It doesn't seem fair that people who write stuff about you are the least informed.

You used to have to be a celebrity to complain about something like that. It has, at least traditionally, a sort of mass-media ring to talk about your name in the "headlines". But headline writers, anymore, are people with a cell phone or work computer & appetite for Facebook.

Once upon a time, you needed .edu in the surname of your email address to bull-rush the security turnstile of Facebook new account clearance.

Not no more.

Jesus, the stuff people put on there amazes me. Recently I've seen a lot of summoning of "prayer warriors". I don't quite know what that is. Don't think I'd like to encounter one in real life, though. I imagine they walk from Sunday school to big church with a Bible loosely tied around their beltline. Ready to draw 'n hit you with a quote if you so much as challenge them with a bad mood. Or pessimism.

Another thing I see a lot of on there these days is political stuff. I don't really have any comment on that.

"No comment," that's one of the things I would say a lot if I was a celebrity. Like when the paparazzi bum-rush you at your car.

"Please. No pictures."

Man, that'd be cool for a minute. Just to be like a real celebrity or whatever.

I didn't used to be any kinda celebrity. Not even in my hometown did people outside who I run with know my name.

Once upon a time, I was a good kid. Above-average baseball player.

Good 3-point shooter.

My sister always would come to my games. In the beginning, she had to. Mama made her.

But then, even after she got a car and a boyfriend, she'd still come. She didn't cheer or nothing. But, from what I remember, she'd be there.

People knew she supported me or whatever, I don't know, I don't even like to put it that way. Because it makes me sound like I had a real problem. And that she was like my "support" or whatever, and like I needed that. Man whatever, I ain't ever really even had like a problem.

Just, for some reason, people started thinking my life was worth paying attention to. Whatever whatever. You know?

The headlines. Man, I don't even like to be like that. I don't want drama. I ain't about that.

I'm a good kid.

Dude, I can remember when my mom moved from two jobs to one. She had started up with this guy Darrell. Man, he was so good to her.

They'd take us with them on Saturdays errrrywhere. I can't remember hardly ever having babysitters.

Shit was sooooo good for a while.

Man, I think sometimes what if they'd ended up together.

Like how it was then. Not how it got.

Like, what if they could've stayed happy and he'd adopted me, and I had a steady good influence above me at the house, what with me having anger problems and all that, probably would've been good especially if it was a man, and what about if he'd never showed me pills or how they make you feel, and what it's like to go a day without 'em.

I think on that sometimes. Think on all that stuff.

Hell, thoughts is pretty much all I got. In here, man, the books I get my hands on ain't worth reading anyway.

Autobiography of Malcolm X, what the fuck I'm post to do with that?

I'd rather have my hands on something with meat on the bones. Know what I'm saying. I'm just playing, I'm just playing.

I ain't even have a girl when they locked me up. I was single.

Shit, I'll be lucky to ever get something warm and wet again. That's what they tell me. By the time they let you out, most dudes can't even keep it up.

I remember back in the day, once upon a time, when I was a pussy warrior. Fuck prayer warriors. I was a goddamn pussy warrior.

Man this one time, I can remember I did the Abraham Lincoln circuit. In Nashville, man, we got all the tourists. This one time, check it out:

Friday night Illinois girl.

Saturday night Kentucky girl.

Sunday night motherfuckin' Indiana girl.

Once upon a time. Man, I was a motherfucking pussy slayer. Street warrior.

I was a soldier. Darrell knew it too. He took advantage of my ass.

I ain't see it coming either. Mama, man, she was too messed up to warn me. Darrell, man, he ain't a good dude. That's all there is to it.

He played us. He played my moms. He played my little brother. That's what I'm most heavy on. Man, I can't even speak on that.

Yeah, he played me. I made peace with that, though. Only God can judge me. Know what I'm saying.

My little brother, man, they turned him. He wasn't no thug. Man, you log onto Facebook though. They make him sound like, man they got him up there like some serious gangster.

Kyle wasn't no goddamn gangster. Maybe he wasn't real smart. I happened to get the genes that way. And then I wasted 'em. I had a good look at the basket too.

I was about to finish school. I was doing my thing, drawing and writing comic books. I always had a good vocabulary.

Pretty much all my teachers told me I could write. Math, man, I just don't have the patience for it. But with writing, I don't know, it just rolled off my fingers.

I know good stories.

No good story about real people was ever written under some once upon a time headline bullshit.

Man, fuck that. I like real stories and real people.

Maybe one day I'll write my own. Leave Darrell out of it. Or shit, maybe I'll make him my devil.

Someday. One day at a time.

(Challenge Prompt: "Once upon a time...")

___________________

"She is a beautiful girl. I'll give you that."

The tall man spoke in the quiet moon shine. Night noises had long since ceased. Only the sound of trees rustling in a gentle breeze could be heard accompanying his voice.

"When she first told me about the games you two played, I wanted to think she was lying. I wanted to believe that it was some kind of practical joke; she said you even made her call you 'daddy.' I wanted to know that you'd never hurt her.  She's just a little girl."

He leaned against the long wooden handle of a shovel, wiping sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. In the night's light, the rag appeared to be spotted black.

"Oh, damn. I made a mess." Forgetting about the spots on his cloth, the man left streaks across his forehead. Touching his fingers above his brow, he brought them down to eye level, feeling their stickiness.

"Once upon a time, we were almost family.  My closest friend.  I named you her Godfather, even.  Everything's different now.  It's all a wreck, and I'm the one left cleaning it!"  His voice had climbed into a restrained shout, but there was no audience to witness his flare of temper.

Nearly no audience, anyway.

The tall man kicked the heap before him.

A muffled groan was the only response.

"Look at this. You're the one did all the work, and I'm the one sweating." He chuckled ruefully.

"Well. Maybe it's psychological. I've never exactly done this before. I guess I have you to thank for that, too. Another first for you, congratulations."

The pleas had stopped thirty minutes in. The hole became wider, deeper, but still too shallow for proper Christian use.

It only had to be deep enough to avoid the plowblades.

There had been a severe beating before they'd ever taken a drive out to this lonely cotton field. Rope had been used after the hole was finished, but not the way this monster had used it on his daughter.

Nothing about tonight was a game.

"Well, Dom. I think it's time for you to pray. You know how this ends."

The tall man left his shovel-support and leaned over to help the tied man into a sitting position.

"Dom. Dom, don't cry, big guy. You knew the risks. You've known me our entire lives. The kind of man I am. The kind of lengths I'd go to in order to protect my family. To protect my little girl."

Sobs shook Dominic's body, and the hemp between his teeth couldn't muffle the renewed pleas for clemency.

Sighing, her father drew shining blue steel from a leather holster. Pausing to admire the glow of moonlight along the cold length of the barrel, he paused and looked down at Dominic.

"You know how old she is, Dom. And you did it anyway. She still asks me to buy her Barbies and Strawberry Shortcake, you twisted fuck. I hope the Manjesus forgives you, because I, her father, her Daddy, I don't."

The ropes pulled tight as he tried to flee; the gag was true to the word as he screamed for mercy, but all he succeeded in doing was roll with the slug from that forty-four.  Headfirst, he toppled into the shallow grave dug by his own hands.

Silence.

Dom was almost dead before the first spray of dirt landed on his back.

Her dad stopped to listen as nightsounds returned to normal while he worked.

Once upon a time an artist lived an ordinary life. The artist noticed the details of nature. He was frustrated time passed too quickly for him to linger in nature's beauty because he was never done before another task of life presented itself.

The artist noticed voice tones. 

The artist noticed attire while observing posture. 

The artist was attracted to ancient styles. 

The artist created unheard of fashions in his day. 

The artist created men's formal suits with patterns of babies and pacifiers on them. 

The artist created dental floss like tiny pipe cleaner. 

The artist painted pictures that encouraged the peoples' hearts.

The artist created illusions that stopped crime.

But then, another life task presented itself. The artist could not stop creating, still accomplishing life's tasks.

The artist danced in the music of the trials of life. 

The artist planned for his future grasping humor.

But then, another difficult life task presented itself. The artist still could not stop creating however the life task was huge.

The artist had a friend. The artist did not create the friend. 

The friend encouraged the artist to save his work.

The artist began to sign his work no matter what life task was at hand.

The artist saved his works.

You are the artist.

Who is your friend?

"See, that is the foremost and truest mistake of storytelling.  Children, take heed; there has never been a good and proper tale with the preface once upon a time-"

"Grandpapa, please!  Just tell the story!  Tell the tale of beautiful princess!"

"Aye, Grandpapa, and the dreadful Uilepheist!  And his diet of nasty harpies!"

"Oi, and don't forget the beautiful, lovely princess!"

"'Ey, lot, why don't you all tell it since you've shouted the entire storyline?  Patience, little gremlins, it wouldn't kill you all to learn a bit about the nature of stories and faerytales.

"Now, what was I.. right, right, the garbage of once upon a time.  Phtooey.  The sorry-sod to start that wretched ritual ought'a be stoned for shaming the whole affair of yarn-spinning.  No good tale begins-"

"But Grandpapa, what about the tale of the mermaid princess?  That tale began with once upon a time!  And it's my favorite - no, second favorite, to the glass-slipper princess!  She's my favorite.  And that started with it too, yeah!"

"Little Ethel, I've got some terrible news."

"..What, Grandpapa?  Have you got lumbago?"

"Eh?  No.  You see, the tale of the water princess, the precious tale of love and triumph over wickedness and other blasphemy?  It's been mutilated from its true version.  It's a sham, a false idol in the pantheon of legend and fable."

"A sham?!  Even the bits about true love?"

"Especially the bits about true love.  Listen here, little gremlins; faerytales have naught to do with love, altruism, or utopian ideals.  The true nature of a faerytale is an expression of lore full of intrigue, beguiled by magic and pre-ordained misfortune.

"And the truth about that water princess, little Ethel?  She was penultimately spurned by the prince and died a virgin."

She sits in her castle high on the Mt. top,

With only her mirror to show her the world below,

She gives the earth a needed break,

Shields the fields, forests and lakes,

Yet still no one appreciates her gift.

Except for one sweet boy in the village below,

Who looks upon her frozen wonderland and sees it for what it is,

The beauty that can only be found in the patterns of frost,

The trees coated in ice preserving them for a time glittering like crystals,

The snowflakes floating each unique and sparkling in the light makes the earth shine.

She watched him this wonderful boy as he grew,

Inspired by his jokes and the frivolity he would inspire,

The softness he would bring to her winter wonderland,

As they years passed, and he grew she would fell more and more entranced,

Deeper and deeper in love with the man he was becoming,

The more in love she fell the lonelier she felt.

And as she made a wish while watching through her mirrored companion,

A wish he would join her and see her for who she was,

it was a mistake that shard that entered his eye,

She only wanted to fix her mistake,

And maybe meet him in person,

Only that girl she mistook her for an evil witch,

The girl from the village came and sealed her in her castle,

And erased her from his memories.

Sealed in her castle she waits and wonders if she will ever see him again,

Her only connection to the world a sliver of her mirror that remanded in his eye.

She wished upon a star to have him forever more,

And when he fell through the ice, She took a chance and sacrificed her physical form ,

For the opportunity to some day have a chance with him,

For the Man on the Moon to notice and help him,

She feared the worst but then rejoiced,

For that small sliver allowed him to hold on,

For Manny to give him a chance at a new life.

As hope once more filled her chest,

She wondered if perhaps they may meet again,

If in this life they had a chance.

But, his memories were lost,

His past life's memories were gone,Making the memories of  her even farther away, 

Including his promise to return.

Trapped in her castle she does her best to ensure he knows he is not alone,

And though no one sees him or believes in him,

She does she always will,

She sacrifices her voice for the chance to help him,

To at least escape her prison.

Wind he calls her and she responds,

Helping him fly and roam wherever he may go never leaving his side,

She will protect him, guide him, and comfort him,

All the while waiting for him to remember and come find her once more,

So they may have their happily ever after.

Once upon a time there lived a tiny green imp who absolutely loved children. He loved children so much, in fact, he would capture them and bring them to his lair. But he wouldn't harm the children, oh heaven's no. They were his companions, his friends, his playthings to do with what he wished. To obey his rules, call him king, and keep him company for ever and ever. The kids that went missing were never seen or heard from again. That was until one day, when the foolish imp kidnapped the wrong one.

Marcus was a small-town kid with big time dreams. He wanted more than anything to be a superstar - Oscar-winning actor, professional ballplayer it didn't matter. Anything to escape his humdrum life as the son of chicken farmer.

Marcus’ younger sister Maddie was another story. Maddie was a daddy's girl through and through. She enjoyed helping her father run the farm and hoped daddy would leave it to her one day. The two siblings couldn't be more different. They often argued and bumped heads. In fact, it wasn’t until Maddie went missing, that Marcus even realized how much he loved his baby sister.

The day started off like any other. Marcus woke at 5 to feed the chickens, gather the eggs, and clean the coop. After cooking breakfast, Marcus went to find Maddie but to his dismay she wasn't in her room. Marcus searched all over the house, out in the backyard and even in the barn, but there was no sign of Maddie.

With great reluctance, Marcus woke his father and alerted to him to Maddie’s disappearance. As his dad pulled the covers back, the smell of alcohol was pungent.

“That's not like her.” Was all his dad said.

“Should we call the police?” Marcus asked.

His dad simply shook his head. “She's gotta be around here somewhere. Just keep looking.” With that, he rolled over and resumed his coma of intoxication.

Marcus called around some neighbors houses and asked Maddie’s friends about her whereabouts but no one had seen her since yesterday.

When Marcus goes back into Maddie’s room, something seemed off. Near the window, some of her school books had been shifted around. Upon further inspection, he sees the outline of a footprint on the window seal. Nothing appeared to be missing, no clothes or shoes, and the print looked too big to be Maddie’s. Her room was on the second floor, so climbing out the window seemed unlikely. Marcus also noticed an odd-looking gold dust sprinkled on the floor.

“Guess she must have flown.” Marcus joked.

Against his father's advisement, Marcus called the authorities. Unfortunately, the police proved to be no help whatsoever. Marcus and his dad were required to fill out a missing person’s report and child protective services came out to investigate. It was determined that Maddie must have run away and the police promised to call if they heard anything.

Marcus knew his sister wouldn't have run away. She was out there somewhere waiting for him to find her. And no matter what, Marcus was going to bring her back home.

Marcus waited for his dad to pass out drunk that evening before collecting a sample of the gold dust and snapping a picture of the footprint. He knew there was one person in town he could trust, the master of all things abnormal and unexplained, his best friend, Sam.

While Marcus was the son of the town-drunk, Sam was the son of the local nut job. When his dad was a boy, he claimed to have witnessed a short man in green kidnap his friend and tried to stop him but couldn't. The police never found any evidence to back up his story so the town labeled him insane. Everyone assumed his friend just ran away

“It's definitely him.” Sam insisted after examining the gold dust. “He took your sister. I'm sorry.”

Marcus paused for a moment. Then he headed toward the door.

“Where you going, Marcus?”

“I'm going to get my sister back.”

To be continued...

There was an election in town!

They rarely held elections in Coopersville, but this one was for a special occasion: the people of Coopersville were in desperate need of a new town crier.

The current town crier was Ned Blanch. He was loved dearly by the people of Coopersville for being such an honorable and outgoing man. But after 63 years of dutiful public service, Ned was ready to retire and spend the rest of his days drinking ice tea on his front porch with his beautiful wife, Helen.

//

When word got around that the Town Crier was set to retire, only one person applied for the job. That person was Bobby Kaufmann, and he was the village idiot.

Every village has that one guy, and in Coopersville, Bobby Kaufmann was that guy. He shot spitballs at pedestrians and put whoopie cushions in the city councils boardroom.

Yes, Bobby Kaufmann was an ass hat and the only reason he was running for Town Crier was to have an excuse to scream. If Bobby could win the election, he would finally be able to do what he loved, and Bobby loved to scream.

//

Come election day, not a soul was to be seen at the polling office. Turns out, old Ned, had taken retirement two weeks early and had neglected his duty as Town Crier. Instead of manning his post in the Town Square and alert people of the big election, Ned Blanch was currently with his wife Helen en route to the Bahamas for two weeks of Mai Tai's, sunshine and sweet hubba hubba.

The only person who turned out to vote was Bobby Kaufman. And Bobby only remembered to vote because he passed the polling office on his way to the arcade and thought he smelled bacon.

//

Bobby won the election with one hundred percent of the voting populations approval. The people were a bit disgruntled.

Bobby began his first shift at 5:07 on a Saturday morning. The sun was a faint glimmer on the horizon, the air was still and silent and even the rooster's were still rubbing sleep from their eyes. Bobby screamed as loud as he could for as long as he could.

It sounded like this:

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGRREEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHAAAARRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHRRRRRRGGGGAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA................”

He screamed for six minutes and 47 seconds. It was actually kind of impressive. And if it had been another day/time/circumstance or dimension, every one would have been very impressed indeed. But it was 5 am on a Saturday morning in Coopersville and the townspeople were not impressed. In fact, they were irked to say the least.

It has been said that the way you start your day determines your mood for the rest of the day, and that day, everyone was cranky. People bumped into people without saying sorry, they refused to hold doors open for one another, they said rude things under their breath, cut in line at the supermarket, and refused to help the old women across the street.

Everyone was cranky // No one had any fun

Meanwhile, Bobby was fucking canary in a coal mine, singing his god damn head of in non stop, non sequitur, non-sense. So by the time his shift ended at 9, it was dark and Bobby's throat was hoarse. He was happy and satisfied from a such a hard days work. He had earned his sleep.

//

The next morning, Bobby Kaufman woke before the roosters and prepared himself for morning wake up call.

“aaaaaaaaaaa........”

He coughed pathetically.

His voice was so weak from screaming, he could hardly out speak a hamster with strep throat, let alone cry out to an entire village. He was outraged! After all this time and effort, he could hardly peep a squeak. So he sat down on the steps of the town square and thought.

//

27 years passed.

//

Bobby Kaufmann has been silent this entire time. He sat on the steps of the towns square and thought for 27 years. 27 years of thinking can do a lot to a person. As he sat and thought all those years, he was not alone. The people of Coopersville were there to keep him company. They came to show their support for Bobby and tell him it was okay, but mostly they came to talk.

People came to talk about all kinds of interesting things. They would sit and talk for hours, not necessarily because they had something to say, but because sometimes, you just need to talk.

When his voice returned and he was finally able to speak, Bobb kept his words few and far in between, and spoke with intention. He realized that he didn't have to scream to be heard and after 27 years of being silenced, he finally understood the importance of listening. He got up, brushed the dirt off of his ego and left the town square.

He spent the rest of his years in a small wooden cabin on the outskirts of town. He lived alone and off the land. The villagers would visit him regularly to tell him of their lives and problems. He would listen carefully, absorbing every word sponge like. When they finished speaking, he would sit and ponder. Sometimes he sat for minutes, other times years, but when he responded, he spoke eloquent and precise. With surgical perfection moving liquid fluidity. The villagers loved him dearly. He gave wonderful advice

and was a friendly and honorable man.

Bobby Kaufmann retired from his post at the age of 99 to walk the surrounding forests and make conversation with local chipmunks. The people of Coopersville miss him dearly. They even funded a sculpture of Bobby to place on the steps of the town square,

Where he sat and thought for all those years. Next week, they are holding an election for the vacant post he left behind,

Yes, the people of Coopersfield are in need of a new Wiseman.

...