Impact

    They say he died upon impact.  It was a thousand foot fall and the surface upon which to land was marble.  He didn’t have a chance.  When he made the choice to jump off that cliff, he had the highest hopes, the grandest aspirations, the most positive assessment of the possibilities, but apparently, it was all for naught.  When he jumped off that cliff, the end result was inevitable, regardless of how positive a mindset he was able to manufacture.
    The spine was clearly broken, the skull, multiple fractures. Both femurs, both clavicles and every single rib.  The eyeballs had partially dislodged from their sockets and blood was seeping from both ears.  He was not in good shape.  Yet somehow, he stood.  The time lapse from the moment of impact to the rising to his feet, was exactly 3.5 seconds.  The one eyewitness was, possibly, scarred for life, and it was all his fault.  This one who jumped from the cliff and nearly splattered on the marble palette was completely to blame.  Some could refer to genetics, some could point to a lifetime of choices, decisions and influence. But regardless of it all, the one eyewitness was scarred.
    He rose to his feet, rubbed the back of his neck and said, “Ow”.  That was all, “Ow”.  The one eyewitness was sobbing uncontrollably, shaking uncontrollably and uttering strange and foreign words, though only possessing the vocabulary of one language.  The next eleven years was a decade plus one of sideways glances, questions, suspicions and further sideways glances.  But he had no answers, he could give no explanation. He had learned to control his nervous system, all of his systems, in fact.  Yet here it all was, out in the open. He had leapt from the cliff and now would spend the rest of his days, walking, talking, breathing and interacting (at least on a minimal level), completely broken.

Fat

     The children were fat. Not chubby, portly or stout, but fat. Mrs. Grimm stood in front of the classroom, the primary point of attention to twenty two sets of close set beady eyes, pin pricks in flaccid faces, strangely resembling marshmallows.  Little things started to become more noticeable, as each day passed for Mrs. Grimm, teacher of the fourth grade at Portman Elementary School. The increasing number of glassy eyes.  The occasional drool from the corner of a mouth.  The snort following a somewhat too long of laugh.
     The nagging suspicion finally grew to a screeching crescendo one cold fall afternoon, immediately after school.  Mrs. Grimm had packed her handbag and was exiting the building, walking into the drizzle of the ever graying sky.  As the door closed behind her, she was startled to find one of the Nubbins children, one of seventeen, if her count was right. It was the fifth youngest, but it was hard to tell, for they mostly looked alike, morbidly obese with coarse, red hair.  Little Lucy Nubbins was standing in the rain, facing the door and looking at Mrs. Grimm with an odd smile upon her fat lips.  "Oh, Lucy," Mrs. Grimm said with a start, "you surprised me.  What are you doing out here?"  Little Lucy Nubbins said nothing, but only held out her fat little, 8 year old hand.  Mrs. Grimm leaned in, to try to see what it was that Lucy held.  "Oh, Lucy, it's a mouse," Mrs. Grimm said with another start.  She realized, obviously too late, that the mouse was dead.  Lucy rubbed the small thing with her left thumb.
     Mrs. Grimm climbed into her car and looking in her rear view mirror, could only stare at the little girl, ponderously, as she simply stood and stroked her mouse.  Pulling out of the parking lot, Mrs. Grimm headed north, for about sixteen blocks, when she passed the Nubbins home and, as an automatic response to her previous interaction with Lucy Nubbins, observed the homestead.  And oddly, though coming as no surprise, Mrs. Grimm noticed Mr. Nubbins standing in the front yard, wearing nothing but his boxers and swinging a fly swatter at, Mrs. Grimm surmised, a particularly annoying fly, which from her vantage point, could not be seen.  Mr. Nubbins paused for a moment, waved at Mrs. Grimm and then continued his frantic and spastic attempts at Musca domestica assault.
    It was that evening, at the schools annual "Coffee and Chat" in the school cafeteria when the suspicions, the concerns and the overall concern came to a head.  Forty-seven sets of parents with a large herd of unruly, drooling children converged on the cafeteria, all looking for free cookies.  Every teacher, with the exception of Mr. Hausenpheffer, the science teacher, who was home sick with the flu, stood smiling as the invasion began. As Mrs. Grimm traversed the mind numbing landscape of parents, smiling and interacting, she could feel her IQ shrinking, or at least giving the impression of shrinking, like an ice cube on the beach.  After a few minutes of immersion in a conversational pool of flatulence and professional wrestling, Mrs. Grimm made the horrifying observation that every single parent in that room was morbidly obese, painfully obtuse and overall dim witted.
    That evening, after the social, Mrs. Grimm packed her suitcase, grabbed her copy of "Common Sense" by Thomas Paine, and bought a one way plane ticket to Seattle. Her class, the next morning, sat for forty-minutes before they realized they had no teacher.

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Now what?

Carl stood and looked. Behind him, a vast, empty wasteland, a bog really, in which nothing lived besides the algae and moss. But ahead of him lay what appeared to be a wild, untamed jungle, teeming with life, yet apparently chaotic. He took a deep breath and stepped in. The impact of the heat was breathtaking, but not nearly as breathtaking as the beauty of the wild that lay before his eyes. But not only that, every sense was overwhelmed with input. The rainbow of colors, the vast area of smells, the crunch of eons of decaying flora and fauna beneath his feet and he could nearly taste the air around him. And Carl started walking.
His initial response was awe. Every bush, every insect demanded his full attention, such that his progress, while great in content, was minimal in distance. Eventually Carl learned to observe and absorb in shorter time, allowing him to cover more ground. Eventually Carl discovered a path, fairly new, at least by his estimation. Small notes and comments left by those who had gone before, claimed antiquity but a slight nagging left Carl somewhat suspicious. But he continued onward.
Small paths deviated to the left and right of the path upon which Carl trod, but Carl rejected the temptation to deviate. Then one day it happened. Carl had been examining a rock formation slightly off his path, yet easily within sight. He has stopped off the path, yet keeping it in sight. And then he saw it. Another path, which observed from atop the rock formation upon which Carl stood, could be easily seen. Carl could see it often times paralleling his own path but other times greatly deviating. He stood for a long time examining both paths. They were very similar, yet this just discovered path was clearly far older. From his rocky perch, Carl could see the many smooth stones which made up the path. They glistened in the sunlight, revealing a long history of many feet polishing them smooth. Carl had to make a decision. Looking up and down both paths, he could see where his original path had brought him, a circular pattern of articulate designs, through deep valleys, up and down massive tree, thick with vines. Carl's many scars, blisters and slivers gave proof of his journey.
Looking back over the other path, with it's occasional parallel journey, Carl saw a very different pattern. The other path was always straight. Yes, there were just as many small paths deviating from this one as well, but all of them seemed to disappear after deviating. And this path climbed no trees. It followed no circularity. But what it did do was cover ground, a lot of ground, some of it straight over rocky hills. Some of it through swamps, thick with mosquitos. But it was always straight.
Carl spent many days looking at these paths and suddenly one day, he decided, he needed to change course. So he descended his rocky vantage point, stumbled through a patch of poison ivy, over a barbed wire fence and through multiple large spider webs, but he found the new, old path. In one sense, the large smooth stones were much easier to traverse and the path was always clear but in many other ways, the path was much more difficult. Carl often, as had been his practice, stopped to observe and learn of those things along the path. His strong calloused hands exploring and grasping as he learned. But Carl eventually learned a new mantra, "don't focus on the path, focus on the goal."
The thing that Carl noticed that was so different from this former path was the benches. This new path had, every few miles, benches upon which to sit and rest and there were always cool refreshing drinks on a small table to the side. Here he would find brief notes, left by previous travelers, offering advice and warnings. Carl typically found them to be quite helpful. It took him some time to comprehend them, some of them being quite enigmatic. He found too that most of the knowledge he has acquired in his former path was very much unlike the small notes left by others. Most of his was interesting, intriguing and complex, while theirs, much simpler and practical.
Carl began leaving notes of his own, as he took his occasional rest. Eventually, Carl began only writing one question, for he found himself knowing and understanding less and less as time progressed.
He simply wrote, "Now what?"

The disadvantage

It was a game, and it was advertised as fair, yet challenging.  So Robert arrived at the agreed upon location, at the agree upon time, ready for his opportunity to win $5000 in the competition.  He had eaten a light breakfast, he had stretched and had a good night’s rest, the night before. Robert was ready.

Two other gentlemen arrived, just moments after Robert’s arrival, in separate vehicles, one almost immediately after the other.  The first, Constantine, was the official who would be overseeing the contest and giving directions and rules. The second, Alfonso, was the other contestant.  At first glance, Robert knew he would take this contest, easy. Alfonso was a least a foot shorter and 100 pounds heavier than Robert. Robert’s heart fluttered.

Alfonso emerged from his car, gave a genuine “hello” and began his own attempts at stretching.  Constantine addressed both men with the rules, which were very simple. They were to both stand inside a spray-painted circle and, upon hearing the whistle blown, were to run to the nearest tree, grab the flag and run back, handing the flag to Constantine.  The first to do so would receive the prize.

Upon hearing the instructions and acknowledging their comprehension of the rules, both men were led to their spray-painted circles.  Alfonso first, stepped into his circle and waited for the whistle. Robert was led to a four-foot-wide, ten-foot-deep hole in the ground, with his circle painted at the bottom.  “Hop in”, Constantine instructed, rather nonchalantly. “Uh, wait a minute,” Robert replied. “Are you telling me I have to climb out of the hole first and then run?” he asked. “You both need to step out of your circles and retrieve the flag.  We just went over the rules.” Constantine replied, looking rather perturbed.

Robert drove home, empty handed.

Purpleness

Everyone knew when it arrived, but no one knew how long it had been there.  The problem was that the thing (for no one knew what else to call it) seemed to defy all the laws of physics and even the space/time continuum.  Everything about it seemed wrong, everyone agreed. All the religious leaders of the world had come near it, but automatically shrunk away from it.  To quote the Pope of Rome, “There is something very wrong about it.”

It was a calm night when the bright purple light appeared, very distinct, in the night sky over Modesto, California.  It didn’t appear on anyone’s radar but everyone saw it. It made no noise, but it appeared to be a flaming ball. When it finally reached the surface, it struck, silently and sat, silently glowing.  It was brilliant in its color, yet emanated no heat. It had no distinct shape, yet there it was, approximately thirty feet wide, fifteen feet tall and semi-transparent.

It “sat” on the parched ground and did nothing but glow for about three days.  Then suddenly, with silence, it “melted” into a large puddle, covering the ground in a perfect triangle shape.  It seemed to have no depth, but looking into it from above, seemed to reveal an infinite depth. Soon there were sightseeing planes that regularly flew patterns over the purple and the sightseers all claimed to see different things therein. Some claimed to see faces, some claimed to see animals, others to see the future, or the past, or dreams.

After three more days, the purple again shifted its “shape”.  A column, approximately three feet wide, rose from the center.  A single shaft emerged from the column, at a perfect ninety degree angle, but the shaft became flat on the end, similar to a pancake, very circular. But the pancake “disappeared” on the outer edge of the shape.  Within hours, reports began coming in of decades, even centuries old news reports of odd half circle shapes appearing in random places around the United States. Apparently, “the purple” didn’t care about the flow of time.

Then the voices began.  Initially, they were heard only by those nearby, then suddenly, six hours after the voices began, reports began coming in of people across the globe, hearing voices, simultaneously.  Apparently the purple didn’t care about the speed of sound, either. No one could make out the words being spoken, but all spoke of a very ominous feeling, almost a nausea, accompanying the voices.  

Finally, the governor of California, in agreement with the President of the United States took military action.  Initially, it was a small special forces team that, in full gear, attempted to enter the column. But in a very smooth, fluid motion, transitioned away from the column, contrary to orders. The team immediately responded with further attempts to approach the column, but again, automatically shifted away.  Multiple attempts resulted in the same fruit. Theoretical physicists referred to incident as a singularity. The purple seemed to have its own source of gravity and laws. In the same way a man would naturally walk on the face of the earth, pulled by gravity, so too a man walking towards the column automatically walked away upon nearly touching it.

A final military approach came, somewhat by accident, when a local hunter yelled “Screw it” and fired into the purple, or at least tried to do so.  The bullet, following pretty much the same path as the soldiers, veered off in the opposite direction, striking a Coast Guard volunteer in the left buttock.  The gun was apprehended and the bullet wound was dressed, to no further action.

It was with the gunfire that something moved and changed.  The purple became red, gathered into a spherical shape and rose to nearly 10,000 feet into the air.   Then with a loud boom, encompassed the entire planet in a thin red cloud, semi-transparent, yet impenetrable.  Anything approaching the red automatically was redirected in the opposite direction, like the soldier and the bullet.  

A high pitched whistle ensued and decimated all life on the entire planet.  

Duck Pond

Pondering the obvious, Carl held his head in his hands.  Not in the literal sense, but more than figuratively as well.  It was really hot in the small room in which Carl found himself and he was sweating profusely, especially down his back, the occasional bead running down the crack in his butt.

It had all started so innocently.  Carl wasn't looking at anything in particular when he noticed a policeman watching him rather intently.  His father, a former member of the American Anarchists, had taught him to avoid the police at almost any cost.  While Carl did not follow the beliefs of his father, the paranoia has been so deeply ingrained that Carl still found himself wary around the law.

So Carl innocently stood in the park, near the duck pond, looking at nothing in particular, and just happened to scratch himself, in an unfortunate place, at that unfortunate moment. The police officer then made his move.  Carl felt the heavy hand of the law upon his shoulder, literally, while his arm was bent behind his back.  "Enjoying the view there, buddy?"  The words jolted Carl back to the immediate now and made him jump.  The wrenching in his shoulder made him wince and he found himself face down on the grass.

It probably didn't help that Carl had long hair and tattoos and wore a Dead Kennedys Kennedys t-shirt.  And it probably didn't help that there was a preschool group on the other side of the pond doing gymnastics.  And it probably didn't help later, in court, that Carl's dad's dad's name came up with the judge.

So Carl sat in the small, hot, barred cell while the lawyers tried to prove him guilty or innocent of stalking and indecent public behavior.

Another bread of sweat ran down his back.

Oddball Swimming

     It could be said that Jonathan was an oddball, but being unusual is almost completely subjective, by definition.  Sure, there were cultural norms, but in Jonathan's opinion and really, just simple reality, the culture into which one was born was not chosen, it simply happened.

     Sure Jonathan had unusual tastes and unusual thought patterns, but the tastes and patterns were all his own.  "Nothing," Jonathan said, "will be imposed upon me without my careful, objective inspection."  It could probably be said that Jonathan was a bit of an embarrassment for his family, being the wealthiest and most highly regarded family in the state and probably the entire east coast.  But Jonathan considered none of this with any regard.  What mattered was honesty, with self and with others, and love for neighbor.

     Jonathan loved the water.  He bathed, usually, three times a day and spent much of his time in the river behind his family's home.  He considered it his family's home, but not so much his.  He really spent the majority of his time outside, around the river.  He had one cousin with whom he truly resonated and who resonated with him. 
     If pressed, Jonathan would have to admit that he too was somewhat embarrassed by his family, but for the opposite reasons. They were far too vain, wealthy and pompous.  He did love them though and respected them when respect was due.  Out of respect and love for his family, Jonathan would float down the river, on his own small boat to the edge of the family property, deliberately not using the main gated entrance to the family estate.
Jonathan could see the true state of the culture that surrounded him.  There were the filthy rich (his family and a handful of others) and the desperately poor (the other 99.9% of those in his part of the country).  Though rich, Jonathan really felt connected to the masses of poor around him, and it was with these that his thoughts continually sat.  He spent the money he had (which was a lot until uncle Reginald put a stop to his generosity) on the poor around him.  And he spent his time finding ways to help them, in any way he could, for he had many connections and acquaintances.
     Then one day he stopped. He wandered off into the back country (the 1000 acres of forest and scrub on his parents estate) and was never seen again.  His cousin took over.

NFL

Martin and John loved football.  So much so, it seemed, that you could say they considered themselves the sport's biggest fans.  Sure they had some differences in opinion on some of the finer points of the game, but all in all, they loved football.

But then one day, it happened.  Martin and John were re-watching the 1976 Super Bowl and enjoying a snack of jalapeño cheese dip and Lil' Smokies, when a thought popped into Martin's head.   "John," he said, with a slight smear of cheese on the left side of his lower lip, "I've been thinking."  John looked at Martin and nodded, saying nothing, but giving his full attention.  "I've been thinking that the entire NFL has really lost sight of what the game is really about.  I mean, really, look back to the  beginning of the game, 1920, Ohio, I mean really, it wasn't even called "the NFL" back then.  But they have changed everything so much.  They've added so much.  I think we should start talking to people and see if we can turn things around and get it back to it used to be."

John looked and Martin, paused and then told him that he whole heartedly agreed.  It was settled, Martin and John were going to reform the NFL.  After all Martin had actually been employed by the league at one time. Sure it was many years back and his role was simply that of a janitor, but, in his mind, he was "one of the guys."

The following year was a strenuous one.  The two men spent countless hours writing, calling, lecturing and countless conversations on those things they recognized as erroneous within the NFL and how they could go about fixing them.  The response was both good and bad.  The was a fairly sizable contingent that fully agreed with them, but didn't have the tenacity to give much support.  And needless to say, the NFL authorities were less than enthused over these new efforts.

After countless phone calls, letters and emails, Martin and John got their chance.  The President, Vice President and board of trustees for the NFL agreed to meet with them.  They both were flown out to Germantown, OH, the state where it all began.  But Martin and John were in for a surprise.  As they entered the stadium, they found all of their letters, emails and recordings of their lectures on a table in front of them.  The president of the league looked at them and asked one question, "Is this your material?" Martin had to confess that it was.  A very large man with no neck and a bottle of lighter fluid then lit the entire table on fire and left the stadium.

It was one week later that Martin ran an advertisement in the local newspaper.  "Wanted, powerful athletes for the Original National Football League, call 1-800-555-1234, ask for Martin."

Choices

Martin woke.  An unusual circumstance, wakening is, especially since Martin did not remember falling asleep.  The last thing he could remember was sitting in philosophy class, listening to a fellow student espousing a critical reading of Duns Scotus.

But there Martin was, waking up.  Opening his eyes, he did not recognize his surroundings.  Granted, there was not much to recognize, as the floor, walls and ceiling were all stark white and Martin wore only his tighty whiteys.  Turning to his right, Martin identified his clothes, nicely folded in a stack on the floor.  Rubbing his face, Martin looked up, to be momentarily startled by the presence of a very unkempt, disheveled and generally grubby old man, his hands wrapped in bloody bandages, sitting on a folding chair, looking at him.  “Hello Martin”, the old man said. “Uh, hello back,” Martin responded, not wanting to be rude.  “The way I see it”, the old man continued, “you have two choices. You can crawl through tube number one or through tube number two.”  Martin merely looked at the old man, completely perplexed.

Turning to his left, the lights came on.  Martin immediately recognized two rather long fiberglass “tubes”, approximately 24 inches in diameter.  Looking back to his left, the old man continued. “The real rub here though is that neither tube offers a pleasant trip.  The first tube is nearly half full of animal excrement and tube number two has about six inches of broken glass in it.  The way I see, you’re pretty much stuck with unpleasant one or unpleasant two. Though, once you get out the other end of the tube, you can exit the door to get outside, which, I’m assuming you want.”

Martin looked at the old man for a moment then looked back at the tubes.  “That's all I’m saying, and I’m not saying anymore.”  He sat for quite a while, deep in confusion and uncertain as to what to do.  Then it dawned on him.  Martin stood up, put on his clothes, his typical white t-shirt, blue jeans, and sneakers.  He then stepped up on top of the two tubes, walked the length and left the room.

BB's

Charles was finally able to get the barrel of the shotgun into his mouth.  It was a real stretch, but he did it.  Now, sitting on the couch, in only his socks, he managed to get his toe on the trigger.  One slight push and he left a terrible mess for the poor guy that would find him three hours later.

Wallace limped as he walked.  It had only been six blocks, yet his ankle was killing him (not literally, though). It had been 3 months and he consistently used the BB gun on his ankle.  The gun had been a gift from his uncle, (“a boy should know how to use a gun”, he said), and Wallace used it, every day, twice a day, to shoot himself in the ankle, in the exact same spot.  Why, he could not be sure.  But at least he was consistent.

“I’m starting to feel and all I feel is sad,” he said with a flat voice.  This thought and the bitter taste of metal were the last two experiences he would have.  But that last second of existence lasted an eternity, as he pondered the futility of mankind’s efforts.  Not that everything was futile.  Even something as insignificant as the giving away of a water bottle on that hot day in August was not futile.  It was the money, the entertainment, the bright and shiny things of distraction that caught and held the attention of so many, for so long, that really bothered him.

He sat on the sidewalk and held his head.  Sweat ran in beads into his eyes and his stomach felt like lead.  He had no choice but to walk another 17 blocks, as the previous 17 blocks only took him away from his home.  His socks were soggy, his ankle ached and the taste of the mornings bitter coffee would not leave him.  He lifted his head and looked upon the teeming masses that passed by on the opposite side of the street, all oblivious to his plight.  And Wallace knew all too well that none of them cared.

Mac-n-cheese and Peas

Walter pulled out his baseball bat and thumped Lucius on top of the head.  And Lucius, being the sensitive type, crumpled with the blow, dropping like a sack of soggy flour.  In Walter’s defense, it was a very nice bat, hardwood, with a signature from Ken Griffey, Jr.

              Walter was sitting on the couch, eating a bowl of peach yogurt when Lucius sat up, holding his head.  “Good God, my head feels terrible,” Lucius muttered to himself.  “Oh, that’s too bad,” Walter responded, sounding genuinely concerned. “What’s for dinner tonight?” he continued, in the same breath.  Lucius stood up, staggered at bit, but caught himself.  “Uh, I was thinking, umm,… I was thinking about making mac-n-cheese,” Lucius said, his voice quivering a bit.  “You like peas with that, right?”

Lucius wobbled into the kitchen.

The second blow came during dinner.  Lucius had just placed his first bite of peas into his mouth when Walter, in one fluid motion, swung his bat out, from behind his back, with his left hand, and caught Lucius directly on the back of the head.  Lucius' head unceremoniously landed in his noodles.  Within a couple of minutes, he lifted his head up, delicately removed a noodle from his nose and groaned.  “Something wrong?” Walter spouted, through a mouthful of peas.  “I don’t think it’s anything,” Lucius groaned, “it’s just that my head has been hurting lately.”

The next morning, emerging from their respective bedrooms, Lucius leaned against the wall, rubbing his left temple. “Are you still complaining about your head?” Walter sludged, sounding annoyed.

Lucius’ right eye developed a twitch.

The purpose of shorts

After the third time of Gene running into the wall, a collective groan simultaneously escaped the throats of all those present.  It would have been funny if it weren’t so obviously painful.  But Gene simply got up adding took off running on the opposite direction.
This was supposed to be a basketball game, but when Gene emerged from the locker room wearing his shorts on his head and only his jock strap on his nether regions, the game never really got started, the immediate comedy of the situation prevented any modicum of order.
At the start, when teams were being decided, Gene grabbed the ball and started running, and hadn't stopped since.  Except for the time the corner of the bleacher caught him at groin level.  But within a moment, Gene was running again.
Initially, the others were shouting things like,  "put your shorts on right,  uncover your eyes, watch where your going", but Gene insisted that there were no shorts and that he could see perfectly fine.
But it was the backboard pole that finally did him in.  Gene had just picked himself up from tripping over the first step of the bleacher, when he had reached top sprint speed and run square into the post.  The hollow bong the emanated from his head stopped everyone in their tracks, including Gene. He had finally done it.  Gene stopped running.
Four of his friends, each on a limb, carried him off the court.

The Snap

Bob snapped.  It couldn't have come at a less opportune time, but come it did.  Bob, as chairman of the local Toastmasters branch in Idionville, was often invited to speak at various events, usually focused on generally ambiguous motivations.

But this time was different.  The local chapter of Manure Sculptures of America had invited him to speak on freedom of artistic expression. As he began his very typical process of fabricating his talk, the words flowed, the ideas came as a fountain and he generated his typical thirty minute talk.  Bob lay down for sleep that night, the mind that generated thirty minutes of inanity, now was focused on the upcoming Superbowl, all thoughts of motivational manure, gone.

Bob woke the next morning, refreshed, distracted and merely looking forward to completing his motivational talk for that afternoon being completed.  As he drove to work that morning, he ran through the notes of his talk, mentally, still formed and driven for excellency by his years of Toastmaster training.  Inane the subject may be, Bob would still deliver a rousing, moving, motivational talk, so he supposed.

Entering the oversized facility that afternoon, Bob was continually assaulted by the smell of manure and the calloused handshakes of far too many brown fingernailed artists.  Following a brief introduction by the president and founder of the MSA, Bob mounted the stage and took his place behind the podium, a brown podium, nonetheless.

As the words began to flow, the heat from the overhead lights began to feel a little to overpowering.  Bob looked across the crowed, numbering easily over 300, sweaty foreheads and twiddling, browned fingers.  And then it happened. Bob choked on his own spit, cleared his throat and deviated from his well-rehearsed speech. He snapped.

The next 22 minutes were a blur as Bob flew off the handle, ad libbed and verbal assaulted every form of artistic license of which he could conceive.  He attacked the ridiculous medium that most art took.  He ridiculed the mockery of all this truly artistic in the American mindset of creativity, caricature and novelty.  He briefly considered urinating in a jar and placing a small statue of the Buddha therein, to declare it a creative outlet, but then thought better of the idea, Mapplethorpe be damned.

By the time the police had arrived, Bob had slipped into his happy place and was quoting Shakespeare.

Five

The five sat alone in silence, their gaze fixed, not on one another, but to a spot in their center. It had been a cumulative effort of nearly two hundred years, but for them it was a mere moment, a blink. 
They were ever reaching, further and further, an incredible feat for most, but they knew, as very few could, their progress was actually just a beginning.  No one knew them, who they were, where they came from, their names or even where they were. 
Light and darkness came and went and often they didn't notice. Hunger pains would occasionally arise, it would be scarcely addressed, an annoyance really, but they would then return to reaching. 
It was a white light, pure, clear, no color whatsoever, almost unbelievably bright, yet not blinding.
They all saw it, together, yet also as a one to one relationship,  it's depth far beyond what even they could imagine. 
Nectarios, Demetrios, Vladimir, Seraphim and Ephraim, this is who they were.  Though they were simply five individuals who would never be known by anyone outside,  they retained their identities, specific people with specific personalities and spirits.  They would not be lost in the immeasurable depth of the white light, never lost, but always reaching deeper.  Five individuals yet one in a bond of love and commitment.
The five sat in a circle, ever reaching, ever deeper.