Book of Jamez

55 y/o malcontent, something of a writer

Category: Stories

  • Boolean Society

    At the 100th Anniversary Convention of the Boolean Society, the worlds most secret organization, the biggest conspiracy of them all is finally revealed. The organizations members with the most clout, money, meet to discuss the history of math and how their vast plan has moved forward over the centuries.

    It all started with two people in particular who hated everything to do with the art, music and theatre. They set out to slow down such frivolous nonsense by creating something that would slow the creative process and keep things more orderly and sane. In the beginning it was difficult, pressing the need to learn a few simple equations to mostly simple folk, but their idea won out—largely due to the complex circles in which the mathematician could talk. They would say, “x + y = y + x is the same as 1 + 2 = 2 + 1” and the common folk would respond, “so x is 1?” The Boolean would then explain that this was the case here, but in other situations the x could equal 252 or the y could equal the one as well. The common folk, immediately decide this is too much for them to decipher and hand over the reigns of all money handling to the Booleans. This goes on for years, the Booleans confusing the populace with x2 + 3y = 35 or x times itself is x2 and x + x is 2x.

    Then a more enlightened person steps forward and proclaims this is nonsense, and starts to preach at the people, these Booleans are twisting the shape of numbers. The Booleans freeze all this persons assets, he becomes a penniless bum mumbling on the streets and considered by most to be insane.

    Booleans find themselves in places of power within governments throughout the world. After years of the same formulas working they decide to change things up lest someone catches on and reveals their entire plot.

    Unexpected help comes from a young woman in her 30s in college, an artist; forced by rules set up by the Booleans to take math courses that have her head spinning. She catches on to the formulas and the math/algebra starts to make sense, in a research paper to her Algebra Professor she creates a series of problems that stump even the top Boolean official. Her creativity, of course, is a death sentence they cannot allow the delicate balance to change even slightly so they kill her. Her ideas, if an answer doesn’t solve properly just cube it times itself is stolen and implemented into the plan immediately. This effect sends several Liberal Arts majors to seek ways to commit suicide.

    The true celebration comes when the Booleans celebrate their greatest achievement ever: the number i. “The number i is such that i = √-1 (which is the same as saying i2 = -1).” The imaginary number. This concept, to further the confusion of the people, meant if an equation didn’t work out, just multiply it by i and it will all make sense. This i keeps all the money flowing into the hands of the Booleans, their vast fortunes shape the very political and socioeconomic landscape for all cultures.

    Chances are, when this is published I’ll be murdered by Booleans quoting such equations as x2 – 6x + 9 = (x – 3) (x + 3) or √-64 is not real. The formulas themselves may be the death of me… pray for your average college student. And God save you from the Booleans.

  • Posting Issues

    Trying to post a story I wrote, but can’t get it up… viagra anyone?

  • Red Leather

    Red leather gloves hit the canvas, air rushes out of his lungs and his gloves. The canvas bag swings back and forth, he dances on the balls of his feet; moving this way and that left hand jabs out quickly comes back guarding his face. He looks at the mirrored wall and adjusts his stance, his leg lifts-impacts the bag before the eye can see.

    “No, No,” comes a deep voice “what are you doing, you know better than that. Hit it with some force, why do I waste my time with you?” the family resemblance is uncanny, must be his father. His shoulder slump, he nods, and swings again. “Are you a girl? Should I buy you some panties?” again comes the dad.

    Leather covered fist slams now; not into the bag, but into the face of hate. The bag has become his father, and you see a smile finally come across his face.

  • Dismal Café

    The café, with a large plate glass window over looking the Lutheran church, was a staple of Dismal, known throughout the tri-country area for its blueberry pie and the two ladies that met there every morning for prayer and coffee.

    Ms’s Evelyn and Zelda knew more about the goings on in town than anyone else; they knew the histories of every family in Dismal for the last fifty years. They should, they were both school teachers in the, now closed, elementary school forty years ago. There wasn’t a long time resident of Dismal that couldn’t help but smile remembering how Ms. Zelda taught them their multiplication tables, or how Ms. Evelyn taught them to dot their i’s and cross their t’s.

    Ms. Zelda’s family had been gone for a while, her husband had passed nearly twenty years ago, and her children refused to visit anymore, and insisted she join them for holidays or family occasions. She needed to move to the big city, they would say, away from secluded, distant Dismal, but this was home. She knew she belonged here, and her friendship with Ms. Evelyn meant everything to her now.

    Ms. Evelyn never had any children, the children of Dismal the only children she ever wanted. She prided herself on recalling the name of every student she ever taught. The greatest joy of life was in watching a child suddenly understand, the gleam in their eye or the sudden revelation; those moments made all the others well worth it.

    Ms. Evelyn and Ms. Zelda were rarely late for morning prayer; if snow got to be too hard to walk through they’d have to wait for a ride from a passing snow plow or a friendly neighbor, which they all were. Arriving at the café, their booth already reserved, right in front of the window allowing them to gaze at the beauty of the sun rise as it overtook the church. In winter the sun would sparkle through icicles, adding to the majesty of the church. In the summer, the lilac bushes would complement the stained glass windows of the church. They always took notice of the dandelions that scattered the lawn of the church, God adding a touch of gold to the scene, sure other people considered them weeds, but they looked kindly on all of God’s creations.

    Mary Lou, the waitress, would bring them their coffee and a small plate of eggs, bacon and a slice of orange. They would guffaw at the people who said they needed to eat healthier, at the age of 65 they were still in very good health, despite the few extra pounds. Their breakfast was always the same, and on special occasions they would have pie before heading out for the day.

    The prayers were always the same; they would start out with the Lord’s Prayer, voice never wavering:

    “Our Father who art heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. Save us from the time of trial and deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory forever and ever. Amen.”

    Then they would say the morning prayer:

    “I thank You, my heavenly Father, through Jesus Christ, Your dear Son, that You have kept me this night from all harm and danger; and I pray You to protect me this day also from sin and every evil, that all my doings and life may please You. For into Your hands I commend myself, my body and soul, and all things. Let Your holy angel be with me, that the wicked foe may have no power over me. Amen.”

    They would sit, and talk about old times, family, and the goings on at the church or with any of the locals until the café started to get ready for lunch. Then they would walk the downtown area, a smile and a hello for everyone they encountered. On occasion, they would stop to chat with Mrs. Peterson or Mr. Hale inquiring to this situation or that.

    Yes, life was good, and thank God for the gift that it was.

  • So Far Away…

    I’m reading Hamlet for school, and my last English paper will be five pages long on one of the major themes of Hamlet. I HATE HAMLET. Never have I had such a hard time reading something, or finding a reason to care. Here’s a major theme of Hamlet… its long and boring with too many footnotes.

    Algebra, is still my primary foe in school-exponents, radicals and radicands. “Be patient with your variables.” In Algebra, if a problem doesn’t seem to work out right: multiply it times it self to get the answer… but, I ask you, if you have 5 apples, and multiply 5 apples times 5 apples doesn’t that equal 25 apples? Math is about lying and cheating, making shit up as you go along.

    Cats are here, sleeping next to me, as soon as I open my Algebra book Mouse will want to lie on top of it, she thinks it’s worthless too.

    Anyway, I’m most of the way through Hamlet, then I should write more frequently.

  • Channel Marker

    Two of my stories have been published in the school annual collection of student writings.

    Channel Marker

    You can read them there, or on MrJamezq.blogspot.com unedited.

  • Dismal Forecast

    The room was spinning and Peter threw his hand on the ground in an attempt to stop it, all it did was make it spin a little faster and his head throb; not to mention his hand had landed in something warm and wet. Last night had been just another night out for Channel 8’s Peter Simon, he’d go to the tavern in the city and sit on a stool, entertain the locals with weather facts, the girls would buy him drinks adding to the drinks he’d bought himself until he could hardly walk. At the end of the night he would usually make up stories about the weather, and come up with excuses to why he couldn’t go with this woman or on the rare occasion why his equipment didn’t work.

    The alarm clock radio comes on then, blasting James Blunt’s You’re Beautiful into the still quiet bedroom; this event alone is why he jumps out of bed-he hates that song. The alarm clock silent, he rehashes resentment; he had let it known at the station that he hated that song, and the producer had introduced pieces of it into the opening of his weather report. That producer had it in for him for some reason, some day he’d get his, Peter thought.

    Staggering to the bathroom, the thought of brushing his teeth makes him gag, so he grabs the vodka from the sink and takes a long swig. He had a couple hours before he had to go in, he’d better drink up to be sure the shakes had stopped by then. He had to drink now, found he couldn’t function at all if he didn’t, he remembered when it was a pleasure, when the alcohol was a lubricant, loosening him up for school, interviews, meeting girls… there was a time when it made everything easier; but now, everything was so hard and the booze just barely kept things acceptable.

    The job was life; he had to keep the job. Vodka, beer and occasionally pot cost money; his tab at the bar was outrageous he was making monthly payments on it now, but it just seemed to grow and grow. Sometimes he could barely recall walking into the bar at all, the only reason he knew he was there was the stale vomit beside his bed and the empty wallet in his pants.

    This was not how he had pictured success; where was the sports car, the eye candy on his arm and the nice clothes. He imagined elbowing his way all the way to a national slot, competing with the likes of Al Roker or maybe even an anchor spot. He sometimes wondered why this county needed a weather report at all, the weather never seemed to change, it snowed nine months out of the year and the other three were so humid your clothes stuck to you within seconds of leaving an air-conditioned room.

    Oh well, he thought, taking another swig, who would even notice if I used the maps I used yesterday, or even the same forecast. Might as well drink a bit more and feel something besides normal, maybe even smoke a joint.

  • Dismal Peak

    As small towns go, you can’t get much smaller than Dismal Peak; one thousand people lived there, give or take a few. No roads went through the town, as the town was off to the side at the base of a snowy mountain peak. The main attractions in town were four taverns and a bowling alley on the outskirts; the closest school was a fifty minute school bus ride. Not that it mattered that much, not many people in Dismal Peak had children that still lived close by, most people moved from the area as soon as they were of legal age. Nothing exciting ever happened in Dismal, or so it seemed to the folks that were in a rush to move; and for the most part they were right.

    The Felstone family could trace its roots from present day to the founding of Dismal Peak, a proud Norwegian family of blond haired women of blue eyes and perked lips, and men made of barrel chests and bulging biceps. Well except Ray, at eighteen he was an anomaly, a toothpick in girth with dark hair and glasses perched over his nose. His family didn’t understand him with a book in his hand inside his room rather than the outdoors like the rest of the family. The second child of four, Ray just always felt out of place. His younger brother could beat him in a wrestling match, if Ray would actually partake in the challenge, probably even his younger sister. In school he belonged to the choir, frustrating his teacher who could hear his perfect pitch and baritone only if she were standing next to him in a room all alone.

    His older sister Julie was an old crone at the age of twenty, having already married the local football star, she took every opportunity to point out how Ray didn’t measure up or just wasn’t good enough. Julie was solely responsible for a nickname Ray had been branded with since elementary school-Germs, many people still snickered at him as he walked down the street in remembrance of that name.

    John, his younger brother, was the talk of the town; a real jock a member of all the local sports teams and the youngest member of the volunteer fire department at the age of 16. Every girl in town could be found writing “Mr and Mrs. John Felstone” over and over again on their notebooks. John used this charisma to have any of the girls he wanted, like kites he would keep them dangling in the sky hoping to be swept up in his arms forever. His contempt for his older brother was apparent to all, all he ever wanted was a brother to compete with and lead by example, certainly not Ray.

    Of his entire family, Denise was the most understanding and supportive of her brother. She always took the time to find out what he was reading, and tried to engage him in activities that would lead to the outdoors or just with people outside the family, the attempts usually met with failure, but she never gave up. Denise shared the common characteristics of most other Felstones, her long blonde hair and blue eyes were admired by the boys in town, but she was a bit shy still at twelve.

    And while Pa Felstone would have approved of a more active, masculine son he never pressured Ray to do or be anything. Each afternoon upon returning from the factory, where he crafted steel tanks, Pa would sit in his recliner and fall fast asleep, his snore rattling the windows ever so slightly. Pa’s naps always lasted until Ma would call for dinner, he get up and come sit at the head of the table a glass of buttermilk already there waiting for him.

    Ma Felstone was a homemaker, and she loved every minute of it, her quiet times were spent in her special sewing room making this or that, creating new looks for rooms with drapes, pillows or throws. One of the best cooks in the county, she had won awards at the fair, and was always the most sought after for local pot lucks. Ma always had dinner ready at 5:30 sharp, and the kids were always on hand, savoring the scents that would emanate from the kitchen. Ma always went out of her way to prepare meals special for Ray, he was the pickiest eater she had ever seen, no onions, mushrooms, sauces, or seasonings… she always worked to make everyone else happy.

    Ray might have never left Dismal Peak or his family home, he was content to spend the rest of his life remote and distant. Of course that was before the big snowstorm and the avalanche that changed everything…

  • Individual Writing Conferences

    ENG 112, today we had Individual Writing Conferences, to let each student know how they are doing in class.

    I sat down across from Professor Theile, written works collected in my folder, my journal ready for his inspection.

    “You’re getting an A in this class.” he says “Do you have any questions?”

    “No,” I say, and then think… yes. “Why am I getting an A?” I press

    “You’re a great writer and you participate in class.” he answers.

    “Yet, none of my papers have been given an ‘A’”

    He assures me that my poem, Foster Home is an A poem, and after looking at my work again, says this is great work you have no worries.

    OK, I guess he can live…. for now!

  • DJ

    his tongue drops brandy on my lips
    heart pulses
    hard, hot, steel rod
    in my hand

    trace fingers over silken chest
    sweat trickles, salty sweet
    migrate to manhood
    thirst, hunger, greed… or need

    panting, groaning
    twin bed creaking
    pain and heat,
    friction so sweet

    legs a vice around him
    pulling him deeper, harder
    tempo, crescendo
    white lava spurts

    he growls and thrusts
    pain and need fulfilled
    with lust