not Catholic.

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Short Story: Tumbling

At first no one knew what to make of it. His tumblr kept on posting after he died. At first people just assumed that he had queued things to be posted in the future, Instagram photos of him in his car or re tweets or youtube videos of Third Eye Blind. It produced both a sense of comfort and aching sorrow that he wound his way into their feed, their streams, even if he wasn’t there.

When the tumblr continued posting regularly a year after the car crash, some started to feel more than a small comfort. The feeling boiled just below the left rib, itched slightly. It only grew, wound its way up into the throat as the tumblr posted to specific people, telling them not to worry about the crash, everything was fine, tell Rebecca that I loved her dearly. The last one was the proverbial straw.

There was a community meeting to discuss the web activity of a dead teenage boy at St. Thomas Aquinas Lutheran Church. The minister handed out coffee to the adults and crumbly cookies to the teenagers before the voices got loud. Tumblr was called, many messages we left, but they never got back to anyone. A few of his friends tried hacking his account to little avail. They tried passwords like Rebeccalove31, Soccerrocker2, and Steelerfan4life. When all attempts to change the blog were exhausted, the general consensus was to just stay way from the page, unfriend or unfollow it or whatever you kids do on Tumblr, the old man who worked at Time Warner said. And things died down considerably after that.

Except for Rebecca. She would stay up nights, reblogging things he said, to the point that she starting suffering from sleep depravation. She said he was inside the internet, down in the deep web. She said this was the new religion, that her dead ex-boyfriend was the second coming and she was like, like the virgin mary or something. Just not a virgin.

In your youth
you did all
you could to never
step out of
the well lit
field of your

You were content
with chasing bugs
through the tall

You were content
with swinging
a stick through
the air with chest enflamed.

But the moment
you reached
the edge of
that field, saw
the dark boughs
below the shadowy
canopy, watched
the roots twist
and groan and
writhe you
stepped back,
breath leaving
your body a
plastic bag
blowing in the wind.

But as you
grew, your
little patch of
knowing did not,

Until the morning
came when you
couldn’t pretend

So you picked
up a stick,
the strongest
one you could
find, and took
one step,
then another,
under the
leaves, into
the place no
light likes to
go but you
did, and,
as if for
the first time
you heard it
coming from way
down beneath
your skin,
that sound rising
like so many
sparrows, rising
like lightning
from the ground
back into
the clouds,

Although you
could not see
under that canopy
you heard it,
the procession
of your body,
marching marching
and the sound,
the orchestra
of your own
in the dark
silence where
only twisting

Dinner at the Carter’s.

(NOTE: I wrote this around the time that it was just revealed that Kim was pregnant with Kanye’s baby, and wanted to keep the piece right around that time.)

The doorbell rings.
Shawn goes to the door
and tells the doorman
to let them in.

He returns to the sofa
in his cotton suit,
both are all white.
He focuses on the stain
left on the arm
made from some wine
he and Kanye
had been drinking the last time
Kanye came over.

The baby is in bed.
It’s been hard having Kanye over lately
because he gets so loud when he’s drunk.
He’s promised not to drink so much tonight
but Beyonce has made it very clear
to Shawn that if he doesn’t watch out
for his friend, there will be trouble.

The door opens
and Shawn’s best friend and his girl
come into the foyer.
He shakes Kanye’s hand,
whose already too loud,
and hugs Kim,
a pecks her on the cheek,
he takes her coat.

Kim and Kanye sit down,
exchange looks.
Kim smooths out the creases
in her dress, looks around.
She knows that Shawn
is her boyfriend’s best friend
so she makes an effort.

Kanye looks at Kim,
puts his hand on her neck
and massages her gently.

Beyonce enter and is all smiles,
still radiant
even though she has given birth months ago
and her belly has returned
to its normal svelte size.
Kim asks Beyonce how she did it,
lost all that weight.
Beyonce asks Kim how
her pregnancy is coming.

Dinner is fantastic,
Beyonce is an excellent cook.
Each bite reminds Kim that she
can barely cook macaroni and cheese
in the microwave.

The dinner consists primarily
of Shawn and Kanye
laughing and talking about inside jokes from work.
Beyonce gets most of them.
Kim has no idea
what is going on
but laughs at the appropriate times.

After dinner
the ladies wash the dishes,
while the two men
stand on the balcony
smoking cigars.

The two women
exchange short sentences,
the splashing sink water
makes more noise
than they do.
Mostly they talk
about babies.

Hanging out was much better
before Kim was in the picture,
Beyonce thinks.
She remembers
one Saturday night in particular
when her and Shawn and Kanye
were sitting slightly reclined,
smoking weed, listening to music,
ordering pizza and beer
and playing charades
until five in the morning.

On the balcony
Kanye asks Shawn
his opinion on marriage
and confesses
that he doesn’t know
if he is ready for it.
Shawn tells him
that he wasn’t ready either
when Beyonce first asked,
but that it doesn’t matter.
Only marriage will make a man
ready to be married
he says,
leaning over the railing
and letting the ashes of his cigar,
soft as charcoal,
waft into the night sky.
Kanye leans over the railing
the same way.

After the dishes
are done they sit
watching the lights pulse
from high above the city.
A Billie Holiday song plays.
At first the two couples
just sit together,
Beyonce’s head on Shawn’s shoulder
Kanye’s head in Kim’s lap.

Billy stops singing
and James Brown comes on.
Kanye pulls Kim to her feet,
then Beyonce does the same
to Shawn who holds her hips,
their bare feet making soft indents
in the plush white carpet
that melt away like snow.

the contents of her bag.

The contents of her bag were as follows: two magazines, one with Kim Kardashian on the cover, the other with Oprah. Two bottles of mascara, only one mascara wand. The other bottle was wrapped in tin foil, because hey, don’t want to throw that away, not with makeup being so expensive. 77 cents in change. One phone number on a napkin, folded so many times she could no longer read the number. One number written in clear black ink on the back of a business card. it belonged to a man named James and she decided not to call because James is her father’s name. One phone with a screen so cracked she had to move all the apps to the bottom left hand corner just to be able to see them. The case, however, was new and bejeweled. She did the bejeweling herself, and had three hot glue gun burn on her fingers. A set of headphones, that resembled a plate of spaghetti. Two vials of lipstick, one old watch, and a hand, severed at the wrist, wrapped in tin foil so the excess blood wouldn’t make a mess of things at the bottom of her bag.



Shinji Tokushima’s Fantastic Realism

1966 Shinji Himeno in Tokushima , Japan, was born. 1988 showed him in Tokyo, the wife of the Japanese ambassador in Bonn in a German magazine, the Peasants’ War Panorama of Tübke in Bad Frankenhausen. The encounter with this monumental paintings in large paintings impressed Shinji Himeno so much that he decided to go to Germany to learn the artistic crafts. Therefore, after the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989, he moved first to Berlin. In the fall of 1991 Shinji Himeno went to an art opening to Leipzig, where he Tübke , representatives of the so-called Leipzig School , personally met. He told him that he had come with the desire to Germany to study with him. At this time Tübke no longer taught, however, already own at the School of Visual Arts in Leipzig, but advised him definitely a study in the prestigious art academy. So Shinji Himeno completed his undergraduate studies until 1993 in Leipzig, and changed for the main study at the Academy of Fine Arts Vienna . Here he graduated in 1997 as a master student of Arik Brauer from, one of the main representatives of the Vienna School of Fantastic Realism . Shinji Himeno lives and works in Berlin since 1997.

( Apologies for the quality, very difficult to find good resolution photographs )


The Lord gave you
a terrifying gift
and in your mother’s womb
you accepted it.

And it was out of
kindness that you were
given the gift; not out
of pity, or contempt,

or some other thorn
that Sartre would claim.
It was a love,
horrible and warm

that pushed you from
the branches high above.
It was a truth
so bright that we can

only see it’s outline
through the thick clouds
of evening that bring
the flies into your belly now.

It is a question
that I cannot answer,
even as it stumbles
from your trembling lips.

Even though we speak
two different languages,
I can see
that you know what

the spirit is, that
you have a word
for it in your tongue,
and I can also see

you know that it
is undressing you
from its smooth,
invisible limbs.

Don’t be afraid.
It was a gift
that you accepted,
and it is still a gift

even now, even as
stillness dabs at the
river of your suffering.
Don’t be afraid,

I will open my mouth
wide, and let your
spirit fly into me,
where I will keep you, beating,

long after the cloth
of your body is
draped across the
bed of brown dirt.


I took a screenshot from Sword in the Stone and painted over it a little bit.  Really fun way to jump right in and practice lighting.  Hope I get some time to do more of these!


I took a screenshot from Sword in the Stone and painted over it a little bit.  Really fun way to jump right in and practice lighting.  Hope I get some time to do more of these!

Hello my name is Casey. I am a coward, and I am always second guessing myself, to the point where there are no first guesses, just seconds. There actually is not even a definitive statement to guess at. I am what I am what I am? This comes from asking too many questions, so many questions that you start to lose the ability to make statements?

Eugene Horowitz, the Mirror Maker

All mirrors lie.
This is the first rule.
If you cannot accept this,
you are better off
sitting behind a desk
listening to angry faceless voices
on the telephone
or, I don’t know,
cutting cups from pewter.

The second rule,
what was the second rule?
I has this written down somewhere.

Linda, What was the second rule?

Oh yes.
The second rule
is that no two mirrors
will ever show the same image.
When I was younger
I used to believe
that is was a flaw in the hands
that made them imperfections.
Only in the autumn of my years
do I see that is it
to show the little bit of Yahwah
in each of us.

No two mirrors
ever tell the same lie.
They each bend the light differently.

I’m sorry, I’m a spiritual man.
You’ll have a hard time
in this business
if you are not.

What? I’m just telling him the truth-
Keep your nose out of this Linda.

The third rule.
is that the mirror
is meant for one person
at a time.
Now I know what you’re thinking,
“what about those big wall mounts
down in fancy hotels
and big businesses?”
which is a good question,
means you’re paying attention.
The mirror is an intimate thing
and even in those big guys
we’re only ever looking at ourselves
and, on occasion,
the beautiful woman
who catches our eye.

Linda, you know you’re the only one for me.

The last rule.
This is the most difficult
of them all.
Whatever you do,
don’t try to put yourself
into the mirror.
You must remain detached
from it.
Your longing to tell the truth
will get in the way
of the very nature of the mirror.
the mirror only ever shows us
what we want to see.

And if you’re in there,
trying to yell at the person
looking into the silver,
the distorted rays of light,
you are getting in the way
of that light.
People don’t buy mirrors
to know how the look.
They buy mirrors
to hear the lies
they wish to hear.

That may sound cynical,
but it’s actually quite beautiful.
we are all lies
in the image that is
the truth of Yahweh.

I apologize,
I’m a spiritual man.
It’s hard to be in this business
without a little faith.