeling of hot air is temporarily therapeutic. When I get in my car, I close my eyes and envision I’m enjoying the spa at a world-class resort. My skin is happy and seems to tingle with thankfulness.

4. Keep windows up until your breaking point. Oftentimes, A/C-less rookies will put their windows down the moment they start up the car. Big mistake, cheechako. You’ve just wasted an opportunity of profound relief later for fugacious comfort now.

What you need to do is sit there like a tea kettle. Let the sweltering, suffocating cloud of oxygen work its way from the outside in. Feel the sweat beads form on your forehead and neck. Then, when you have the thought “good golly I don’t think I can drive anymore,” release your windows and let the slightly less stuffy outside air rush in and blow over you like an industrial fan.

That car better be moving though. If you release your windows in bumper-to-bumper traffic, you’ll wish you weren’t alive.

5. Welcome Others’ Pity – When you arrive at your destination, you’ll literally be a hot mess. It may look like you just took 30 on the treadmill when in fact all you were moving was your lower lip to blow up air onto your face.

When people see you, they’ll feel bad that you obviously been suffering. Take advantage. Accept the cold beverage, position yourself under a fan, and even head straight past the family to the shower. It’s ok. They don’t want to be with you anyway.

Inevitably, upon cooling down and actually hanging out with people, you’ll be asked why you don’t get your A/C fixed. Then you may utter something completely sane like “Because I don’t need it,” at which point everyone will laugh and tacitly reveal their belief that you’re a fool.

And that’s ok, too. Deep down you understand that lacking A/C builds character, and makes you appreciate walking into a cooled building so much more.

If you can hold your head high and remain convinced you don’t need A/C, you can happily drive cars without it for years to come.

Isn’t that what it’s all about?

A Skinny Man’s Plight and Grumblings You Have No Sympathy For

By Carson Speight in OddSirvations 0 Comment

Yes, I’m skinny. But hold your applause; evidently this is no cause for celebration.

I’ve found skinniness is only admirable if you were once fat. Or better still, if people knew you were fat.

Did you know I haven’t always been a pasty rail? It’s true; in college I faithfully gained my “freshman 15” and maintained semi-puffy cheeks through the early years of my marriage.

Then I lost weight and everyone asked what the hell happened to me, not like a “hey, bang-up job on losing pounds, dude” but a “who the hell are you to lose some fat?” kinda way.

Because America, of course, has gotten more obese, to the point where adding weight is the norm. I realize our food industry, genetics, and sedentary work life make it hard to stay fit. If you struggle with weight, I understand, and completely support you in your efforts to be healthy. Hear that.

But also hear that it’s a little awkward to be ridiculed for being a damn beanpole. Truly, I deserve no sympathy, and realize I risk sounding like an ass for even broaching the sentiment.

Because it is strange. People tell me in jest that if I turn sideways they can’t see me, or that they hate me for my svelte corpus. I’m so sorry to have disappointed everyone. It’s apparent you preferred I made a few more late night runs to Taco Bell and engorged myself with Gorditas.

Really though, I’m wondering why skinniness is always brought up. Doesn’t part of it have to be that it’s abnormal? I mean, we’re not just pointing people out for wearing a shirt or brushing their hair.

Indeed, skinnies are the new freaks. It’s not everyday you meet one and when you do you’re somewhat perplexed on how to react.

There was a time when skinny—particularly male skinny—was en vogue. Adult men were praised for staying fit and victoriously warring against slowing metabolism.

Not anymore. Being 35 and yet to develop the patriarchal paunch is no longer a feat, but a farce. Like I’m some mutated anomaly, a slender Sasquatch roaming the Earth, unrecognizable to all accustomed to the quintessential Dad bod.

Nowadays, like the olden days, the gut is grand. Dudes used to show off their embonpoint in portraits, for it symbolized good eating and rich, healthy living.

Back then, people would be like, “Behold, the big bastard upon his horse. ‘Tis Lord Blakenship, a rich, happy, and good soul. And over there? That emaciated mule of a man? That’s Old Slim Billy. He’s 90 and still walking. He actually enjoys the act of breathing. So tragic he doesn’t partake in such jollies as a fourth helping of mutton.”

Seriously, people worry about me, like not having a double chin and man boobies is insalubrious to my health. There’s this odd, tacit idea that more fat would help me. Like, maybe it could be useful for my survival, perhaps keep me warm.

But that’s no concern of mine. I don’t reside in northern Manitoba. I’m not an elephant seal in need of blubber. I’m a skinny man living in the Southeast with access to good coats.

What I’m saying is, don’t be a thinist. Yes I’m skinny. But I’m a person. And I want to be an inspiration. I want to be living proof that you don’t need to be fat to be happy, but can find contentment with a diet of celery and yarn.

At the end of the day, I want to be so much more to the world than just some pencil-thin lad who reminds us all we have bones.

Skinny questions?

 

The Traveler’s Prize

By Carson Speight in Just Poems, Homes 0 Comment

The delighted man set off, poised to claim his honor.
For he had lifted his country, leading his people from squalor.
He paced with glee, sang joyfully, his triumph gained with valor.

The path was smooth and straight, no labor in his stroll.
Sheltered by the shady breeze, endless steps would take no toll.
No cares surrounded, thus he gaily bounded, and made way down the quiet knoll.

There a man sat, head down and looking glum.
Our traveler gazed upon him, inquired what had become.
The man was quite lost, now full of exhaust, in need of an ear and a chum.

“Go south for a mile, turn left at the farm.
Stay straight for a while, ’til you come ‘pon the barn.
Cut straight through the wood, and in two minutes you should, reach the village for which you now yearn.”

This cheered the man, he got up and made way.
The traveler beamed at relieving dismay.
He cherished his words, claimed his self-made reward, and merrily moseyed away.

As he did he stepped over a quiver.
‘Twas left by the chum that went thither.
Little notice he paid it, left it where the chum laid it, no concern for no arrows within her.

And so he skipped gaily for hours.
Happening ‘pon a vast field of gold flowers.
There a man with his steed, in a quandary indeed, for a broken machine left him dour.

“I still have an acre to mow.
Yet the ardor has crippled my tow.
I know not what to do, for my tool is wrecked, too, and I haven’t the time to be slow.”

The traveler peered hard at the steel.
And stepped forward with intention to deal.
Measured strength and astutely, notched the pieces resolutely, and beheld the fixed tow rig with zeal.

The farmer expressed his deep thanks.
For the traveler had displaced the angst.
So he kept right along, down the path with a song, assured he’d ascended the ranks.

As he did so he bypassed the field.
Largely charred laid its smoldering yield.
Yet so he skipped on, not happening to dawn, was the thought of what source scorched the deal.

So he hummed with unflappable spirit,
Til he came ‘pon a hill with men near it.
Bedraggled they seemed, so bewildered this team, that he asked ’bout their fate, lest he bear it.

“Nomadic are we in this region.
Displaced from our homes for a season.
Now have no land to work, and our enemy lurks, pray he not buffet us like a legion.”

The kind traveler considered the tale.
Not content to let sadness prevail.
So his map he produced, offered land for their use, so they’d prosper ‘pon trekking the trail.

The men moved along with new hope,
For the traveler had thrown them a rope,
He ascended the mount, while proceeding to count, these fine deeds and gay feelings he evoked.

And he paced ‘pon a ground most indented,
From some sort of tracks that imprinted,
But he gave it no measure, just ahead lay the treasure, no trough could now leave his sights tinted.

Alas he reached his journey’s end, a cave upon a mount
Prepped to meet a new friend, and receive a blessed fount
Yet quickly met, the creature that, he’d rather do without.

A scaly terror sauntered forward, and gazed with fearsomeness
The joyful traveler cowered back, his countenance now depressed
Then felt he ought, to relay his thought, to briefly relieve his distress.

“I’ve come this way, for I was due, a gift for my good deeds.
And on the way, helped man some more, supplied his very need.
Shall not these acts, of filling lack, warrant a prize, indeed?”

As he spoke the monster moved ever closer still.
And sneered at every utterance the traveler chose to spill.
He flicked his tongue, with words he hung, the secret to unveil.

“Good you may have done for man, enough to claim the prize.
In fact you have received it, your reward was in disguise.
Now see your error, behold the terror, you’re deceived by your own eyes.”

“So rapt in self-contentment you were blind to see the signs,
Arrowless packs, a crop ransacked, death’s footprints left behind.
Man’s woe I’ve laid, his sun I shade, spawn chaos ‘pon his mind.”

“But you, I may devour, or perhaps more awful yet,
Complete the curse upon your body that your soul had long beget.
Become like me, observe men flee, your face they’ll ne’r forget.”

The traveler contorted about
Felt a jolt of his inside to out
All his skin became scales, sharp claws replaced nails, now his body made beastly throughout.

As he lay there the other went ‘way
Saying nothing to make fears allay
But abandoned the post, disappeared like a ghost, leaving traveler alone in the gray.

So he made the dark cave his abode
From his perch he watched as men strode
‘Til they came to his dwelling, with vanity swelling, and suffered the prize he bestowed.

The King’s Proclamation

By Carson Speight in Stories (Vertically Challenged) 0 Comment

*This story is not a metaphor. You will be doing yourself a favor to just read it as a dumb story.

There once lived a king who ruled a fair land.

It could be said that while he was not the greatest of kings, he quite aptly represented his people.

For he wasn’t particularly strong, and bore the physique of a sedentary ape who’d indulged in a life’s work of honey and cheese. Nor was he quite clever, and more often appeared to be devoid of any common sense. He was perpetually selfish, regularly petty, and rarely kind, thoughtful, or just. But also, like his people, he responded swiftly to unfavorable circumstances, and generally did so with resounding proclamations.

Indeed, when a bulbous, barrel of a man could not be pulled free from a stockade, the king proclaimed:

“Release him with the grease of a goose. I will show the people my mercy while not sparing this miscreant deserved humiliation.” The people thought and nodded.

And when there was a grain famine in the land, the king decreed:

“When there is no food, we must not feast on one another. But bring me the belly of a swine and we will feast together.” Then nothing happened, except a few journeyed off to find swine.

And when a plague struck his people one cold winter, he dictated a message from his warm bed to be distributed throughout the land.

“Courage, courage. I have called on Providence to awaken your fledgling bones that you may skip into glory like a virgin calf. Take heart and eschew the wicked vermin from your abode!” The people listened and coughed and a few fell over.

And so it went, for many years. Problems arose, the king spoke, and the people remained generally satisfactory.

But one day, the kingdom encountered a threat far greater than it had ever seen.

For from the West, a menacing and fearsome clan had traversed through the mountainous terrain and into the kingdom’s outer villages.

Townspeople were tossed aside. Their homes were ransacked and burned. Most of them fled to escape the devilish brood of barbarians.

News traveled quickly to the king, who was presently bathing while imbibing a flagon of fine wine.

“Your Majesty! The kingdom is under attack. Barbarians have come and attacked us from the West.”

The king shot up, spilling his drink upon his beard as bundles of bubbles flew into the air and burst around him.

He lifted his finger and cleared his throat.

“Hear this! A tree has no power without its roots, while a thorn shall not sting with no flower.”

Tell my people. ‘Dig. Dig deep. Dig deeper, as though your very trenches may birth a soul. Find the snake and eat it. When the ogre vomits, harm it with a fiery lance upon a dirty mule!'”

The king’s men slowly nodded and hurried from the room. They ascended their horses and disbursed throughout the kingdom, bringing the king’s message to all the towns.

“Hear ye, hear ye!” cried one of the king’s men in Millerton. “The kingdom is under attack. But be not alarmed, for the king has sent his people a message. He implores you to ‘Dig deep. Nay, dig deeper. As though your very, uh, trenches may birth a soul.'”

At first the people gasped, then they looked at each other in bewilderment.

“And furthermore,” the king’s man bellowed, “‘Find the snake and beat it. I mean, eat it. And…when the ogre vomits, you must harm it with fiery pants upon…uh…30 mules!”

Some people panicked and ran to their homes. Others scrambled to begin gathering supplies. Most stared at one another, rubbing their chins and counting their fingers.

“Go, all of you! Do as your king instructs.”

Likewise, the rest of the king’s men delivered messages in other villages, determined to galvanize the people and accurately dictate the king’s stirring oration. Likewise, the people panicked, scrambled and stared.

Meanwhile, the clan was moving quickly through the western region, primed to pillage whatever town lie ahead.

Townspeople, knowing they were no match for the barbarians, abandoned their villages and retreated toward the country’s epicenter and home of the royals.

Within two days, a massive crowd had assembled within the city square and its outskirts.

The mob was a motley assortment of peasants, plebeians, and soldiers in the king’s service. Strange sights and noises accompanied the group. Some were holding objects that seemed to have no place at such a gathering, while others rode upon odd beasts typically not purposed war.

Suddenly, a clamor rose among the people. Rumblings turned to shouts. Someone was coming.

From the north of the square ran a long, bright green hill that steadily ascended to the castle. Down the one road coming from the castle rode a phalanx of horses and men, carrying the colors and flags of the old and honored Sir Wesley. Behind them rode a stout man in heavy velvet robes with a shimmering golden crown upon his head. There was no doubt. It was the king.

As the riders and their king descended upon the square, all marveled and subsequently genuflected as he passed by. Within moments the liege and his subjects were in the center square, and came to an impressively synchronized halt. The dust cloud slowly lifted to shine the sun upon the men and their king.

The clamor had rapidly dissipated, and a quiet stillness set in. As all stood and stared, with the king peering out upon his people, a dull, thumping murmur seemed to whisper through the air. Slowly, very slowly, it rose to more of a clapping, and the ground seemed to tremor. All bodies and heads turned to the West, and one could fairly descry a thin, dark line of motion upon the horizon. There was no denying it. The barbarians were approaching.

The king raised his head and surveyed the people surrounding him. He observed a diverse mob of civilians, a group that was as odd as it was interesting. Were his people prepared for battle?

This wasn’t unprecedented. In the past, the king had moments where he had attempted to galvanize his people. And sometimes his orations were taken quite literally, and other times quite seriously, and other times they weren’t quite taken at all.

The king stroked his beard and pondered. Had the people received his message? Had it mattered?

“What say you my people?” the king shouted. “Are you prepared to encounter this filthy Western brood?”

“We are ready, your Majesty!” exclaimed a burly commoner, brandishing a very large shovel. “We have been digging deep, deep holes for hours.”

“As have we, your Majesty!” proclaimed a thinner man, caked in dirt. “We dug until my fair lady bore our seventh offspring this morning in the trench. A new soul for the kingdom!”

“Hurrah, hurrah!” the people shouted. The energy seemed to build, and now more people were grinning and speaking than before.

“Yes, your majesty! We are ready!” another proclaimed. “Though it took time, we have found the snake. ‘Twas the most ill of vipers in this land. On the way here, we beat it!” And he lifted the dead snake into the air.

“‘Scuse me goo sir,” remarked another man, who was hard to understand, because he appeared to be chewing on a snake. “Why d’ya beat it? We were to bind it and eat it.”

“What say you, my fair fellows of Galen?” asked another. “Why did you disturb the snake at all? Our instruction was to mind the snake and treat it. So we considered our village snake and blessed it with a plump rat.”

At this many mutterings erupted from the crowd. Some laughed, some cried, some continued to chew on their dead snakes.

Despite the many rumblings, the king remained calm and undeterred. But the barbarians were near. The pounding horse hooves produced a thunder coming down toward the square. The king drew his sword. “Behold, the ogre!”

The people gasped. Battle was upon them. “What shall we do?” many cried. But there was no time to think. Barbarians were now entering the square. All they could do was act on the king’s words.

The king’s soldiers withdrew their red lances and charged. While doing so, men all around the square hastily removed their trousers and set them ablaze. Ascending their dirty mules, they lurched forward.

For they had seen the ogre, and would harm it with fiery pants.

A cacophonous clash of metal now rang throughout the town’s center. Screams and roars echoed all around. The surrounding air thickened with smoke and the stench of burning hemp and wool.

Then above the cacophony ascended a different, melodious sound. Many curious citizens and barbarians alike raised their heads to observe a queer yet harmonious procession. For a group of men eloquently pranced into the fray, playing sweet tunes for all to hear.

For they had seen the ogre, and would charm it with lyre and dance.

From here, nothing very good happened. Grubby villagers, fatigued from hours of digging, couldn’t lift a shovel, much less a hand to attack the enemy. Men everywhere frothed and keeled over with half-eaten snakes in hand. Incinerated trousers were trampled upon while their owners shivered and shook their cold, bony legs. Lyres and dancers alike were indiscriminately and promptly obliterated.

The foreign clan was rapidly overtaking the town. The spirited battle cries had now mostly been replaced by moans and mule brays. There was no mistaking that circumstances looked dire for the kingdom.

But, there was the king. His presence among the multitude was undeniable, and those left standing found it remarkable he was not dead. Unflinching and unrelenting, the king moved around on his weary steed, swinging his sword and bellowing spirited utterances at every barbarian he encountered.

“Behold my brandished blade! May you taste its silver and plunge into a pool of your own crimson!”

“See the door of death! Knock, enter, and be greeted with a guillotine of profound terror!”

“Meet your end, worm! ‘Tis time to writhe in your lonely abyss ad finitum!”

The opponent, though filled with bloodthirsty wrath, would generally pause at whatever remark the king spewed. For these clansmen from the West knew nothing of monarchy and had never witnessed such valor or unabashed boasting from a general of men.

And the pause was enough, a momentary lapse of concentration that allowed the king to meet his mark upon each and every unenviable swing. The enemy fell one by one.

The king’s people noticed this sudden and unexpected success. So inspired by this newfound, naive confidence, they too purposed forward, with pomp and unmitigated braggadocio. Some upon horses, some upon mules, they lunged at their adversary with swords and tongues.

“Rabid ghoul!” one man spewed. “Inspect your soul, make peace, and bid your beating heart adieu!” And he thrust his sword into a bewildered barbarian.

“Inhale the toxic cypress, ripe and ready to plunge you into the world of nether!” said another, as he walloped his foe.

Still another provoked his challenger. “See my sickle, fiend! See it and greet it. Usher it into your abode, fluff its pillow and serve it a lukewarm tea. Then, insist it stay the evening and be ensured that-” and was unfortunately cut short by an emphatic body blow. Indeed, elongated addresses proved inadvisable.

But for the most part, men eloquently recited their threats and subsequently pummeled the enemy, to the shock of the citizen and foreigner alike. Each fallen barbarian inspired confidence in the king’s people, while the confidence of the foreign clan waned. Rebel yells were quieted with pithy declarations. Thundering horse whinnies were replaced by mild mule brays. Even the pluck of the lyre returned.

In minutes, it was over. The distressed, decimated clan hurriedly retreated from the town. The kingdom roared in victory, clanging shovels and throwing snakes into the air. Amidst it all, someone shouted “Long live the king!” Others repeated it, and then looked around. Where was the king?

As the town quieted, what was noticeable was the many remaining clansman retreating up the hill to the West. As they did so, a lone figure chased them upon a horse. Yes, valiant to the end, it was the king purging the enemy from his land. He held his sword high and rode semi-swiftly behind his foe. Though it was hard to tell from the vantage point of the square, he seemed to be barking still, only more vigorously than what was his custom.

Then suddenly, the king and his horse disappeared into the earth. For what he had not foreseen was a vast, gaping trench, freshly dug by undoubtedly a great number of his people. A collective gasp arose from the townspeople, who wasted no time rushing out of the town and up the hill to the scene of the catastrophe.

When they arrived, they looked into the trench, fearing the worst. The hole was deep and dark, so much so that they saw no king, or horse, or bottom.

“Your Majesty, your majesty! Tell us, are you alive?” shouted one of the king’s men.

At first there was no sound, but then a light rustling started. Then there was a deep moan, which could’ve been the horse. And then more silence, enough to deflate the men’s hopes.

“Aye!” came a cry from below. Men crowded around the trench at the sudden, welcome response of their king.

“Aye!” he bellowed again. “Though my bones be a mangled wasteland, though my blood hast breached the dam of my flesh, though all feeling hast retreated my corpus like those filthy savages from this fair land, I say to you, ‘Aye,’ I retain the vitality of a juvenile vulpine! So bring forth the vestiges of yore. Find the elaborate garb and drape it upon the most pristine of willow trees. Gather in gaiety, take your finest fool, and wade together in the sweetest of stews!”

Then some cheered, some scratched their heads, and others shared strong opinions regarding the finest region for willow trees.

But they all lived happily ever after.

 

The Problem with Pizza

By Carson Speight in OddSirvations 0 Comment

Has anyone noticed how ubiquitous and dominating pizza has become? What a culinary bully. It’s the food you can’t get away from.

The obvious reason is that it’s delicious. Buttery dough slathered with sauce and showered with cheese; yes please. Then literally any of your favorite foods on top. Steak, barbecue, chocolate—it doesn’t matter. It’s ok because it’s pizza. It has no bounds, no tact. It’s open-door policy to ingredients has caused a feeding free-for-all.

Pizza is too convenient. If I have a phone I can get one in 20 minutes. If I have a car I can get it in five. I don’t have to do any work to get pizza.

In fact, I just have to show up. If I go to a place, any place, if I just stick around long enough, the pizza will come. Home, work, church, school, party, practice, hospital, cul-de-sac, whatever.

There it is! Pizza is in my lunchbox. An alert for pizza in the conference room is in my inbox. I don’t want pizza with drinks right after work. Too bad son, pizza is cheap at happy hour. I get home after three pizza sessions and there’s nothing to eat in the fridge. Dare I look in the freezer, that gelid jukebox of choices where a pizza will forever magically appear?

Seriously pizza, leave me the heck alone. Remember the girlfriend who always wanted to hang out? That’s pizza. You liked her and didn’t want to go too long without seeing her, but you were always like “Chill girl, I already met you for breakfast and lunch. I can’t do dinner, I just can’t.” And then you’d have dinner with her and think, “Girl, you are so awesome. I love you love you love you.” And then you got home cursing yourself, ruing the day you met, committed to saying “we need a break.” So you went to the pool the next day and she was already there, hot ‘n ready like Little Caesar. Are you still following this analogy? ‘Cuz I’m not.

The point is, this food (which is my favorite) is no longer special. It’s joined milk and bread along with other essentials, a food we can’t seem to live without. But I’m taking a break. Really I am, no pizza for like at least a week.

Oh just saw pizza in break room gotta g

Luminary

By Carson Speight in Just Poems, Homes 0 Comment

Stumbling through an unlit hall the world gropes for the room.

Lacking wit and wherewithal we cope within the gloom.

Where be that gleam, that spark, that flash, that slightly cracking door?

Just in our dreams, in dark, we crash, not lightly, ‘pon the floor.

Alas ephemeral flicker stirs an upbeat of the heart.

Gasp, no time to dicker, back on our feet we start.

Make way to welcomed glimmer, ’til right within our reach.

Nay stay a fading shimmer, ’tis night within us each.

Flecks of phantom luminescence display and move and look legit.

Checks for the genuine essence, yet they all prove counterfeit.

Can no one true step out from death, to enlighten our dark way?

Past someones all bereft of breath, have heightened our dismay.

Suddenly the hall’s ablaze with blinding lumination.

Surely all are fazed by this resounding revelation.

For who breaks forth, none other than the maker of the light.

The source of luminosity, purveyor of the bright.

The world moves on and gropes around for some new visionaries.

Through darkness all our hopes abound in one true Luminary.

 

This is a reflection on John 1:9. “There was the true Light, which, coming into the world, enlightens every man.” Merry Christmas.

Who You Should Actually Brake For

By Carson Speight in OddSirvations 0 Comment

brakeforpeopleDo you brake for people?

Of course you do. This isn’t Grand Theft Auto where you demonically accelerate to turn pedestrians into street pizzas.

This is Earth, and when people are in the road, we stop. It’s nice to let others live and have us not go to jail. Thank you conscience. Thank you laws. 

Which brings me back to the “I brake for people” bumper stickers I see. Some standard had been proposed for whom, or for what, we should brake. And there are some things that we would at least swerve for. And there are some things we would apathetically flatten as if they damn well deserved it for being in the way.

So, I’ve pondered who I would brake for and who I would not, just so I can be prepared when I’m out on the road.

People? Brake.

All people? Hmm…

Old people? Of course, brake.

Teenagers? Yes, brake. But throw in a fist shake and stern talking to.

Football fans leaving a game? Brake.

Carolina fans leaving a game? Uhh, uhh…OK, yes brake.

Bad hombres? Yes brake, they have no chance for redemption if you vehicular manslaughter them.

Homeless? Yes, brake. But many are quite adept at weaving through traffic so even if you don’t see them you might be all right.

Dog? Yes, brake.

Cat? … Ohhhhh, all right brake.

Deer? Brake hard.

Squirrel? Don’t brake. Swerve cautiously.

Turtle? Don’t brake or swerve, you have a meeting with bagels to get to!

Bird? They’ll get out of the way.

Duck? They might not get out of the way. Honk, swerve, and hope for the best.

Duck family? Of course for the love of nature brake unless there is a pitch black chasm where your soul should be!

I guess the bottom line is that you should brake for most living things. (Living things you can see, of course. If you drove everywhere at four miles an hour and braked every three seconds I suppose you could even avoid hitting bugs.)

So the next time you’re driving down the road and see some living, breathing things in it, stop and make the kind choice not to kill them.

Yes, I brake for people. Anyone you don’t brake for?