Dear Santa

Bryant

     Santa, I really have tried my best this year. Getting lost in a bathroom for an hour wasn't my fault, I couldn't see the door handle from the floor. Yes, I may have invited a few too many friends to my house that one time, and my Dad sure wasn't happy about the holes in the wall, but I never meant for that to happen! After all the craziness, I decided I was in dire need of nap. Unfortunately, I chose to take this nap while functionifng a fully-operational motor vehicle. I hope you wrap my presents as well as I did my car to that tree! But besides these minor bumps, I have been a good boy.

     Santa, what I really want more than anything in the world is maybe some rubbing alcohol for my foot (the cuts are starting to get infected), a new driver's license, and another party at my house! Maybe a book on JFK or Stephen Harper? Considering they're my heroes, I should probably learn something about them. And Santa, if you don't give me what I want, I will send you a text with a thousand exclamation marks just to show you how angry I am.

The Seven Stanza Serenade

The women in front of me in the line, sipping on her wine

I wasn’t there; I just heard it through the grapevine

          I shouldn’t pay attention to these rumors I hear

And they do not speak, they talk with their hands

Which they stick in their ears, which they bury in the sand

I yell at them, but they don’t respond

My friends die, and yet I stay alive

They enjoy Heaven, but they didn’t like the drive

I’m just happy that they did arrive

I’m rifling through pockets of my mind

Besides some lint and change, there’s nothing that I find

Wonder where I lost all that

I played Icarus, my second favourite drum

I was playing hot, as if closely to the sun

The damage can’t be undone

Inside the old box, there lays my pa

          He ran and he ran, but got snagged by the law

They hung him, and found him guilty too

I am the stop sign, yet they run right by me

I stop one of them, and being to plead

“Sir, can you please watch your speed?”

There Are No Trials Inside the Gates of Eden

Of war and peace the truth just twists
Its curfew gull just glides
Upon four-legged forest clouds
The cowboy angel rides
With his candle lit into the sun
Though its glow is waxed in black
All except when 'neath the trees of Eden.

The lamppost stands with folded arms
Its iron claws attached
To curbs 'neath holes where babies wail
Though it shadows metal badge
All and all can only fall
With a crashing but meaningless blow
No sound ever comes from the Gates of Eden.

The savage soldiers sticks his head in sand
And then complains
Unto the shoeless hunter who's gone deaf
But still remains
Upon the beach where hound dogs bay
At ships with tattooed sails
Heading for the Gates of Eden.

With a time-rusted compass blade
Alladin and his lamp
Sits with Utopian hermit monks
Side saddle on the Golden Calf
And on their promises of paradise
You will not hear a laugh
All except inside the Gates of Eden.

Relationships of ownership
They whisper in the wings
To those condemned to act accordingly
And wait for succeeding kings
And I will try to harmonize with songs
The lonesome sparrow sings
There are no kings inside the Gates of Eden.

The motorcycle black madonna
Two-wheeled gypsy queen
And her silver-studded phantom cause
The gray flannel dwarf to scream
As he weeps to wicked birds of prey
Who pick up on his bread crumb sins
And there are no sins inside the Gates of Eden.

The kingdoms of Experience
In the precious wind they rot
While paupers change possessions
Each one wishing for what the other has got
And the princess and the prince
Discuss what's real and what is not
It doesn't matter inside the Gates of Eden.

The foreign sun, it squints upon
A bed that is never mine
As friends and other strangers
From their fates try to resign
Leaving men wholly totally free
To do anything they wish to do but die
And there are no trials inside the Gates of Eden.

At dawn my lover comes to me
And tells me of her dreams
With no attempts to shovel the glimpse
Into the ditch of what each one means
At times I think there are no words
But these to tell what's true
And there are no truths outside the Gates of Eden.

------

     Released on his groundbreaking album Bringing It All Back Home, Bob Dylan's "Gates of Eden" is a poetic masterpiece. With its nightmarish, apocalyptic mood, it demands the attention of the listener. The song tells of various people and their search for paradise. The song alludes to the Garden of Eden, the wonderland garden in which Adam and Eve lived. It bursts with spectacular images, such as the lines:

With his candle lit into the sun
Though its glow is waxed in black

     The personification of the "lamppost...with folded arms" in the second verse further pushes the poetic agenda of the song. The lyrics also satirize the hopeless members of society; the ones who spend their lives looking for a paradise which does not exist. The combination of the words "wholly" and "totally" bring about a lovely example of consonance. Throughout the song, Dylan paints a bleak picture, using his craft to not only write a fantastic song, but to also make the listeners think in fantastic ways. Fantastic.

    

College Admission Letter

Good day esteemed college administrators. I know that you must recieve countless letters and emails everyday, boring you with GPA's and SAT's and talks of PHD's. But I, for one, will bestow upon you a feeling of excitement and adrenaline. A feeling of fear, but also deep respect. Many feelings of lust and affection, but I feel we should ignore those particular feelings in order to keep this professional.

I was born in the deepest of woods, raised by the angriest of wolves, living through the most dazzling tales of adventure. When I was a child, I took a day trip away from the woods, onwards to the bustling metropolis of New Orleans. There, I saved a bus full of Cuban refugees from falling off a cliff, using only a paring knife and dental floss. Afterwards, I sent them back to Cuba, because I don't support illegal immigration. It was when the Mayor gave me the key to the city that I decided to leave my woodland burrow. Adjusting to city life proved to be quite difficult; in my first year I only scored a 99% average in my classes. Trust me, those days are behind me. My teachers must have some kind of cliche-ridden coach advising them, because they're always giving 110 percent...to me. Barack Obama frequently asks me for fashion advice, Joe Sakic bugs me for pointers on his wrist shot, and Charlie Sheen always asks me for the number of my cocaine dealer.

When poring over the long list of college applications, with all of them basically saying the same thing, remember this diamond in the rough. This application-God amongst application-men. A beautiful flower, surrounded by dirt and manure. Even if you won't admit it, but this letter will stick with you. Implanted in your brain like some kind of disgusting insect, you'll feel it tickling in the back of your mind as you eat, work, and sleep. This will continue until you die, or I am accepted into your institution. Whichever comes first.

Dialogue

     Morgan Freeman was sauntering about Master Royal Academy Prison, trying to kill time. It was a sunny Tuesday afternoon, and all the inmates were playing in the courtyard. He saw Tim Robbins sulking against the prison wall, all by himself. Freeman approached him.

     "Hey Tim," he started, "Why so blue?"

     "The prison guard took my cigarettes."

     Morgan Freeman responded, "I can give you some, if you're willing to trade me something."

     "Well," Tim continued, "I have a pot full of potato vodka I've made behind the guard's backs."

     "Good stuff?"

     Tim laughed, then hooted, "Oh yeah! Best this side of the Mississippi."

     "Well give me a swig, then!" shouted Freeman, visibly excited by this point.

      "I will," Tim cautioned, "But be careful. I'm not too sure how strong it is. In fact, when taking into consideration the equipment I used, there is high chance you will go blind."

      "Pass it, brother!"

      Tim was dumbfounded. "Did you not hear what I just said?"

      "Yeah, you said you have some potato vodka I can have!" exclaimed Morgan, jumping up and down and whooping very loudly.

      "You will almost certainly get a stomach infection and lose your vision if you drink this vodka. I am giving you fair warning. Are you listening to me?"

But Morgan was now running around in circles, giving high fives to his fellow inmates. The word "potato vodka" was being murmured throughout the courtyard, and everyone started to look at Tim. They all surrounded him.

      "Give me the vodka, little man," barked a particularily intimidating prisoner.

      "B-b-but...," Tim retorted, trying to warn him of the dangers of his beverage.

      "Hand it over."

And so he did. And that day, that wonderful, sunny afternoon, was the day an entire prison, except for the guards and one inmate, died of copper poisoning.

A Moral Dillema

Ryan Bushby
10303 Old Shanty Rd.
Yorkinshire-toodledoo, England
A99 9AA

October 10, 2011

Charles Westerford-Smythe
Mayor
Yorkinshire-upon-spamshire, England

A35 1FE
 

Dear Sir:

     Although I am honoured to be asked to help, I am not the person to ask in this matter. But before I discuss those matters, I must ask you a question; are you seriously contemplating high treason against Mother Britain? This man is a war criminal! He killed thousands! This is a situation that must be handled by the international courts. I believe he would go away for many years in jail, as justified. How did we have a German mayor for so long anyways? Doesn't that seem weird to anyone else? 

     Anyways, please contact the federal office, and send the information onto them. You may want to put Mr. Grass in custody for the time being. You see, Mr. Westerford-Smythe, we have a certain legal procedure in this country, which entails freedom and liberty for all of us. If you really want to jeopardize that to save a Nazi war criminal, you must really be sick in the head. Here in sweet Britain, grace of holy right-o, we don't take too kindly to Nazi sympathizers.

     I sincerely hope you make the right decision.

    Sincerely,
            Ryan Bushby

Cliches

George was alone in the stable when Curley's wife appeared in the doorway. Their eyes locked, and George looked like a deer in headlights. She was dressed to kill. She was nothing to sneeze at. George knew he was in a world of trouble. That dame was going to jump his bones, he knew it!

“I’m looking for Curley” she said, still standing in the doorway. It was the crack of dawn. 

George wiped the sweat off his brow, and said,"No, Ma'am."


"Well...what's new then?"


"Been working like a dog, busting my ass 'round here," George snapped, with a toothpick hanging out the corner of his mouth. He looked real intimidating. Like a rebel without a cause. George was keeping his cards close to his vest.

 "Well then," Curley's wife continued, "I guess I'll be hitting the ol' dusty trail. I suppose you've had a hard day's night."  


George had an egg on his face. "Maybe," he continued, "I oughta hit the hay and catch some z's. Maybe a cat nap." 


Just then, Curley walked by the entrance of the stable, but did not see George and the apple of his eye.


"Whew," Curley's wife gasped, "that was a close call. I think we should both call it day."


"Okay," George agreed. "Sweet dreams."


"Don't let the bedbugs bite," Curley's wife said with a smirk. She then turned, and walked away.


George knew he was going to hell in a handbasket. If he continued fraternizing with Curley's wife, he was going to get kicked out of the ranch. He remembered the incident in Weed. He hoped history didn't repeat itself.

If I Could Have Any Superpower...

The classroom is hot and humid. The only sound coming from my fellow students, scratching furiously away at their tests. I still haven't picked up my pencil. I stared blankly at the piece of paper. Studying wasn't a top priority the night before, as I was occupied with a new video game I purchased. What am I gonna do to get myself out of this one?

Fortunately, I have the power of stopping time.

Looking around to make sure everyone had their heads down, I closed my eyes and focused my energy on the task at hand. When I reopened them, not a single thing in the classroom was moving. I looked up at the clock, which was also at a standstill. I was ready to go.

I stood up and observed the scene. Aaron looked almost done. Oben had as much written as I did. I poked around the teachers desk, looking for the answer key I so dearly sought. I found it in the first drawer of  Mr. Van Camp's desk, right beside a pad of sticky-notes and a bottle of whiskey. I continue to write down answers on my page, knowing I will ace the test for sure.

See, the decision to choose the power of controlling time (aka The Zack Morris Timeout) came not as a result of picking the best superpower; rather, it was decided through a series of eliminations. I researched each power, and discovered potentially drastic loopholes in most. For example, super speed becomes quite a burden when the friction of air molecules lights me on fire. Immortality? Becomes a living Hell if he get stuck down a well or cliff. In the end, time-stopping is the best option for me. I conclude, the ability to control time is the most logical, and effective, superpower available.