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President Trump Sings Marching Off To War

April 7, 2018

 

(fiction by Matthew Sawyer)

In fear of losing the support of his Evangelical conservative base, President Trump implores paid attendants at another of his more frequent Nuremberg rallies. He tells the audience, “Remember that old song from church – Onward Christian Soldiers?”

“You heard of that, right? That old song?”

“Onward Christian soldiers marching off to war… I’m not singing it. You can if you want.”

No one does sing, as those who think they know the lyrics were often uncertain of their own memory. The president smiles while pressing his lips together. He drones, “That was great. You heard of that, right?”

“What a beautiful song. People should listen to more songs like  that instead of watching the fake media.”

“Fake news.”

“Don’t listen to them, go to church instead.”

Some in the audience applaud; although, most who do so await a paycheck at the conclusion of this commonly spontaneous event.

“Onward Christian soldiers…”

“We should sing that song the next time we have a war.”

More than those just getting paid clap their hands. This encourages one fellow waiting for his money to issue a, “Whoop!”

The encouragement cues President Trump to say, “We need a war so we can sing that song.”

“What do you think?”

“China? Syria? North Korea?”

“Russia? No, not them.”

“Vlad is our friend.”

“Hillary sold uranium to Russia,” President Trump repeated. “Do you remember that?”

“Vlad knows the guy she sold it to.”

 

 

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Said Of For Which Looked

April 2, 2018

 

Said Of For Which Looked

I have written about cockroaches before. I even wrote a short piece of Doctor Who fan fiction featuring a cockroach as a lead character, but I have nothing practical to present about them in neither the Arts nor Sciences. They periodically encroach my apartment bathroom and, hence, the bugs regularly come to my attention. I might otherwise be inspired to write about something fantastical or political, depending on wherever that veil of reality may part. Instead, I concentrate on those insects I doom to drown – those sentenced to death because I know they come for the water in my pipes.

I am certain the insects come for the water, it’s an animal instinct, and it’s common human knowledge thanks to documentary film making recorded in macrovision. If my own cockroaches were hunting for something more substantial, I would expect to find a few in my kitchen or near a trash can, but I don’t. And it’s not that I am not looking. I expect to find bugs when I awake. Recall that older classical song by Steely Dan, Do It Again, and that is how I start my days…

“In the morning’ you go gunning’ for the man who stole your water…”

Now, I am not so cruel and I would never deny a last wish sought by a condemned living thing. In truth, I aid each in a final quest and quench their individual thirsts. And there remains opportunities in which any epic hero might escape Charybdis, the whirlpool conjured in my toilet. A cockroach might go flushed and vanish down the drain then return, either resurrected or preserved; I know not what power preserves them. But I am that hateful titan who always watches. Once spotted, no heroic cockroach has ever escaped my wraith. All go drowned, fed to the sea monster whirling under the Pacific ocean off the coast of Los Angeles in southern California.

Otherwise, obviously other than Franz Kafka, few would find anything poetic to narrate about the pests. Each begin inside a translucent egg stuck against other identical hardened tear drops of phlegm clung upon an elongated ovipositor. Unhatched, the tiny cockroach babies – and they are babies inside those eggs because these insects grow up fast – they do not linger through stages of larva then pupa. Cockroaches begin as writhing oblong globs of bloodless mucous. None emerge without being encased in shells.

Nearly until birth, until the day each hatch, fetal cockroaches resemble hairless newborn gerbils; cockroach pups with six blanched arms. Their joints are yet unformed, without the support of a chitinous exoskeleton. Their blind eyes appear as dark specks, the same color as those eyes infant gerbils yet develop for days beneath shut eyelids. But a cockroach never opens its eyes. An earth-tone carapace completely covers the insects; the head, and eyes, and limbs and abdomen, except in places meant to bend. There is where spider bite them and wasps sting their prey. Nevertheless, a cockroach can see through itself as if its helmeted head had come with visors. And cockroaches always only see us giants as enormous globular shadows.

Born, a cockroach eats garbage, filth, and that is the waste then excreted through pores. This hardens on their pale skin, like that of a three-dimensional gravy stain on a garbage can. Both pollutions become elevated in layers until they cast soiled shadows. The waste becomes an armor, their exoskeletons, and holds them upright everywhere but places that bend. They, also, live their whole lives with so few brain cells that scientists can count them.

Although cockroaches cannot connect together enough neurons to develop a language nor give each other names, if there was a God who is one with a son and one other, I suppose cockroaches, too, would be blessed like any other animal and speak for an hour at midnight after Christmas Eve. Still limited in their innate capacity to think, our God would impart the generation of insects currently hatched into existence with a single identity, come to each like an instinct. They all at once would at least be aware a savior had been born and their own identity. One might say to another, “Hi, Bill, Hallelujah, have you seen Bill?”

“Yeah, Bill is over there,” the other Bill may answer.

The first awakened cockroach, who is also named Bill, could very well correct its brother. “No, the other Bill.”

More brethren, all each called Bill, might then confirm the inquiry of the first. “Oh, yeah. Whatever happened to Bill?”

“Bill is right here,” another Bill may tell them.

Everyone then would inevitably ask, “Who?”

Remember with your own, cockroaches have so few brain cells, even at midnight on Christmas Eve, none could possibly help themselves and each would inevitably forget what they were speaking about, or that one ever spoke. A suspicious insect Bill might yet ask, “What?” But, once that hour of Christmas magic was almost passed, the most any cockroach might yet say to one another is, “Oh, hi, Bill.” Perhaps their blessing from our magical God was to not to speak but to forget. But, where then is the karma in a regeneration into a speaking cockroach about to be flushed because of trespass into the home of our Lord’s most beloved creation?

“Not under the heaven of our God,” I would be surprised to hear echo from my bath.

 

And Yet Sought.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Administrative Priorities

March 30, 2018

brner-s

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The Incestual Search for White House Lawyers

March 28, 2018

trumpnulawyer

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Poison Help!

March 25, 2018

mr-yuk-trump

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Eulogy to the Enemy

March 11, 2018

I hope he suffered when he died.

I hope he suffered all his life.

I hope his kids hated him.

I hope his wife made the man a cuckold.

And if none of this happened,

It is the hell he deserves.

I hope he suffers for all eternity,

If there is a god,

Who wishes our souls preserved.

 

– Mr. Binger

 

 

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The Betulha Dohrman Legacy

March 6, 2018

Debbie Menon failed to sell the house every local called the Witch’s house. The grief-stricken real estate agent set the historic brick Victorian on fire before the house became animated. The burning Witch’s house moved itself out of Wister Town, taking a chunk of crust with it from the small Wisconsin city. Since, the house has been abandoned where it had gone past the suburbs. It’s become an attraction for daredevils and a shelter for desperate animals. Debbie has since long left her real-estate agency and the house is no longer for sale.

beth-web

A Janet Drays is then one day idle and she searches the Internet. Wister Town was filled with monsters, so that was nothing new. Janet was curious about the old Witch’s house in her hometown. She finds information a real estate agent would probably never know. The young woman comes to learn the legacy of this womb of aberrations. The Betulha Dohrman Legacy by Matthew Sawyer is the sequel to the novel, ‘Debbie’s Hellmouth‘, which itself had been birthed in the short story, ‘The Abandoned,’ from the collection entitled, ‘Horrid Tales of Wister Town‘.

The Betulha Dohrman Legacy ebook is available from Smashwords.com

The paperback can be purchased at Lulu.com

 

 

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