Random Writing #8 - Coming Home

Tom opened the door and hung his coat on the peg before hunching down to roughly shake the dog's head between his hands. He straightened up and walked into the living room. He stopped by the open window and stood there in the late afternoon sunlight. He watched the dust motes swirling in the light before glances down the street in both directions. Sara looked up from her book, "Ⅎıɟʇʎ Sɥɐpǝs oɟ פɹǝʎ." "What's up?" she asked.

"Nothing," he answered heavily, looking back out the window, his face long and chewing the inside of his lower lip. He looked up and down the street again, closed the window and sat down on the couch.

The Last Laugh

     Out of idle curiosity last night I wondered if Alan Moore and David Lloyd received any kind of royalties for the stylized Guy Fawkes masks that have become so popular at protests these days. So I Googled it. Ah, Google, that wonderful tool. Funny story. I starting typing in my query thusly: “Does Alan Moore...” and Google, being the finite tool it is suggested the rest of my question should be “...smoke weed.” What does this mean? It means that the majority of people who want to know something about Alan Moore want to know if he smokes weed. Now I grant you, my own question doesn’t exactly have mind bending implications but this is a sorry state for the curiosity of the social mind.

     Anyway, the answer to my question was no. Alan Moore and David Lloyd get nothing. Or at least not directly. I’m sure they get some kind of kickback. You know who does get the royalties for every mask sold? Time Warner.

     There is a certain appreciable irony in this. The masks are being sold around the world and used by protestors to hide their identities and unify behind a cause. It was especially prevalent during the Occupy movement. You remember that? All those people protesting so many things. Not the least of which was the greed of giant corporations. Giant corporations like Time Warner.

Random Writing #7: Afternoon Delight

The red sand blown in from the beach squished between her toes, cool and soothing in the spring afternoon. She followed the path along the dry, long grasses. At first each step was a struggle. She fought against herself. But she picked up speed until she was in a loping run. She began to laugh as the weak sun warmed her naked body. Her blonde hair flared as it flung out behind her, dazzling in the light. Her arms rose out at her sides, hands opened to the wind, letting it push her across the open expanse of the quarter mile to the end of the drive. She came to the rusted wire gate and slowed, still giddy, still laughing excitedly as she opened it enough to slip through and into the hard pack dirt road. As she reached into the mailbox on its grey weathered post she caught a glimpse of movement from the house across the road. She turned to see the withered and sun beaten head of Mr Newman glaring at her from his garden. Instinctively an arm crossed her breasts but then dropped away as she laughed again and, mail in hand, set out back up the driveway to the greying house by the sea.