Found these recently.

Yet more fragments from my mind. Here is a short story I found that I had started in an untitled document.

The man stumbled through the thick undergrowth of the rainforest. The slick mud and rotting foliage made traction nearly impossible. The bullet in his left hamstring burned with every step and fire shot through his leg. Infection was a surety, the moist air, the pained nights of restless sleep, and lack of medical supplies made it an eventuality which he did not relish.

Rick knew he was finished. The operation went to hell in a hand basket before his team landed. The discjet had barely touched down when a rocket screamed into their staging area. The aircraft was a complete loss. Ambushed, the surviving commandos fought with everything they had. Rick had been shot in the leg, when he fell he was knocked unconscious after his head collided with a stone on the ground. The lone survivor of his team, the guerreros must have thought him dead when they left the remains of the discjet and the corpses of his comrades behind them.

There was wildlife that defied comprehension in this jungle. The genetic engineering projects of the past three decades had made creatures that were incredibly well adapted to survive. The most bothersome of these were the hunter moles. Their sharp digging claws and incredibly powerful jaws made them gruesome to contend with. It was rumored that the moles were hybridized with wolverine and mongoose stock to create a half blind predator with little regard for the size of its intended victims. Rick had knifed three his first day in the rainforest. They were quick and his pants were shredded around his shins and calves.

Hour after aching hour he trudged through the jungle. It had been at least a week since the discjet was lost.

Here is a first draft poem fragment I found in my Google Docs.

Do not be obsessed with death

It is unknown and unknowable

Rather be concerned with life

Live fully, happily, and waste no breath

We are not strangers

Death and I are well acquainted

Our first meeting I was five

Still unaware of the dangers

Of my own body, attacking

Itself on many levels

It is varied and ever causing strife

And compassion it is certainly lacking

Do what you love, there is little time

Follow it thoroughly, do not quit

Of pleasure, yourself do not deprive

Every incursion on your enjoyment

Fredly Adventures

Fred sat at his desk and hanged his head sadly, his hands rested palms down on the surface of his worktable, as the sigh escaped from his gullet. The scorching summer sun he saw through the window contrasted bleakly with the bluish hue and low hum of the T8 fluorescent tubes above his head. The conflicting parts of the light spectrum made Fred nervous. The reddening light of the stretched out sunset and the blue tubes were battling the energy drink, the jay he smoked at lunch, the craving for nicotine, and his antidepressant: he felt like a dreidel on an uneven table. The constant air conditioning made the call center smell stale and the air dried out the back of the throat.

The man had dirty blond hair, a florid complexion, drab brown eyes, and pale skin. His wardrobe tended toward khaki with an accent of brown and his unkempt appearance was a combination of an aversion to razors, allergies to laundry fragrances, and laziness. The bulk on his short, wide frame gave the impression of a barrel that had grown skinny cartoon legs and arms. Not one for floral scents, the cologne that effected his personal space was spicy and some might have said it smelled somewhat angry. Fred looked to his right and saw Rudi two rows down, This whole place would be better without Rudi.


Fred thought this little refrain at least once a day. Two weeks ago when she asked which ocean New Mexico was closest to he smashed his forehead into the wall by his desk repeatedly. Every time she spoke with the customers and asked them to hold while she had to speak to a supervisor Fred cringed. Even though he was no where near a supervisor's pay grade she would always ask the taciturn man for confirmation of details or even for information that had been communicated to the rest of the team weeks ago. Reading comprehension seemed to be beyond her capabilities. At first Fred wondered if she was interested in him because she constantly assaulted him with stupidity. Hopeful that she was using her questions as segues into deeper conversation he tried to coax her into talking about herself. Rudi was on a completely different wavelength though and after a few weeks of her ignoring his awkward attempts at banter and small talk Fred concluded that she was mentally deficient.

"Hey Freeed?" Rudi asked after she gophered above her cubicle. The beautiful brunette intoned the last part of his name to such a high pitch that Fred ripped a paper off his cube wall and crumpled it into a very small ball. If her visual appearance were not so attractive Fred may have murdered her months ago as a favor to the general population. Rudi was a petite Italian woman in her early 30s, with a long patrician nose, almond shaped chocolate eyes, olive skin, an hourglass figure that made every straight man's heart in the building race, a chest that was not too big for her frame, and a butt that could only have been described by a word that rhymes with rubble. Unfortunately for our hero's taste this combination of physical beauty and a skull filled to 40 psi placed her on a special area of the womanly number line. She had exceeded the scale and sat firmly at both 0 and 10 simultaneously. Some of the nerdier fellows called it the Rudi quantum state of hotness.

Fred gritted his teeth and stood up. He was so short in comparison to his coworkers that he was only slightly visible below the shoulders when standing at his cube. "What do you need Rudi?" the man let the words grind out of his throat like grist being turned to dust. After she had outlined an issue that newer employees typically mastered within 3 weeks of training's end Fred dolorously responded and provided her with a full and correct answer. He then assumed an almost identical position of despair that he had assumed before Rudi had asked her question. What a wonderful existence for 9 hours a day. Fred pondered that tomorrow will be Friday or "Monday plus four" as he called it when he grumbled on his walk to the bus stop after work and on Fridays we dance.

Some Stuff I've Done In The Past, Perhaps Worth Revising.

Most of this is poetry I wrote when I was very young. Some of it not so young. Mainly here so I have a place to look at it and try to make something new.

Bound by many cords

The heart is pulled in five directions

Each rope is held by loved ones

These are important strings

Made of silver, they shine balefully

As the moon's cold light

East, west, south and north

These ties will spin your limbs

The rope made of gold 

Is reserved for the beloved
Give it freely, this one will grow back

Shorter, it is harder to extend

And if severed, it is painful

Even worse to put forth again

Choose its holder carefully

Finally there is line made of diamond

Carbon crystals formed, the rope held by none

This flies to the Divine

Sometimes you cannot see or feel it

Do not doubt its existence

Pull with all your might

Ascend!

--

Today I saw the sky 
Like never seen before 
The giant rolling clouds 
Like some far off distant shore 
The blue vast like the rolling sea 
Such a sight was never meant for me 
The sands and the seas 
Make beautiful harmonies 
Sights and sounds--Nature's song 
All this beauty was never meant for me 
God's beautiful creations 
Objects I don't deserve 
These beautiful creations 
These we must preserve

--

She walks in the night 
Beauty her right 
Tiger's eyes 
Much like fire 
To the left 
To the right 
Something in sight 
In harmony of the night 
Sparks fly 
Tongues lie 
Eyes flash 
Lives crash 
Deception her name 
The lying game 
Beauty's impression 
Leads to depression 
The pit deepens 
A child weeping 

--

A flaming arrow 
Flying 
Piercing flesh 
Eyes like fire 
\Slowly scorched 
The fire spreads 
Through my soul 
Eyes like fire 
\Sparked by words 
Truth quickly ignites 
Yet some will not take it 
Eyes like fire 
\I look 
Surrounded by flames 
Darkness 
Eyes on fire 

Today's Written Shiat

Drowning in his own sputum he looks around at the people lying in the beds next to him. The rows of beds and their patients remind him of the garden he tended as a young boy. Each person a rotting carrot, their taproot bodies eaten from within like burrowing rabbits below. The consumption is slow and agonizing. The man looks up and sees the city of shining quartz. The city has been calling to him for some time. His neighbor in the bed not an arm's length away coughs loudly. The spasms racking his body from expelling the tiny bits of pink lung and mucus shakes the whole bed and nearly jitters the bedpan from the night stand. The other patient examines the product of his efforts that have been deposited on the hand towel. The city fades away as the man fades back into a laudanum induced oblivion. Some day...

Brain Blurbs

Erm... another miscarriage of a poem or one that just needs some time in the prenatal care unit? Can't tell yet.

It's the same old you
The same old me
Just the rise of technology
Distract the man on the street
Keep him blind
To the hand of the elite

Something that hit me, perhaps as the start of a spoken word piece.

Do some women think of their children like I think of the results of dinner at Del Taco? Do they think to themselves, "Well that was marginally satisfying. What is this brewing in my gut? Oh no not the cramps!" Perhaps they look down and stare at the product of their efforts and repeat something similar to my thoughts, I put in all this work for such a small result? You'd think it would have turned out a little bigger. I pushed and sweated for all this time and now I have this. Do these same women wish that they could have flushed their children away like a Macho burrito?

This is the Grey Space

For a long time I've taken part of the name Mithrandir from J.R.R. Tolkien's Lord of the Rings series. In the Elvish tongue that Tolkien constructed the name means grey pilgrim. For those of you that know me well online the remainder of my name is Shrike. Most people mistype this as Strike. The Shrike is a character from Dan Simmons' Hyperion Cantos. This is an interesting amalgam of a name: Gandalf's character was an integral part of Good's struggle versus Evil whereas the Shrike is first perceived as a malevolent but is later illuminated as its own force no matter how violent. This is a basic explanation of the tick and tock of MithShrike. Committed to doing good, grey in more ways than one, morals and motivations occluded behind walls of pontification, just a space to throw crap up and hopefully I can mold this turd into something worthwhile and then plate it solid gold son!