The Fargo Kantrowitz’z Literary Campsite #73 – Albert

I was just walking down the street the other day when my school book learning got in my way. Actually, another day to a writer is always that day of years ago. A day equaling an entire period of angst and hell in the writer’s life, everything metabolized down into some symbolic form until you just can’t quite stand it anymore and you write about the relationship between a chicken and a squirrel and try to pass it off as art.
Now, it is art. This is the funny thing. It is art. But in order to be welcomed into the fold of humanity as the textbooks say that we need and want, we must do everything in our power to impress upon the hill people that it is art. This is an art in itself and is a higher art for it is what forms “artists” as we understand them: Bernard Shaw, Sarah McLaughlin, Rodney Dangerfield, Whoopi. What binds all of these people together is that they wanted to be famous. Being famous is the most important thing in the trek of the artist onward to sublimity. If we don’t become famous then we are nothing? Why is this? Because if we don’t become famous then we’re going to be scraping shit off things for others as their slaves. None of us want to be slaves. We don’t even believe in slavery and yet we are. Isn’t that funny how that happens?
So the main question becomes how we are to not be slaves in this world of slaves where everybody is a slave to somebody else unless you decide to completely back out and become a hermit. Now, hermiting has gotten a bad rap as of late with Ted Kazinski and all. In a family of “hard workers” it is even harder to break away from this desire to be alone or, god forbid, simply intellectual as opposed to industrial. People are brought up in this world to tackle the problem of somebody else. In the Bible they say that every part is equal in stature. You need the feet as much as you need the head. Well, the symbolic structure of “the feet” in our society consists of scrubbing toilets and making the beds of drunken, rich, drug-besotted 19-year-olds who have driven into town in their daddy’s BMW convertibles. Whichever way you slice it there can be no doubt that in this case being the head is undoubtedly better than being the feet, especially when you get a little of their cum on your finger as you change their sheets.
But strangers cannot affect you nearly as much as your own family can. God forbid that you have a father who makes his living scraping shit off of sewer walls because you will have learned that scraping shit off of sewer walls is the pinnacle of human existence, that there is no greater goal to strive for than to scrape shit off of sewer walls. This is just an example. Every human being believes that every other human beings should be doing what they are doing if only for the reason that if they don’t believe this then they will recognize that they have been wasting their lives, which we all, for the most part do every day.
And time passes. This is true. As you get older and your world does not materialize as you expected it would according to your dreams you see that all is in a state of slow deterioration. I imagine even the “successful” see this deterioration, if they don’t express it then maybe they feel it on the inside. They feel their weaknesses. I sometimes think that the only people who are happy are those who have forsaken the idea that you can improve your lot on earth by overcoming the material obstacles, by becoming the head instead of the feet. While it is better to be the head than the feet, it does not slow the process of deterioration. This is a truth. But also, this is not a truth. Every word is false if another word follows. A truth suggests that you can stop right there and bask in reality. Well, there is reality and then there is surreal reality and then there is blackest reality and then there is hopeful reality and then there is…
You get the picture. By the time you have the answer you’ve forgotten the question. We are all the mule trying to reach the carrot tied to our tails by the fool who laughs and laughs and laughs, who cannot stop laughing, who will never stop laughing, who has come upon a truth and, smarter than the non-fool, stops.
If you have love in your life then all of these ideas are ludicrous. They are all ludicrous anyway if you think of them in terms of how they will be understood. Isn’t to be understood to be loved if you are a good person? I rarely see instances of love between strangers. Loneliness isn’t the down side of being alone, it stems from seeing the world in love. Love is a singular connection. Once you stop being lovable then you are halfway released from any tether you may have had on earth. From here you enter the loveless realm of the workings of the mind. You can go to the moon or sit on a star from here, but you won’t be able to feel it. You will only be able to see it. When you look you glimpse the light from real human beings who have found the connection. Your book falls the nine miles it takes to get to hell. You wait, but you wait for nothing. For death. Same thing.
There is always the self help route. This too is faulty because we don’t want help. We want love. We can’t just change the pictures in our heads and somehow be alright. Even understanding is a failure because no matter how much we understand we are going to have to fight those closest to us to realize it in our lives and our society will always be about thirty years behind those of us who have taken the initiative and plotted out the possibilities of our human potential. We are still alone. Individuals are pushed backward, flushed out of the system. We walk the outer rim of earth, lonely puppets without puppeteers, alive due to some bizarre system we developed as children and perfected as adults much to our detriment. When we are not being blasted in the ear as to what we should do and how we should do it by our loved ones we are following paths of thought that take us only further away until, finally, we are at the outer rim, walking lonely and aimlessly within the realm of our highest aspiration which in it’s final form is spiritual when we thought it would include the physical, the mental, the emotional, the familial. Skin hanging upon bones. Man does not live on word alone.
They say that the hopeful people do better as human beings than the non-hopeful people. The numbers are pretty convincing although I don’t have them here. I’m not sure what they mean by “hopeful” but I imagine it consists of not having had many bad influences in your life. I think hopefulness comes from having had predominantly positive influences in your life. I personally get tired of trying to figure it all out. I guess this makes me less hopeful and therefore a failure according to the study which therefore makes the study useless to the hopeless and beneficial only to the hopeful since the hopeempty are easily beaten down and often gullible and believing, always attributing to themselves the worst and thereby becoming hopeempty.
At least us hope empty people have got some role models: Sartre, Camus, Beckett. The Hopeful look at these people and don’t understand them. The universities make sure that we worship. Then they come out with these studies which place the divides between the classes; between the educated and the ignorant. I believe that the ignorant are more hopeful. I am not hopeful because I know the futility in trying to make it in this world using my chosen method: the mind. There is nothing I can say to convince anybody of anything. When I do try I simply question my motives and find that I want others to read me and be changed and then if I go further I discover that if they are reading me then I am probably getting paid. I want my physical comforts so I can continue to dispense this “truth” which will set them free and keep me fed and housed. Truth is better left spontaneous. In actuality it cannot be given at all, but only expressed. Words are a cheap whore that I visit again and again, always believing that the next time I will get out of her what I dream.

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Published in: on May 11, 2014 at 6:34 am  Leave a Comment  

This Fallow Morn

How so much this thing that we do. All. Sort of do, but not do, and all that there is left, after not doing. That which…

What next. When there seems to be nothing there still is is. Can we write of what IS when what is Not is not mentioned? Where is the real when…

Put words to what is, that is the the. No other words need apply. So simple this is. This know, this what is, but what isn’t known.

I praise these its, these knowns, for what they are. No words need more be mentioned, but those words that are, in real, more so than is, in that what is known is not real.

Yon precipice. I fall? Perhaps, all the way down to something. Born of something, this more. This fallow morn.

Published in: on January 18, 2013 at 1:28 am  Leave a Comment  

A Story too ___ to ___.

The two children played on the sidewalk in front of Mr. William’s two story brownstone, but they didn’t know that. They had never had trouble before. Mr. Williams was home watching t.v. at the time when he looked outside and saw one of the boys, Tyler was his name, but he didn’t know, draping superheroes one by one on to the spikes of his black wrought iron fence. He watched when suddenly the other one, Mickey, jumped up and began the process of hitting each one of the superheroes off of the fence one by one: Captain America, gone, into Mr. Williams’s ten square foot front yard. The Incredible Hulk, bam, right behind Mr. Willliams’s two feet in circumference planter which held exactly one dead cactus. A scream of protest went up by the younger child, but Mickey didn’t care. Whack. Mr. T flew as far as the second step of Mr. Williams’s staircase. Tyler started to cry.
Jesus Christ! growled Mr. Williams and he got up and slammed open the front door. Both children looked up at him in abject fear, but did not run away.
C’mon, you guys, you’re too close to my house. The last thing I need right now is some crying brat screaming outside my window. I’m trying to sleep!
He hadn’t been trying to sleep, but was actually pouring over the Wall Street Journal to find out how a few of his companies were doing. Things were looking pretty bad and now this.
He did it, cried out Tyler, the tears streaming down his face.
I did not!
Yes, you did! And he turned and hit Mickey. Mickey took the punch because he was more concerned with Mr. Williams. He was the older and he was the one who would be getting in trouble, not Tyler.
Just go, said Mr. Williams, just get out of here and don’t play around here. Where do you live?
Mickey turned and pointed.
Up on Wallerby.
Well, then go play on Wallerby. What are you doing playing around here anyway. Who cares. Just get.
But I need my toys! Pleaded Tyler before breaking into a full out cry.
Oh, Christ, where are they. What toys?
Over there. The Incre-di-ble Hulk is behind that thing. Captain America is right there, he said, pointing. Mr. Williams looked down and saw Mr. T on his step.
Christ! he yelled and the kids almost ran, but didn’t. Mr. Williams moved forward fast and bent down quickly and in anger to pick up Mr. T so he could throw it back over the fence when he felt a sharp pain shoot from the small of his lower back and then sort of zigzag around the rest of his back before the momentum made him fall forward and he fell headlong down the staircase of exactly eight steps.
The boys just stared at Mr. Williams lying there at the bottom of the stairway. He did not move and they both briefly thought that he was dead until they heard him groan, a long, sad moan that proved he was only hurt. Suddenly Mickey darted. Tyler forgot about his toys and sprinted after him. After a moment they were around the corner of Wallerby. Mr. Williams would never see them again.

Williams? What is Williams anyway? British.
Of course.
So you’re probably not catholic unless you’re Irish/British, right?
No, I’m catholic and British/British, British-American.
Like me.
Like you, Calvin Williams smiled. He liked the feeling of this girl.
A lot of people asked about Catholicism at Notre Dame, especially at the beginning after first arriving as freshmen. Both Calvin and Sarah were new, both standing in line together. Neither knew another living soul at this, their first meal at the dining commons just outside of the dormitory that they soon discovered that they shared. Sarah led them to a table without turning to look to see if Calvin had followed. Calvin followed knowing somehow that it would be alright.

This girl seemed to play her silences in a way that he had never really known before. The girls in high school had been a lot of fast lip jabbing together and eyelash flashing at strategic moments. This one seemed to float on a cloud. Her silence did not lend itself to interpretation and because of this Calvin knew he could follow and sit with her. As she sat down she checked only once out of the corner of her eye whether he was behind her. She smiled and acknowledged him. Perhaps he was being too brazen, but she didn’t give that signal. They were, from the first, just right.
What’s your major, she asked.
Pre-med.
Her eyes fluttered up then back down as she sipped through her straw.
A doctor.
That’s what my parents think anyway. That’s what I’ve told them. And here I am.
She took a little time before she spoke again. It was odd for Calvin. Time passed and they simply just ate. It was suddenly as though she had forgotten that he was going to be a doctor, something he had hoped would service him well in his pursuit of girls ala the standard dream of the young college man. It wasn’t until she was finished with her salad that she spoke again.

After they accepted one another’s companionship at that first meeting a little void inside each of them was partially filled, the lonely part of the overall void of coming to a new place, the scared part of themselves they tried to cover in their new clothes and sure knowledge of what they thought they wanted to do in the future.

Published in: on November 1, 2012 at 5:29 am  Leave a Comment  

Self-Portrait

In Line Once Again Of Course

Published in: on May 13, 2012 at 7:32 pm  Leave a Comment  

wait…

I used to be a writer. Now I’m a “content provider.”

Published in: on May 6, 2012 at 5:39 pm  Leave a Comment  

the first the fargo kantrowitz’z literary campsite’z advertisement

Hello, welcome to the fargo kantrowitz’z literary campsite. Get a space at the institute for very large art, coming soon to the new katherine gianaclis park for the arts. Four renters who want to do big art.

Or go hang out in large art row, where you can paint art outside against a very long and rather tall wall. Art is always best in camaraderie. Cool summer nights are on their way. Hot Artist Plunge.

Getting ready for burning man? Give Joey a call. Have we got a deal for you! Call now! Expert advice awaits!

Published in: on April 7, 2012 at 2:18 am  Leave a Comment  

The Second Literary Campsite

Welcome to the second literary campsite. I promise that it won’t be any better than the first, but I never promised anything about the first either. I get tired of competition and I’m not about to introduce it to myself as these damned missives to the world continue. You can go screw yourselves if that’s what you want.
Some time ago I got sick of being slick. I tried so hard to be slick for the sake of selling my words that I started hating myself. Now I just want to write and if it comes out as appearing slick (of quality) then that’s a good by product, but I won’t chase it anymore. It’s putting the cart before the horse when you do. That carrot ain’t so tasty anyway.
A lot of people know I’m a writer and they ask me how I can do what I do. Well, I would like to address that question here on the campsite today. First of all, for all of you who don’t consider me a writer, I welcome you to the campsite. Please stop reading now. For those of you who consider me a writer because I am writing now and you are a writer because you write I also offer you a hearty welcome, but writers are few. So for that one percent of you who are still reading because you are a manic word gobbler I will say this: I don’t know.
John Steinbeck, one of my favorite authors, said he had learned a lot of technical tricks on how to be a writer, but once he sat down at that blank page was as lost as anybody else as to how to do it. The process begs questions, unanswerable questions, to produce answers. What part of our minds actually does the writing? That’s a biggie because it asks you to look at your very process of thinking. That’s one that makes us lose fifteen years to the study of ourselves. If you pick up an addictive habit add five to ten years. To get out of it I went and got a graduate degree in a subject called “Mythological Studies with an Emphasis in Depth Psychology.” That added five years to my dumbfoundedness in addressing this question.

Now, having failed miserably in answering the basic question of how do we write, $30,000 poorer for asking, too, I come up with the same thing that your high school teacher came up with who didn’t get lost in the world of reality questioning, got a good stable degree, made 30,000 the same year I lost it: Writing itself is the answer. Put the seat of the pants on the chair. The answer comes in the process, the feelings you discover during the process, the uncovering of the mysteries.
The question cannot be addressed empirically unless you want to enter James Hillman Hell. This is a place where seeking types try to become scholars and yet the scholarship consists of believing that unreality has in its kernel, its core, the notion that it is just as real as the real. God is as real as Bread. The inner is as real as the outer. This is exactly what I believed as a child of an artist and spiritualist type mother. But you can’t just take it in. You have to forget you know it in order to know it. It’s all confusing and barely worth your time that Buddhist monks must say over and over for twenty years before they kick aside a pebble and for some reason gain enlightenment. In our society this is not practical. Trust me I’ve lost many very marketable years chasing after the answer.
In sum all I have to say about this particular question is “don’t ask.” Get a business degree, soup up your Chevy, get laid and please, find a pot to piss in.

Published in: on February 4, 2012 at 5:32 am  Leave a Comment  
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I Dream of Oceans

I Dream of Oceans

Man, 20s, sits alone at a bus stop. After awhile another man, 60s, walks up and stands nearby. Voiceover, live or recorded.

A little about myself, I thought that the world would go away today, but it stayed like an owl on my shoulder reminding me that I would know what I know tomorrow as well as today. These things must be reckoned with in some way or you will be chasing the wind and losing ground and most of all time.

It’s good to try and do new things that challenge you. I am a writer, but I am shy. Still, I must go out on readings and sell my book. I must accept the role of a public speaker (figure) if but for a brief time in order to hawk my wares. Mostly, though, hopefully, the experience will be a good one for everybody involved. All it is is what I did at the Carpinteria bowl but with my own work. I can read other things as well.

Other man enters.

But I always fall away. I never really want to do it anyway. Either the money doesn’t add up or I think that its just not worth it. Mostly I want to disappear and go sit by the beach. I walk too and would like to start boogie boarding again. Get in shape. Would like to live by a boardwalk too and ride my bike a lot. Get in shape. This seems the truly most important thing for my happiness. Longevity. Knowing that I give a shit again. Good sign and good karma (popular with the girls too.)

He opens a notebook and writes quickly. He mumbles aloud without being aware.

What I really want to do is:

Write
Again
Be by the beach
Preferably not too crowded
Find a career

Again, what do I want to do?

Go to the beach

What else?

Fall in love.

To fall in love by the beach?

Yes.

He slams the book shut then realizes he was talking aloud.

Man: You’re an old softie
Yeah, I guess so.
Its not going to happen
Why not?
Because you’re not attractive
I will be if I am by the beach. I will get in shape.
Okay
You don’t believe me?
No, I believe you.
Then what? What should I do? If not go to the beach and get in shape and fall in love, then what?
I don’t know. It’s your life.
Well, you seem to think you know a lot about my life. As much as me.
Maybe I do.
Please.
You’re a thinker type, from around here probably, the college, something like that. Or you read a lot. You read everything. You think a lot but you’re never sure what you’re thinking about. You, nah, I can’t go on.
Thanks.
Silence
Well, what do you think about!
Me, nothing. I just stand here.
What do you think about when you stand there?
I think about Louise. She’s my wife. She’s trying to see about the tortellini tonight. She told me. Broke down and took my son’s mobile phone. Free, some special plan. Eh. I call Louise to cheer her up sometimes. She’s not sad, but she’s not as young as she used to be. She likes the tortellini. I didn’t mean nothing about seeing into your head.
I know. I get…
Confused?
Yeah, confused.
Yeah, well, I think the first thing you figured is probably the answer. Go to the beach and get in shape and fall in love and then maybe everything else will fall into place. Who knows? Stranger things have happened.

Bus comes. Young man jots one more thing down. Tape of the words.

I haven’t written a real short story in years. In fact, I haven’t written much of anything substantial in several years. I don’t know why I stopped writing. I know why. The world wert too much with me. Simple.

What to do:
Go to the beach, get in shape and fall in love. ☺

Published in: on February 5, 2011 at 3:23 am  Comments (1)  
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The FKLC – Albert

The fklc

Poster

The Brighter Side of Existentialism

A short story by Albert Jones to be read on Thursday night at the Riverpark Theatre on the river.
7 p.m.Picnic lunch, bring the kids. Then watch the moon come up while listening to the rocking and fun sounds of Texa till midnight.

As always, absolutely free.

Everything ever almost sent

Everything ever almost sent
by Albert Jones
-stories-

Albert

First of all, I’m tired of thinking about the art of writing as important. It is not important. It is pain. It is not to be striven after.
I am not a good writer and no longer wish to be one. I do however desire to be a truthful writer. Therefore, from this moment, the aspiring writer in me dies. I am re-born as a man with a different mission, other than the one who puts down for others the best combination of words.
The trouble with writing is that I never have anybody to write towards or to. This makes the act too solitary and slightly ridiculous if you think about it since at an acorn level I already know the entire unwritten story. It is in my latent emotions. Perhaps my very genes.
Bringing it to fruition is for you, gentle reader, and I’ve lived long enough to know that most don’t read anymore. I don’t know you and if I did I don’t think our communication gulf would be bridged by any attempt at words. I won’t slave for you and if I want money I’ll get a job. So why does my desire to write continue?
I sit without an audience wearing a label I placed upon myself years ago: writer. I am, by all accounts, a failed one at that. And yet I find there is some reason to write each next word. As if the words will take me to where I want to go. As if I know where there is to go. I think I know now that each next word is there only for itself. Each one is a particular designation, a pointing finger, a chalice holding truth. Each encapsulates in some way the untouchable essence of often distant emotions. Words en masse form landscapes of soul, thousands upon thousands of symbols forming mood and sometimes knowledge. The landscape is of the inner world. I am a child crying to be allowed to cry.
In the solitary place of writing, the inner moonscape where neighbors don’t exist, friendless is taken for given, cognizance of death is as common as that of life. All moments are as if listening to themselves. I sit waiting for realization, no longer expecting the almighty dollar for my efforts, believing that if there is a God he pays the writer in full at the time of creation.

And there is nothing to hold and say “Here It Is!” All attempts at grasping fade. Each emotive high an illusion. The words down, but the eyes again ever wandering for more of something not yet named. The bane of the writer: always wanting more. No outside world sways me. No inside world is believed in by a “single other human being.” We saddle our minds to ride, but are bucked. Our unities fall away dismembered and we see no reason to piece them back together again since we’d already seen them and taken note. That is what we do best: take note. But then the pain becomes real again because we didn’t “know” what we’d “seen.” The emptiness, the “void” becomes real again. We begin to write around everything that we thought we’d attempted to write about before. We write around everything which we believe is not yet born. With words whose meanings we barely know and we hope or we pray. Some believe writing is prayer. Maybe.
Some believe writing is a hope for dreams to become reality. This is obviously true. But we shouldn’t hope too hard for then we break into the worlds where we do not belong. Imagine a ship leaving a harbor with nobody aboard but never stopping. We can ride that ship in our imagination, lose ourselves to the swaying of the seas until when land appears again we do not know how to use our feet to walk upon it. We write, instead, in order to leave that ship, in order to grow up. We need out of the prisons of our hopes. We don’t want words. We want keys to open doors. We only use words. We seek to understand each word, but we want even more to know the world which the word suggests to us. We want golden palaces in the ether. We want blue air beneath us. We want dolphins and adventure and the forgetting of needing to use words as surrogates for our lives.

Published in: on December 3, 2010 at 4:24 am  Leave a Comment  

Bumba

Two cavemen, a man and a woman, sit next to each other in a cave. They sit by a fire. Suddenly, the man’s arm reaches out and slaps the woman on the arm. She looks up from a bone she is chewing on and shrugs away and keeps eating. He does it again. She once again strikes back and continues on her bone.

Man: Aaaagh!
She looks up from her bone and at him.
Man: Aaaagh!
They stare at each other for a long moment before she goes back to her bone. They sit in silence.
Man: Aaaaaagh!!!
The man explodes, stands up, takes the woman’s bone from her and flings it.
Man: Aaaaaagh!!!
The man stands over her as she continues to sit there, boneless. The woman then stands and calmly goes and retrieves her bone. Sits back down and starts eating once more.
The man is disturbed, but does not react again. They sit there while she eats.
Man: Aaaaagh!!!!!
The man once again stands up and goes for the bone. She runs from him. He quickly catches her and he grabs the bone once more and flings it away. This time he has the woman in his arms. She flails wildly. He lays her down and stands over her.
Man: Bumba!
Woman: Ba!
Man: Bumba!
Woman: Ba!
Man: Bumba!!!
Woman: Ba!!!
Man: Bumba!

The man jumps on top of her and tries to take her clothes off. The two fight viciously rolling around the floor until the woman gets the upper hand by hitting him in the crotch with the recovered bone. He rolls off of her in pain.

Woman: Ba! Ba! Ba!!!

The man writhes in pain. The woman takes her bone and continues to eat in the corner. The man looks at her, but does not attack again. After a moment he stands and begins to walk around the cave looking for something. The woman watches him. He exits and returns a moment later with a small flower.

Man: Bumba!
Woman: Ba!

She takes the flower and tosses it aside.
The man scratches his head. He then quickly stands up and begins strutting around the cave like a peacock trying to impress her.

Man: (in a singsong manner as he struts around) Ah bah da bah ah dah bah bah…

He finishes with his arms on his hips and his loins thrust outward.

Woman: heeheehee.

Man (now angry): Bumba!!!

The woman senses the impending violence and stands up and begins to run away. The man chases the woman around the cave until the woman stops in a corner holding out the bone that has once again become a weapon.

Suddenly another man and woman enter giggling.. He carries this woman, lays her down and they begin to roll around in each other’s arms. Suddenly this other woman notices the couple in the cave and rolls away from the man.

Woman 2: Ahbaba ah ba na!

The two run out of the cave, but the man’s wreathed headband made of vines and flowers is left behind. The man goes to the headband and picks it up. He then once again begins to strut around the cave with newfound aplomb now that he is adorned with the fancy headdress. He once more finishes his prance with a flourish.

Woman: heeheeheee
Man: Aaaaaagggh!!!

The man throws the crown from his head and chases after the woman once more. He gets her and this time holds her as she kicks.

Woman: Ah bah na bah ah bah nah ba. Bah ah bah nah bah ah bah bah nah. Ah Bumba!

The man puts her down.

Woman: Ah bah nah bah ah bah bah.

She motions for him to walk to the other side of the cave.

Woman (waving him away) Ah bah bu.

The man does as he is told.

Woman: Ah banna ot a banu…ah, na…

The man reluctantly places his hands over his eyes and turns around.

She sneaks up on him and jumps on his back. He begins to do movements around the cave with her on his back. They both sing unintelligible words together. After a moment he drops her on the floor.

Enter Another Caveman

The caveman enters the cave in a fury, looks around, sees the cavewoman on the ground ready to go, picks her up and they go off happily together.

The First caveman sits on his haunches. Unhappy.

The couple comes back. The Second caveman drops her on the ground, turns and exits also in a fury.

The couple sit on their haunches together. Silent. After a moment, a cold cavewoman comes in and sits on her haunches. She doesn’t notice either of them. After a moment she notices them and especially the man who sits in silence for a few moments rubbing the dirt, making the second cavewoman blush. He suddenly leaps up.

Firtst Caveman: Aaaaugh!

He picks up the woman who squeals with laughter as she is carted off to make bumba.

The First cavewoman sits alone. Unhappy.

The first caveman comes back alone. He sits on his haunches. Silence. After a moment he leaps over and sits right next to her. After a moment he quickly reaches out and snatches her hand and holds it just looking straight ahead. The first cavewoman smiles.

Published in: on August 31, 2010 at 2:35 pm  Leave a Comment  
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