OT - There are some very talented people in this forum. - * Here is a great web site for those of you who are interested in Writing * --greenspun.com : LUSENET : TimeBomb 2000 (Y2000) : One Thread
Click on the link to go to The Inkspot - The Writer's Resource.
The Inkspot is a web based community for writers, from beginning writers to seasoned veterans.
-- snooze button (firstname.lastname@example.org), February 01, 2000
My mind is a raging torrent, flooded with rivulets of thought cascading into a waterfall of creative alternatives...
-- Powder (Powder47keg@aol.com), February 01, 2000.
It was a dark and stormy night ...
-- Steve Baxter (email@example.com), February 01, 2000.
"Who is John Galt...?"
-- A (A@AisA.com), February 01, 2000.
How does it end, how does it end!?
-- Lars (firstname.lastname@example.org), February 01, 2000.
Like it started ... badly.
-- Steve Baxter (email@example.com), February 01, 2000.
From my memoir: (sorry about the manure, but that's how it was.)
"Folkert was built like an oak barrel, like the ones that everyone buys halves of, to fill with dirt, to grow weeds in, and sometimes flowers. He was also filled with something heavy, because the short legs under the cask bowed into an O. On top of this barrel was a round head, securely fastened with a stout neck which allowed little motion. Stubby arms were stuck to each side of this barrel. Once I touched one of its bare arms while we were reaching in to repair a tractor. Oak was hard; therefore I was surprised that this barrel was soft and warm, like humans. I never resolved the riddle of how something that felt so soft could be so hard.
Despite Folkert's hard, heavy and inflexible appearance, he could be an agile orchestrator in the barn. His bowed legs gave him an unexpected spring. He proved this when he flew into a rage after a cow whipped her moist, green tail across his face while he was harvesting her last drop of milk. I didnt know if she did this intentionally, but she aimed at the right target. Nor did I learn if Folkert ate it, or if he had closed his eyes and mouth during that critical moment.
Green-faced, he jumped from his stool, and yelled at the cow loud enough so that she would understand him. He emphasized his remarks by splitting his wooden stool on her hindquarters. After she had delivered him gallons of milk, numerous calves, mountains of money and manure, this cow was dumbfounded. Energetically she did airs above the ground, green ammo shot out of her back, while an agonizing roar exploded from her front, together with a long tongue and white slobber.
The herd produced a quick response. It had practiced this, because it knew that this would happen. Therefore each cow always kept fresh ammunition in its chamber. Milk flow stopped, tails went up, cowshit exploded in all directions. Each cow quickly unloaded via a second tail, a transient green one, arching toward the ground. Blobs of cow pie filling splashed off the floor, texturing everything, including walls, cows, people and buckets. It was flying everywhere, even though there was not even a fan in this barn.
The oak barrel danced, flailing its stub-outs to escalate their tempo. It beat the cows and roared like a bull, confusing them further. The tempo rose to an ever-higher crescendo. Cows were bawling, bucking and kicking. Machines were crashing. Milk was spilling. Fresh, hot cowshit was steaming up the grand ole opery barn.
Not enjoying this performance, I quietly stole away, lugging two newly decorated buckets, filled with freshly seasoned milk, up to the milkhouse and emptied them into the shiny new milk tank.
After Folkerts orchestra stopped its production, I returned to finish drawing white money out of green cows. They initiated me into the bovine orchestra, The Evergreen Orchestra. During their last opus, final movement, the bovines had aimed at the hairy ends of their tails, to load them with cowshit, and waited until I had to approach them. Then they vigorously whipped their brushes to paint me with our green team color, so Id fit right in, and not stick out like I did in my Rheinfelden Stadtmusik orchestra.
After the cows had discharged all of their ammo, the oaken maestro disappeared and left me behind to continue my dirty work. Later I released the players from the opera barn and commenced with the obligatory scooping from this pooping. Then I bathed the milk equipment with soap and chlorine, and went back to the house. I could not bathe or shower"
-- Not Again! (firstname.lastname@example.org), February 01, 2000.
How does it end? Not with a band but a YAHOOOOOOO.
You guys are sooooo cool!!!!!!This is an oasis in the desert.
-- another government hack (email@example.com), February 01, 2000.
Eloise, puffing muddled grunts from her pitted cheeks, leaned over quickly, rhythmically slapping her facial buffer until it released a thick blop of creamy rouge into her trembling palm, soothing her itching hissy fit.
-- dinosaur (firstname.lastname@example.org), February 01, 2000.
I stared at the computer screen. Then suddenly, like a thief in the night, it happened--everything went blank.
No, no! I cried out. What will I do?
The silence was deafening. No news is good news? I think not! I thought to myself.
A tiny voice whispered, "The cat tripped over the cord again . . . ." It was my husband speaking gently . . . he knew my bewilderment; it had happend once before, but it caught me off guard this time. I wasn't ready for it--I was in the middle of a post.
And then . . . a song rang out . . . it was Windows 95 default music. A broad smile stretched over my face as I clutched my keyboard. The tap tap of the keys syncopated with the little beeps, blips, and swooshes. What a joy!
Click. I'm here . . . again . . . finally. Time Bomb 2000!
(fading background music please)
-- Dee (T1Colt556@aol.com), February 01, 2000.
Not Again, thanks for dredging up forgotten memories. Once during my four year career as a dairy farmer my left eyeball intercepted a liquid cowpie. Poor cow was so high-strung and had chronic diarrhea.
-- Kyle (email@example.com), February 01, 2000.
Another great forum for thinkers and writers:
-- Aldo (Aldo@uneco.org), February 02, 2000.
i do alot of technical writing. my goal for my next life is to write sleazy, torrid love stories--all in lower case. maybe i will use a few caps when there is some significant ACTION.
-- tt (firstname.lastname@example.org), February 02, 2000.