pup·pet n.
A small figure of a person or animal, having a cloth body and hollow head, designed to be fitted over and manipulated by the hand.
A writer reigniting his love affair with his muse while making his way in a strange world. Visit jasonmical.com for more.
This blog contains the opinions of Jason Mical. Those opinions do not reflect those of his employer, or his employer's client(s).
If you read this, if your eyes are passing over this right now, please post a comment with a completely made up and fictional memory of you and me. It can be anything you want — good or bad — but it has to be fake.
When you’re finished, post this little paragraph on your blog and be surprised (or mortified) about what people don't actually remember about you.
Posted by Jason at 12/01/2005 11:23:00 PM
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3 comments:
I remember....
that old pond, out behind the mill. That clear, cold water was a stark contrast to the decaying wood and rusted metal.
No-one could remember who had put up the rope, but it appeared even older than the building. None of us were brave enough to take a swing.
Except for her. She'd fly from the arc, diving deep into the center of the crisp, clear water, coming up in a direction that was never the one predicted. We always wanted to follow her in, to taste the sky and brush clouds from our hair. But we never did.
We had a lot of growing up to do.
I remember that time in London where we attempted to bomb parliament--you know--"to finish what we started in 1776."
It didn't go too well. We read a few communiques from the Weather Underground, but we weren't the Weather Underground. So, we ran away from the bobbies, became rulers of a small, poor, Central American country whose inhabitants thought that we were Questzlcoatl, and then gave up our godhood for a lifetime supply of Butterfingers. But, then again, you weren't all about THAT decision were you?
How could I ever forget the summer of 1976? The year we confronted mortality. Not our own mind you, but that of the stranger.
He wandered into town when you and I were in one of those moods. Just snarley and mock dangerous. Or so we thought.
He made the mistake of snearing at us. Dismissing us as kids.
Next thing I know we were dropping the body into the water at the old quarry.
Why we hung around I'll never know, but we did. The screams of the kids who went swimming that afternoon rang around the confines of the close sandstone walls.
I think seeing the corpse tangled up in Tommy Seneca's cothes is what kicked off our mutual life-long obsession with zombies. I swear it looked like it was attacking Tommy.
That'll teach that chump to mouth off to us! That guy, I mean, not TOmmy. Although that was funny, too.
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