The sculpture

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Tuesday, March 31, 2009


The sculpture was white, it had black and blue strings coming out of it, and she thought it was, oh well, nice. Although she had been to that specific room lots of times, something was different. It was not the sculpture, something just felt different. And it was such a cliched feeling, she thought about it again and again, but there was no obvious explanation.
She wanted to pull the strings, even if this ended up as the following:
She looks at her sides, she believes no one's looking.
She aproaches the sculpture
She takes another look
She slowly takes the strings
She pulls them
A soft "craaaachck" from the fabric
Security slow guy arrives, he opens his eyes... wide open.
Calls some codes in his radio
They all come
They tackle-hold her
She starts lauging

So.. she decided not to do it

[Mrs. K i t e]

Blop blop

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Monday, March 30, 2009


Blop blop blop

the plastic bubble burst

blop blop blop

another layer comes off
blop blop blop

the mask changing overall


And so another face fades away

blop and I have to go again

blop and I explode

blop and I am peaced

blop and I'm finished at last

blop blop blop

I start

[picture:mine model:old friend collection:milan darling, milan]
By I'm the penguin

The Subconscious Art of Graffiti Removal

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Sunday, March 29, 2009


This is a film by Matt McCormick, from

[Mrs. K i t e]

Beyond good and evil

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Saturday, March 28, 2009


I wondered the other day, thinking in the hypothetical case that the christian church is right, that there is a heaven and a hell, a god and a devil, and that if we are good in our lives we'll go to heaven, otherwise we'll end up in hell.

Now, since I have studied this believes, I have learned that going to hell is bad, according to church there one lives in an everlasting hell, where the devil is punishing you for your deeds (doing God's dirty work). And according to what the bible (some interpretations of it) says, it is disposition of God that someone who doesn't deserve heaven ends in hell.

But, the devil is a fallen angel who once opposed the regimen, and so he was outcasted into hell, where he would torture the souls of the unholy and the damned. So, this former angel is in charge of puniching those who have been bad, but isn't that God's will as well? Isn't the devil in this train of thought doing exactly as God wants it to do? Isn't it part of the system?

This might just be me, but I understand that God made the human in image and similitude, and made the angels, somehow the same, just always pure? Weren't the angels made to connect God with the humans? So wouldn't this bond have to be like them in a way? Just obedient. Well, here comes my theory.

The devil, being an angel, had intelligence and was pure, made by God; yet, somehow he managed to change, to escape the system and become arrogant, and willing to dethrone the king. This sounds quiet human to me. So, when he is outcasted, why on earth would he follow the rules once outcasted? Someone once told me that the Devil tortured humans because he was jealous, that God still loved them. But this maquiavelic, sharp and "evil" creature would be as thick as to just torture? Isn't hatred by a human even more elaborated?

So, if he doesn't punish people, then what? 

Well, I think that wisest choice would be to take the evil humans, the outcasted by the lord and claim them as part of an army. Because expatriated revolutionaries don't torture other expatriates, they gather and ensamble a rebelion. So wouldn't it only make sence to get revenge at God by converting his own creations against him? Wouldn't it only make sence that once in hell a soul was enlisted for a final showdown? Well, of course this makes sence, we've heard it in history.

Don't this stories sound too human for superior beings?

Is logic applied to any of this explanations? Don't they sound more like a history lesson?


There is a tribu in Africa who believed a giant serpent was wrapped all around the Earth, and only after the tributes and rains it would appear. Today we call them rainbows. Tomorrow it will be called Adaptations of historical literature.

By I'm the penguin


Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Friday, March 27, 2009


So the day came, when she was about to leave,
she had already packed everything from her room,
her computer, movies, lamps, stereo...
All she could take with her.

She didn't want to miss home,
she knew she would, but she wanted to make a new home wherever she went.
If she took her books and movies, maybe she wouldn't miss her room that much.

She sat on the couch, waiting for her mom and brother to be ready... as always,
and as she waited she thought about all the people she would see at the airport,
all the people who had promissed to be there when she left, and when she returned...
The thing was, she did't know if she was ever comming back.

[Mrs. K i t e]


Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Thursday, March 26, 2009




Sucede que hoy recuerdo,
que hoy las marañas y  los desentrañes
salen y se revuelcan en el lodazal del yo.
Los monstruos y sombras salen de debajo de la cama
me acosan y me atacan, me destripan y me arañan.
La luna se vuelve a fugar y el Sol me mata de nuevo,
sucede que hoy no soy yo.


También sucede que ayer tenía sueños,
ayer tenía planes y planos, trazos y ademanes,
hoy no tengo ni sueños ni almohada,
ni siquiera fantasmas en la cama.
El lejano futuro se convirtió en un hoy sin rumbo,
el pasado se repite en el presente
y hoy hablo con los vivos y mis muertos.
Sucede que hoy no me encuentro.


Y sucede que… no sucede nada, que
la persecución de los porqués y los cómos
se encuentra tan enterrada como su respuesta.
Que nada se busca y nada se encuentra,
que lo que será es lo que es y nada más.
La lluvia carece de agua y el café de olor,
el sentido de respuestas y el cuerpo de corazón.
Sucede que hoy ya no hay nada.

[We're so effing cheap...]

By I'm the penguin

El cadaver del rey

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Wednesday, March 25, 2009


Mi corazón emprende de mi cuerpo a tu cuerpo un último viaje
Por el derecho a competir
Este ha de ser mi cuerpo solidario
Disfraces fútiles
Sin embargo sería delicioso
Al estilo mexicano
Desde la rodilla hasta el pie.
Su único amor durante kilómetros de silencio.
Ser fuente de vida,
Sé todo en cada cosa,
Amor comestible.
Todos saben que vivo,
La más antigua de su generación.
Nada sería más simple,
El cine es su adicción,
Porque tú siempre existes dondequiera.
Aunque el rey haya muerto
Tengo urgencia de oírte y
Buscar remplazo

[Mrs. K i t e]

Raspberry beans

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Tuesday, March 24, 2009


It was 7 p.m., it was like cats and dogs outside, and the doorbell rang. She though it would be Katrina, who had surely forgot her keys again and would now be bitchy about having to walk in the rain, which she should have got used to in the state fo Washintong. And she sped opened the door, expecting soaked Katrina, and instead there was raincoated Jake, with lost expression, as he had had it lately, and a wet paper in his hand.

"You are number fifteen in my list" he said, waving the drippling paper in his hand. He hadn't bee around her house ever since he had ckecked out of the hospital.

"What do you mean?" She asked, confused, seriously confused; she hadn't even heard what he had said, it just confused her to see him there, there in her front door, there for the first time in months. Had he remembered? Was he finally back?

"There is a list and you are on it, and you are the number fifteen" he said, worried, he seemed to have no clue of what he was speaking about, yet he seemed more awake than ever since he had woke up from the coma.

"Are you okay? C'ommon in, you're going to catch a cold" she said, in shock, her manners were in automatic mode, her moves were slappy and robotic. She was too busy wondering, thinking, connecting and hoping to make out anything out of that scene, but the fact that he was there.

Then he came in, his legs and shoes were soaked in mud, his shirt was dripling at the same rate as the rain, and his eyes were fixed in her, looking for any trace of expression that could lead him into knowing anything about the list. He had no memories of the last four years, just scarce remnants of blury images, and people and smells, every smell brought to him an instant memory which then would be along with the blurry pack of his forgotten life.

"Do you know what this means?" he asked again, with a red face, he was crying. He couldn't tell, she couldn't notice, but he was crying, the rain in his face covered it well, but tears shed down his eyes in desperation for answers.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about" She said, worried to fail to him, scared to lose him after all the time he had been gone. "Tell me more about it" she said, doing a futil attempt to make him feel better somehow.

"There is a list, it felt like I remembered something when I read it, and you are number fifteen, and it felt like something came back to me, like it was a gear for a machinery to start moving,then I got into the car and I’m here, why are you number 15?" he said, making few sense, sluttering and carcking by the word.

"Well, what’s the list about?" She was worried, she was hopeful, she was angry and she was curious. It could be nothing and he was all excited, she didn't want him to go back to a long term of depression, yet she knew that if Jake was back,  then things would go back to perfect, and right there they were shitty. And why on Earth would she be number fifteen?

"I don’t know… I was expecting you could tell me so" he said, starting to think it was not such a good idea to just go into someone's house about a hunch. After all, for him all these people were new, there were many of them trying to be supportive, all of them kind, but non of them could understand, he didn't remember any of them.

"Who are the others?" She asked, sympathizing with his anguish, yet working with her own storm in a glass bipolar feelings.

"People whose name I don't remember, I just remember you and came running, I should probably go" he said, directing to the door, and in another case Judith would have let him go, she would have tought he needed to work things on his own, like the book on Amnesia said (yes she had read a book on Anmesia just because of this). But this was different, he was storming out, he was running away, and that was Jake, her Jake, just running away, he was in there, somewhere.

"Don't go, please" she held his arm "I want to help you"he stopped and turned at her. "I don't want to bother, I just got carried away when I saw it" he said, still trying to get away. "No problem, really, we need to get you that memory back" she said, with a broad smile, tilting his arm playfully. "Okay" he said.

"Do you have it with you?" She asked, once they were in her room and he had explained everything clearly. 

"Yes, here it is." he said, holding it triumphantly, then he saw it "this won't help much will it?" he rhetorically asked, looking at a pasty mass with a muddy ink mess.

"Don't you remember the names?" she asked, going trough her bookshelf. "I don't think so," he said. "Maybe if I read the names for you" she said, taking the yearbook. "Let's start with the basics, your friends" she said, with a bit of a perk he didn't notice, because of course he didn't remember they actually didn't share any friends.

So she began "Alex Durnham", then  she waited for something, a response, a grunt, a something. Deep inside she wanted not to be Alex Durnham a part of the list, because then she would be mixed with the school's Jock McJerky, even if he was Jake's friends, she didin't want to be in any list he was. "Nope, I don't think so, most of the people in the lists were girls names" he said, relieving her greatly, yet reducing the list to a more intriguing group.

"Well, I'm sure you know all about you being in the basketball team, as well as in the language club, so it could either be your prepy friends, the cheerleaders (who were the same people), or the girls from the language club" Judith said, looking for the cheerleading page, which she naturally hadn't turned before. "I have been told a few, but I still don't see how could I have been in the Language club, I don't remember anything in other than english other than 'taco', which I'm sure is not french" he said, laughing for the first time after a while. It's nice, having him back, even without the memories, without the everything, it was nice. she though, she was young, and helplessly inlove.

"Reniee Blyton"
"Doesn't even sound real"
she giggled "Kimmie stweart"
"Well, that actually sounds familiar"

They went trough the names of all the cheerladers and preppy friends, out of which 10 names came out, Judith was starting to worry, how on earth would she be mingled with those people. They were definitly hus friends, but those people had nothing to do with her, actually none of them, including Jake, she used to think. Now they were making a list out of a yearbook in her room, she eating A Hundred Flavors Beans, and him wetting and messing the carpet.

Then they went trought the Language club, which apparently had an all girls alignment except from Jake and some exchange student kid. Out of there she got other four, therefore, completing a list of fifteen. "Is this all?" she asked, making her believe she was the last in the list. "For the way this looks, this is come kind of weird guest list for a party?" she asked to herslef, being that the most stupid hypothesis she could have heard out loud. "But isn't my birthday untill June?" he said, looking at the March marking calendar. "Well, yes this could have been done before" then she though troughfully, a year ago she thought Jake was just another basketball player. There was no way she would be on the list in that case.

They staied quiet for a while, she was thinking, he was thinking. Maybe it's a list of girls he liked? It would be kind of cruel to put her next to girl who could easily be in the cover of Seventeen or something like that. Cruel, yet sweet to put her. She thought. I wonder if this has anything to do with remembering anything... What if I'm just a list freak and hadn't tell anyone, maybe I was even planning to kill these girls or something. He thought.

"Was I the last one in the list?" she asked, trying to draw conclusions from all details. "I don't think so, there were sixteen listed names" he said, trying hard to rememeber. "Well, does looking at the picture of this girls reminds you of anything?" she said, showing him the yearbook. HE could smell grapes, nothing special about it, just grape flavored candy. "That smells familair" he said, staring at her mouth. 

"Oh, sorry, I eat them all the time" she said, laughing shamelessly "One of this they'll get me cavities." They bought laughed. Then, looking at one of the girls in the list, she was the one who had a memory. "Wasn't this one your girlfriend or something?" she said, pointing at a pretty redhead with too much eyeliner. "I'm sorry to tell you, but I don't remember" he said ", for real" he laughed hard, for once making a little fun of his condition.

"I'm sure I once saw you together with this tra...girl" she said, eyes with opened, realising her more than obvious jelousy expression. "Let me see" she said, then she looked around the names with the faces, turning and turning pages, scribling things in a note book she took from the drawer. "I think I know what this list is" she said, her voice showed no enthusiasm

"Half of this girls were with you at some point, at least I remember so, I didn't pay much attention back then" she said, kind of blaming him, kind of blaming herself for getting into this. "How come you conclude this? Didn't we star being friends this year? Or so my mom told me" he said. "Well, I'm in the least amI not?" she said, staring at him, trying to tell him for once and for all. "What?" his expression changed from deeply confused to surprised to almost scared. "Do you mean, you and I..." he said. "Yes, but it was sort of a secret, for some stupid reason"she said, turning her head to the other side, taking a Raspberry  Bean.

"Was I a jerk or something?" he said, indeed worried. She laughed and looked at him again "You were sweet, it was a mutual decision." He got closer to her, she got closer, he kissed her. Then it came. He smelled the raspberry bean, and just like Judith's book about Amnesia said, the memories stroke him in a weird way, without even thinking about it. Raspberry Bean was the same flavor she was eating the first time they kissed when she was tutoring him for a Biology quiz. He had paied her five bucks. She kept them.

Then, like an ocean wave revolving around a person who's lieng on the beach, who can't escape, yet it's not intese as to drown. He got squashed by the memories. Kissing Judith, hanign out with her, kissing her more, all the other girls each girl. Each girl hanging out and kissing, and making out and finally saying yes. Yes, and the day later they were in the list, each of them, not all of them his girlfriends. Yes and they were another memento ready to be forgotten in the closet of teenage triumphs. Judith was not the last on the list. Then he got crushed by a red mini van.

"What happened?" Judith asked, scared, Jake was shaking."Mildred Bronte" he said, feeling dirty, feeling guitly, feeling a jerk. "What?" she asked. "She's number 16" he said. "What do you mean?" she asked. He didn't answer. She understood, a quick trear fropped from her eye, "It's not a list of girlfriends is it?" she was now actually crying. "Not really"

[green voice was right]

By I'm the penguin

So yes....

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Monday, March 23, 2009


The mountain has no wi-fi, so sorry about this minuscule post.. which will eventually be replaced.

Btw... happy tomorrow.!

[Mrs. K i t e]

Molinos de viento

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Sunday, March 22, 2009


En honor al caballero milenario de la armadura oxidada
enfrentando monstruos que de noche susurraban
que de día ellos giraban, monstruos de reacción retardada.
Tan reales como el viento y tan amenazantes que alarmaban

Solo un héroe de tal calibre puede enfrentaerse
a criaturas que de razón no comprenden
y en la imaginación se aprehenden.

Sin tiempo ni actualidad, el guerrero lucha contra el monstruo
este allí o no

By Je suis le pingouin

It was time

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Saturday, March 21, 2009


"Yes, sorry, you were saying..."
"Nothing, it was nothing."
"C'mon, don't get like that."
"I forgot."
"No you didn't, you told me 'I have something important to tell you' and then I said 'yeah, me too' and I interrupted you and I told you about yesterday's party and what happened and all that, and I know I interrupted you, and I'm sorry,"
"It was nothing."
"C'mon, what was it?, I already told you I was sorry."

But the problem wasn't that, I didn't care about that, actually. It was the story before the regret, the story about the party, and he did not now. But now I thought about it, and made a major draw back in my coming out. Now I knew what had happened, my whole plan fell into pieces, making me go back to the place where I once was, the darkness of the secret which wished to be told... and maybe it was for the best... for my best, but I couldn't stop thinking about it... What if I had spoken before I knew that?... I just knew I wouldn't be able to keep the secret any longer, and I was scared, but it was time...

[Mrs. K i t e]

Of dead and angels

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in , | Posted on Friday, March 20, 2009


“So, how is France?” asked my geographically inept brother-in-law.

“It’s not France, it’s Belgium… and it is fine” I said, when I could have possibly make essays and essays of how good was Belgium compared to this burrow,  how its people and culture were by far more accepting and livable than this place. But instead I just said fine.

“They still speak French don’t they?” He went on, trying not to look stupid, at the best.

“Yes” I said which was partly true “Then?” he asked, as if he had just been saying the same thing as me and I was trying to make him feel stupid. He is stupid. People in Saint Pierre et Miquelon speak French, and they are certainly not France. But that was not the point.

“Harold, don’t distract him, Russ what are we going to do?” asked my sister, next to the dish washer. She still had that spark in her eyes, a very sassy and bossy spark, it used to be a hot blaze, she used to be a blaze, now, one had to look in very deep, pass through the premature wrinkles, trough the nylon dress from the Everythingatonedollar store. But it was still there, somewhere.

“I think we should call the cops” I said, not really thinking what I was saying. I was still dizzy; no twelve hour nap snaps you out of a coming-back-to-

home-after-fifteen-years kind of experience. “The cops?!” she yelled “are you nuts?” she brought some reason into the situation, what was I thinking? Cops to search a senile seventy nine year old lady who could be in danger, what an occurrence. “Then you tell me, how does this work?” I asked, with just a little hint of challenge on it.

“You are right, excuse me my mother always escapes the house while watching the Super Bowl, I should know what to do, these things happen every day” she said, rubbing me my absence in the face. “Sorry, I just, I don’t know…” I babble, I had nothing to say. “Of course you don’t, it’s my entire fault. You don’t have to know, you don’t live here, I do, I should know.” She said, looking faintly.

“Why not the cops?” I asked innocently. “Because” she sighed “They would only think she went crazy and is around the neighborhood scarring little children o

r something” she said, making hard assumptions, “she constantly yells at them about being thieves” she said, noticing my questioning expression.

“She’s fine, she just sometimes remembers that time when dad and her were stopped by some guys dressed as cops..” I interrupted her “and then stole their car, yes I remember” I said, remembering more than I thought I would.

“Had she been like that lately?” I asked , fearing to ask the real question “Like what? Yelling at people?” she said, like it was nothing, then she noticed my stare “Russ, she’s fine, she’s just old and she sometimes forgets a thing or two, I bet it even happens to you” she said, trying to make things better, I knew she wasn’t that optimistic.

“She has asked a lot about you lately though” she said, looking away. I knew it was not her intention, well maybe just a little, to make me feel like crap, about leaving, about quitting here and going away. It was not her intention, it was not my fault my mother got lost, yet I felt like crap, at the best.

“Has she expressed wishes to go somewhere?” I asked, as if this was just another case of another patient. “Don’t bring your shrink crap here, she’s your mo

ther.” Lisa said, she was usually up for the shrink crap, it was reasonable she would be pissed. “Now Harold and I are going to go to the areas around, you look in her room to see if there’s something that could help” she said, perfectly knowing my posture against staying in that house, knowing of all things searching for mom’s stuff was the most hurting “All right?” she asked. “Okay” I said.

Soon they were gone in his red huddled van. And there I was left alone, in a house full of ghosts I had escaped some years ago, and the dead don’t like it when you ignore them. I climbed the shrieking stairs and walked to the master room, which was now of course being used by Lisa and Harold. It was entirely different, no more red tapestry all over the place, or china angels hanging from the ceiling, they were all scary, in their own very special way.

And so I entered the next door, I assumed she lived there now, it was full of needless

 decorations, which seemed like the plunder of all the aquariums in the state of Kentucky. Her bizarre taste had always been very distinctive of her, which didn’t meant it was new, or fancy or ahead of her time, it was just bizarre. There was a wax turtle shell being used as a night table, held by four weak sticks of wood.

It took me shorter that I had expected to dive into her stuff, begin a journey of reviving the left to dead stories. I even found letter of her and my father, back when she moved from Pennsylvania to Lancaster, Kentucky. In the letters my father seemed nice, romantic and longing, my mother seemed naïve and self-absorbed. In reality he was an abusive jerk and she was naïve and self-absorbed. They got married when he arrived, by according to her a miracle, and according to him, the only ride he could get out of Penn. He was coming back after a sales job across the country selling pewter, according to her. He had left home, had left an apathetic pregnant woman, with an annoying three years old he had never even liked, according to him. Her husband had run away because of the kids, according to her. M

y father had never existed, according to us.

Looking among her stuff made me wonder if I was looking either for my mother or my past, maybe it was just the curiosity to bring it all back, to make a self induced crisis. Maybe that was the plan, but the subconscious had forgotten to send a memo. He looked at albums, which was actually just one album, containing my sister’s and me childhood photos, always taken by someone else, mom was too busy with her happy pills, she used to be sad, all the time, at the very least.

I remembered that between my ninth and tenth year I used to dream a lot about my family being dead, every night, I would not tell anyone. I always k

ept it to myself in case someone thought I was crazy, but mostly for the uncomfortable feeling it was. I had thought that maybe they were premonitions of my mom and sister, and unknown father going to die. I had never met my father, but I had always imagined him as an uglier version of G.I Joe for some reason, even if he had left a kid needs his heroes. Anyways, thinking about that being something I was seeing made scared, made me be afraid of the future.

I had also thought that it was maybe an internal wish to end with my mother’s suffering and my sister’s huge obligation of almost raising me, being only three years older. Maybe, I thought, I would lose control one day and killed them; that made me be afraid of myself, and the dead, and the future.

And even years later, when I took a course on dreaming interpretations, and I learned that seeing someone die in a dream is expressing the inner anger we don’t want to accept, so subconsciously we just kill them; even knowing that didn’t help my fear of the dead, my fear of myself. Because after all, even with the psychology behind it, something in me still thought it was me wanting them to really die.

There I was, surrounded by old papers with no value, other than the one given by time and memories, surrounded by the past, by everything I had left behind, of my mother. Then I found the poem she once found in a one dollar book store sale, it was folded in four exact squares, it was still complete, no time damage. The poem was by some random author, it was sort of good, “My angels fly away”, I had always thought it was her way of saying good bye in case she abruptly left, or I abruptly left her. The latter was the case. And today, the day I wanted to make amends, the day I started working against my ungrateful child tag, that day my mother disappears, by choice, again.

Somewhere around the memory of when she went away to Philadelphia for a week without telling us, and her amber beads necklace, I noticed there was nothing there that could tell me where she was. And so I moved on, to the next phase, thinking where a seventy year old lady who was abandoned by everyone in her life, except her daughter, could possibly be? It was no longer his mother in question, it was just a seventy year old lady who was abandoned by everyone in her life, except her daughter. Then I remembered something about wings and water.

Not two minutes passed when I heard a deep hoarse voice “We’re home, we haven’t find her yet”. Maybe she was missing for good now, “no luck in her recurring places?” I asked, trying to make the possibilities narrower. “She has no recurring places, she doesn’t go anywhere” she said, as if I was conducting and FBI case on a petty thief. “Did you look in the park?” I asked, getting my coat. “Erm… no, she hates parks” Lisa said, remembering her mother saying so “She does says to hate lots of things”. “Let’s go” I said, and we left the house.

Twenty minutes later we were in the park with a fountain on it, it had little sculptured angels dancing around it, but one, a special one, which was just there, standing, looking at the water. And next to that angel was a seventy year old lady who was abandoned by everyone in her life, except her daughter. I approached, she saw me, she went back to looking at the water, along with the angel.


“I know, I just need to be here for a while”

“I just…”

“Don’t worry, we’ll sit and chat in a bit”

“We were so worried and…”

“Wait, I need time, one prepares for a moment for fifteen years, then it comes, and it finds you in a park trying to avoid it”


“How did you know?”

“My flying angels”

“I guess I’ve came to an age where I am predictable”

“It’s just that you loved so much that part…”

My winged friends, don’t you leave
you have to still find what you came for
and I will help you for as long as I live.
Just look into the water mirror, and there will be the before


“Now it just seems childish gibberish, I guess I am do becoming predictable”

All rights of this image belong to xmarkoz deviantART user

By I'm the penguin

With some luck...

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Thursday, March 19, 2009


I'm proud to present, after a day where I was supposed to do I proyect, the "final" (and it's with "" because final for kite is never actually final) version of the to-be "master-piece" (and now you know why the "") of the canvas entitled (probably): los cuentos del tio tungsteno (or similar)

With some luck... it will look like this.. (or with even more luck maybe even better)

[Mrs. K i t e]
[ ignore the "www" in the tag..]


Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Wednesday, March 18, 2009


[What kind of blog are we if we only speak of ourselves and our stories? (a real one) But today I don't want to make it about me. We speak of literature but we never comment deeply about any books. So here, I make the first step, without the promise I'll be a better reviewer than I am a short-story-ist (novel makers are called novelists, why not?) and that describes the next as poor already]

Slaughterhouse-five by Kurt Vonnegut is a book about war, it is a book about dentistry, about aliens, how absurd the time is, and about of death, lots of death. The story of Billy Piligrim, and how being alomst a child, an unprepared weakling, he is sent to war (WWII)  and how he manages to live trough, and of course, life after war.

The magic of it is in the way the metanarrator can go from time to time, use a literary figure, and a hundred pages later bring it back with elegant fluency and amusing style. The many nonsense put into a way that is almost believeable, and the lost of track of were was reality left, along with hard hits of crude truth.

In my opinion it is a master piece by the way it is written, but by the story as well, and the strong anti-war message sent by this book. It doesn't only amuse with the writing, it has actual meaning and deep and simple philosophical views. It is not another World War II hero warrior tale, it is the story of "The children's crusade, a duty dance with death".

"He is in a constant state of stage fright, he says, because he never knows what part of his life he is going yo have to act in next."

This is what the philosophical part of this master piece is about, how absurd time is, being just a dimension to measyre a life, which will end up being memories tangled in an old person's mind.

It is a most read in the humble opinion of this penguin, and so I say Poo-tee-weet

By I'm the penguin


Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Tuesday, March 17, 2009


I don’t think it had lyric, even so, I sort of remember lyrics. Words and feeling I related to that song, I had even forgotten the name, but I kept thinking of a tree and of a piece of red fabric, a blue background, and people who I knew. It was a strange rhythm of percussions at the end that made me doubt of the legal origin of such song, and immediately after the taciturn change, some voices, (lyric-less too) would start speaking, with a language I understood in a strange way to. Repetitive tones formed a synchronic beat with my typing and when the “woow” arose, my fingers gained a completely different speed and feeling, a more euphoric one is a certain sense.
I didn’t like this music for a long time, but now, it was kind of contagious.

Realistic nonsense

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Monday, March 16, 2009


We tend to excel in our attempts to show you the bizare and the odd, this is all about the show. But among such strangeness, the queer becomes common, so here it is, a little bit of sense in the nubosity.

Have our madness of reality.

So I hope you enjoy my realistic painting of a lion

[keep it real]
By I'm the penguin

As you wish

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Sunday, March 15, 2009


One of today's most intense feelings came by while watching a ficticious show online.
And that was the highlight (of feeling) another feeling came by as I heard my music. (which is not mine per se, but I call it mine if it is on my iTunes)
And I thought for a while... "Omg, I've had only ficticious feelings, but after a long time of thinking this (about 38 seconds) I said "Nah.. It can't be ficticious..."
And I started playing with words, as my eyes were closing and I wasn't really concious of what i was writing.

Read it as you wish


About introductions and whores

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in , | Posted on Saturday, March 14, 2009


Jimmy and his uncareful wish
One day,  Jimmy was walking in the woods, all by himslef, when all of the sudden the encountered a nut of golden cover. Jimmy was intrigued, what would the golden be? It was not rubber or pain, it was actual gold in its plain. And then, the spirit of the woods, a flying squirtle appeared before him. The squirrel asked for the golden nut, for it was his, but it got lost.  Jimmy didn't hesitate and gave it away, he knew nothing about gold's value. So the squirtle was amazed and granted him a wish, to which ironically, Jimmy asked to be the richest man in town.

So, he came back to his house, which was a mansion now. He lived like a king for some years, bought the finest clothes and ate the best loaves, but he also caused the jelousy of many, but he didn't care, for he was rich and he could buy anything. Untill one day, Jimmy was found dead in the carpet made of wool.

Moral of the story: Don't hire cheap hookers when you can afford the ones who don't bring daggers to work.

He was inside her
 She surrounded his body around her, every single molecule was telling her not to let him go.He surrendered to her will, and entered her, with salvage beastiality, but soft tenderness. And so they began the process.
His name was Vibrio Cholerae.

Inocent  prostitution
"My mom says you're a bad person"
"Your mom is a whore"
"A what?"
"She sleeps with men for money"
"No she doesn't, she says she does it because she loves them all"

[Time for more midnight mini-fiction!]
By I'm the penguin

My mind's M.D.

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Friday, March 13, 2009


Her daugther had had cancer four years ago,
"It's a miracle" he said.
"Indeed a miracle," the mother said.
"So you say, you've been having pain in your right elbow and arm?"
"Yes, and you know, her cancer started there, so I was worried too."
"Let's don't worry until we have everything, but more likely you'll have just normal joint pain, you know, it comes with age."
"Ha! I guess doc." she smiled.
"I'll give you some elbow excersices, and that'll be all for now, some analgesics too."
"So, in other things, your triglicerids are a little high, so you may want to stop eating that much bread,"
"But, my bread with my coffee, c'mon doc, I love it."
"Well, your cholesterol is alright, but your triglicerids are indeed high, so,"
"Can I eat half of it?"
"Then I'll buy a bigger bread, and eat just half of it."
"HaAHA! No, that's cheating."
She smiled, I gave her some free samples of meds for her husband, and she left.

This was what happened + how would it be if I was the doc,... I think... I hope... not bad...

[Mrs. K i t e]

Going away

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Thursday, March 12, 2009


We sleep half of our lives, which gives an average of 32 years we are awake. We just have thirty years to do all we can; to walk, to jump, to fly, to fall, to give, to recieve, to dream, to cry, to laugh, to hate... to love. We may not be concious of this all the time, we may not be aware that our time is running, we only have a limited amount of it; which pops the question: are we using it correctly?

I am a thirty thirty four year old man, which means I already used half of my half. And ever since I was in a bus crash, which ended in an explotion, I have used every minute of it. It is quiet sad indeed, that we need this sort of rock in our path to fully realise our potential. It was a man who reached the Himalaya's peek, it was a woman who discovered the radioactive energy, it was a child who made Pascal's theorem (guess who he was). And these people, they were all humans, they were all like us. We can accomplish things, we are not only working machines to produce offspring and then die. We are humans, and untill now, there is very few we can't do.

I sometimes wonder if I will ever do anything, anythign meaningful I mean. I wanted to go to space when I was a child, I also wanted to find the cure of whatever grandma had, I wanted to travel the world and find ancient gems from old sacntuaries. But it happens that I was not good at physics, or knowing senility was not a disease; and that I didn't know what an archeologist had to do most of the time. We have all these dreams, all this fantasies, but then we are faced with the real deal. 

"Honk!" I hear. I realise that I was blocking the traffic and so I proceed, thinking of the posibility of maybe someone hitting me by the back, and ending my daydreaming career. I drive some more in my bubble of thought when I notice I missed a turn, I had gone so many times to Heather's house, but somehow I always seem to forget where to give the turn, or if her building is the light or vanilla yellow. I wonder if it is a sign, I guess it is just my own personal lack of attention. 

Maybe I would make a terrible father, forgetting where the kids' school was, or letting them play with fire around the house. But now that is taking it too far, we're not even engaged; which is silly, I wouldn't like to scout again for a right girl. But maybe I just don't take the next step because I'm afraid things won't go right, what if it is like the astronaut thing? What if I'm not good at physics again, what if the real thing crushes the fantasy? Maybe I still hope that out there there is the perfect girl for me, my soul mate. Maybe I'm wasting both mine and Heather's time staying in this, maybe we're not right for each other after all. Then I hear Woo hoo by the 5, 6, 7, 8s. It's my phone, it's Heather, it's time.

I could probably get on a plane and jump off it, of course with the right euipment, I guess I would have to take some skydiving classes. Which wouldn't be cheap, so I'll just stick to bungee jumping this weekend. But I bet Joe won't want to, it took him centuries to make the decision of going the weekend away, then we should just hang out, he tends to go all comando escape when things are new. But well, I should pack the boogie board in case he gets in the mood, which won't really matter, I'll do it anyways. Sometimes I feel I get behind things just waiting him to come out of that bubble he lives in, with the world being so screwed as it is, the last thing we need are more people living inside their heads. 

Maybe that's why he gets stacked in his own thoughts, he gets deviated into a river of nothingness, thinking, of how could have it gone better. Half of the world population don't have access to decent health care, the climate change we caused is destroying everything, war and famine. Perhaps we should all just live in our own little worlds, at least there's safer, or well at least there is not so much injustice. But those are just ideas, I need action, so I take the phone and speed dial Joe, he better be soon this time.

I have started this weird routine for some time now. I wake up, and don't go out of bed until I hear something outside, something that tells me the world did turned on that day, something telling me I can make a change. Then I serve open the doors, literally and figurately, so the day can begin. Then, I just go out to the valcony and turn my head downwards, and just listen to everything. To the bird tweeting, the cars honking, the heavy trailers going trough a bumpy street, the wind in the third floor. It is like some chaotic personal symphony.

"Are you here?" I said, knowing he was going to say almost

"Yes, do I come in?" I said, she wasn't ready, I wasn't ready.

"Sure, I'll be out in just a minute" I couldn't really believe he was on time

"Okay" Would she be able to tell just by seeing at me?, that I was having doubts about us? Is it something you can see in a person?

And so as every day, I went at the balcony, where I heard two people talking, but they were far from each other.

So I got out, walked to the door, waited for that annoying ring and pushed the door, Heather soon disappeared from her opened door, she was probably missing thirty minutes of packing.

For once we were both ready, so I saw him, ran for my stuff and ran again to the door, I felt a little optimistic about the whole thing of going away.

Now there was running

She is back really fast, which is strange, stranger is the fact that she tackles me

I just run to him and kiss him

They stopped

It was sudden, it was relieving, the doubts shuted for a second

He was a bit dull, but we would get there...

It was a kiss

"Heather, there's a man watching us from the third floor" I say, noticing a creep staring flauntly at us.

"Don't mind him, he always does that, every mourning he goes out and does the same thing" I say, explaining way too much something of that relevance, the guy was no that creepy.

"What is he doing wearing sunglasses at this time of the mourning?" 

"He's blind" I say, not believing he didn't made the connection himself

[Planned to be this huge alegory, may have to read it carefully *rolls eyes*]
By I'm the penguin

A millisecond of inexistence

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Wednesday, March 11, 2009


Sometimes I wondered, the if I could close my eyes strongly enough I would suddenly disappear, just for an instant, before coming back. So as I imagined, I cannot say if I slept, or I went into a sort of trance, but the truth is, I disappeared, sometimes I did. And I’m sure about this, I can’t explain it or give any evidence, but it did happen. Some days ago I tried it again, but something had just faded away.

Now I spend my days closing my eyes, hoping for a millisecond of inexistence.
[Img from: Art by Julia Skerry ]

Living a novel

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Tuesday, March 10, 2009


I know it is clear I like story telling. And maybe there has been enough story morals and self dialogues to test reality. But they just don't seem enough.

What's a novel? What's a short story? I bet some dictionary would tell me it is a literary narration, that can be fiction or non fiction, and that each has several genders, so to say. But can a story put in paper be like the life of a person in case said story was non-ficiton?

Think about this, can this story telling be held as some sort of life remanant? It begins, it has a climax, then it ends. All we have from people who once lived are the memories, which are stories, and the remamant of their existence is not the ashes, or the rotten corpses. The stories are the only thing we leave here, and depends on us, and the story tellers, that the story remains alife.

So a story is like a life. But there is something interesting. A book is already written from the moment you take it from the shelf. Of course you are shocked when you find out that the murderer was the doctor, but in the book, the murderer had always been the doctor, it didn't change. Books you start reading are done already, they don't change, anything in there is all there will ever be. The lives of the characters, the line of the plot, it is all fixed in the paper, not mattering how you read it.

If a story is so similar to life, is it so hard to believe our life book is fixed from the begining? What if from the very beggining we were set into making a blog to run for several years until we got real jobs? What if our decisions are indeed our decisions but they were taken before hand? What if all of this is just a novel?

What if you are just a cameo in first person?

By I'm the penguin


Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Monday, March 09, 2009


She was surprised, maybe even dazzled. His appearance was unexpected, even for her.

She was reading in the sofa when the doorbell rang. She stood of quickly, even a little surprised. Something happened that day that she didn’t even asked, she just opened the door. There he was with the same tired eyes and 3-day beard. They didn’t say anything, they just stood there for some minutes, and some minutes, when you’re silently standing in front of someone, can last forever. So, yes, let’s say they stood quietly in front of each other forever. Soon enough, he moved back in, and they still didn’t speak. He made dinner sometimes, and she called her with a simple hand shake or at least with his presence. Even when they slept together, they would make love silently.
When she got back to work, he would be reading in the sofa. The sofa in which each two years or so, she would wait for him to ring the doorbell again.

[Mrs. K i t e]
just loved the idea of this story, it’s not really well written, but I just wanted to catch the essence (at least for me) in order to get back to it sometime

Blank memory

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Sunday, March 08, 2009


He opened his eyes and saw a blank space, nothing around him, or at least that was his first impression. As he moved his gaze around the blank he noticed it was but a room, a very white one, he could not even distinguish the corner shadow of the walls. Then he looked at himself, he was lying down with pale-blue covers over him, and transparent strings attached to his arm. He tried to move and arm, but it ached too much, so he continued to examine this white room.

Now that he could see clearer, it was not that shinny and clear, there was a big frame in the wall at his left, it contained the picture of a little girl smiling, she looked familiar. Then, he began to listen to the things around him, a beep that was constant and annoying, the chains of the blinds hitting the walls, and steps that always sounded like approaching but never came. He could listen to his own breath. Then he listened to a second breath.

He turned to his right and saw a woman sitting by his side, while holding papaers in front of her; apparently he hadn't seen her there before. Then, the woman put down the papares and beamed him, without any change in her expression. She was probably in her mid fifties, well preserved, redhead with a very sharp nose. Her blue eyes kept holding his sight, "Are you feeling better?" she asked. "Does it hurt?"

He didn't answer, he couldn't know how to. He just moved his stare to the frame with the smilling girl. And just then, when he was thinking what the woman had said, he felt it, a burning and drilling sensation in his head. As if someone was driving a molten metal nail in his head. But even then he didn't opened his mouth, didn't yell or even moaned. And so heclosed his eyes and breath deeply untill the pain was bearable, which took a few minutes.

When it was back to being containable, he turned his head and the woman was still staring at him with the papers in her hands. "Where am I? What happened?" he said, realising his voice was deep and soar. "Do you remember me?" she asked, as if he hadn't said a thing. "Sure, you are my wife" he said, not thinking what he had just said. He looked around, to find the source of that response. He knew he had said it, but there was no way he could know what he just said.

"You are in a hospital" she said, looking too calmed to his confused reaction. "What happened?" he asked, gaining conciense of the pain in almost all of his body. "You were in an accident" she said, then she took the Newspaper back infront of her, as it was some hair dressing anteroom. 
He tried to remember, he tried to take his mind back to the time he had married that woman, back to the time he had been in such an accident, or anything. He couldn't, he couldn't remember who he was, or who she was, or anything for that matter.

"What sort of accident?" he asked, overcame by his own lack of memories. "An accident, now try to sleep you need the rest" she said from the international news section. "Was it the kitchen again? Did the stove exploded?" he asked, again confused by the source of that information. "It would made sense if you had burns wouldn't it? But they are just some scratches and bruises." She said, turning the paper's page.

"Then what was it?" he asked, demanding some sort of explanation, anything that could relate to a memory. "You just had another of you episodes honey, like with the kitchen, but now you didn't got burn" she said, with the same monotonous voice she would have explained the fall of point two points in the stock market.

"Were you there?" he asked. She remained silent, he couldn't even listen to her breath now. Then, for what seemed like an hour or so they both remained silent, he was just overwhelmed and confused by the whole situation. The woman to his right said to be his wife, but seemed more like a ghost, he couldn't remember a thing and he was lying god knows where with everything in his body hurting.

"What do you mean by my episodes?" he asked, after the long silence. "I mean that you had an accident when you lost conciense, and you know how it goes..." she said, folding the paper horizontaly. "I don't" he said "Can't you notice I don't remember anything?!" he yelled, trying to get her out of the paper. "I know, just rest" she said, from the gossip section, putting more attention to the Africa adoption issue with Hollywood stars than to the yelling man.

He was desperate, he was angered and confused. He yelled for help, screamed at the insensitive dummy who called itself his wife. He tried to move, but nothing responded, not even the little finger of his foot; nothing. He was just a talking sack of flesh and bones. He screeched and shrieked and squealed, untill he was too tired to move his diaphragm any longer.

Then, when he got a bit of his ease back he asked "What happened when I had the episode in the kitchen?" his voice was cracking. The woman put the paper down again and took a deep breath "You were cooking breakfast, I was not around, then you lost control. For some reason you took the aerosol oil, opened the gas in all the stove and just made everything explode with the spray." she said, with her fixed expression and voice.

"Why would I do anything like that?" he couldn't believe a word of that. "The doctors said you were fixed, that it was a tumor inside your head, they said they had fixed you" she said, letting a little emotion out, but it couldn't be identified as sadness, or regret, it was just emotion. "And what happened this time?!" he asked, not believing still, but unexplainably worried.

"Like always, you had some hallucination of paranoia, then you had seissures and finally woke up saying you had been to the Mexican desert, where you had gotten the burns. The doctors said it was just a side effect of the syrgury and medications." she said. "But that was last time. What happened now?!" he asked.

"You don't know?" she said, again readin the Newspaper. "Why would I be asking you if I knew?" he was hyperventilating, he oculd now hear the rythmical beep go crazy. "Well, you had hallucinations again" she said.

"And then?" 

She was looking at the financial section, then she gazed into his eyes. "You were in the highway, and near a precipice you felt you were being followed. You drove us to the precipice" she said, turning the page.

"Us?" he asked, but he knew the answer by the time he had finished it. He turned to his left and saw the little girl. "Us three?" he asked, tears sliding down his face.

"Is she fine?" he asked, with no response. "What happened then?"

"Then?" she asked rhetorically "Who said there was a then?"

"Whaty do you mean? Is this..."

She just turned the page into the obituary section.

By I'm the penguin

Even if the answer is "I don't know.."

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Saturday, March 07, 2009


I've never know, where is my mind?

With your feet in the air and your head on the ground
Try this trick and spin it, yeah
Your head will collapse
But theres nothing in it
And youll ask yourself

Where is my mind (3x)

Way out in the water
See it swimmin

I was swimmin in the carribean
Animals were hiding behind the rock
Except the little fish
But they told me, he swears
Tryin to talk to me koi koy

Where is my mind (3x)

Way out in the water
See it swimmin ?

With your feet in the air and your head on the ground
Try this trick and spin it, yeah
Your head will collapse
If theres nothing in it
And youll ask yourself

Where is my mind (3x)

With your feet in the air and your head on the ground
Try this trick and spin it, yeah

[ Mrs. K i t e ]
mrs. kite often had dejà-posts, but some songs are just to good, and she can't believe they haven't been posted before...

P&K : Flying monkeys

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Friday, March 06, 2009


[Firts of many? Last of a few?Uncertainty]
By I'm the penguin

Finding about us

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Thursday, March 05, 2009


Well, today I dounf something related obviously to the fields, which i wouldn't have found without my lovely egocentrism, even so, it is beautiful, i think, and if you search our name in wiki, you'll find something intresting to.
Dear reader, please notice the naming relation was not intended, (or was it?)
So here i leave you with this painting by Zorka Perovic

[Kosovo - the field of blackbirds - a contemporary painting by Zorka Perovic]

I loved it, I couldn't really find anything else about Zorka Perovic...

[Mrs. K it e]
watch this

Heavenly skies

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Wednesday, March 04, 2009


He was sitted in his cloud made chair, looking up, at the great everything, at the great perhaps. The sky of all things, contained mysteries and jigsaws ,that even his knowledge, surpased. He had walked the earths and swam the oceans, he had even flown the skies; finding dancing sands, whistling waters and shining winds. 

But never in all his journeys had he found something as amazing and distant as a star. He knew the wind were gasses , he knew the core of the world was full of energy, but even like that he was amazed that together, those apparently invisible things in his hubble world could make such a show.

Stars and planets, meteors and galaxies; they were all made of the same dirt in his feet and the air in his lungs. He himself was star stuff, but the magic of the distance, the purity of their night light, it was something beyond the existence and might. And so he used his golden spyglass, to search in all the universe the most amazing of the them, the one thing that would give a sense to it all.

He couldn't explain how, but he felt bigger by finding the most beautiful mixture of colors in the sky beyond. He felt part of it, part of the galaxy, part of the cosmos; which was one with the sun and the atom in his thumb. He was one with it all. And so he understood his role.

[1. Gives credit to NASA, and acknowledges possible religious content
  2. I do believe (in writer’s block)]

By I'm the penguin

Paper folding

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Tuesday, March 03, 2009


Sometimes I just feel like folding papers. And I’ve realized, besides being my anxiety neutralizer (of course), it’s the way I try to tell myself I can build things, beautiful, surprising, amusing, or just useless. It’s the way I tell myself things do happen, and things will happen. Time goes by, while I fold small pieces of paper, and some of my cells stick to the paper as I fold it to make the creases. And module my module, I start constructing something from almost zero. And I think about the 2D paper (which it’s actually 3D, but think of the paper as an idea) making some 3D structures which is a single, made of repetitive and minuscule other meaningless pieces which you do and re-do.
And I also think about people, I think about them, about you, about everyone I care, or don’t, but mainly about people I care.
Flying like paper, again.

[Mrs. K i t e]

You silly boy

Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Monday, March 02, 2009


I hate the fact that I melt every time you call me Lura, even when it makes no sense and it sounds silly. You are silly. I hate the fact that your lame jokes made me roll my eyes and call you idiot and now they just create a warm fuzzy feeling in my chest; it seems this is too ending with my sense of humor. And something I can't stand is that these days I let you win in table hockey so you do that stupid little dance where you jump and smile goofily, because I can't help but to smile from very deep and feel joyous. You're just growing in me, and I hate you for that, but I simply can't stop it.

A few months ago I would have laughed at you when that girl in the second floor threw a bucket of water that fell right in your head, and then perhaps I would have yelled at the girl for being so careless. Yesterday I was worried you would get a cold, and curious of what could be seen beneath that tight white T-shirt. And while I was feeling it, it was normal, but then I think about it and it makes me nauseous, the mere thought of feeling this way about you makes me want to pull every hair off my scalp and scream. But it also makes me want to carve our names in a tree. You seriously damaged me.

And I don't know how it happened, I have no idea how you, above all the guys I know and I'm exposed to, you had to be the one I had a ridiculous crush on. Maybe it is because you are sweet, although I had always thought it was more like you were stupid. I like my coffee bitter with no sugar or cream, and you are a freaking latte. And I don't want to like lattes, I don't want to like you, and I definetly don't want to allow you call me Lura, when it is not even a nick name for Laura. 

But I have tried, I even saw you today eating a sanwich, which you ate like a pig. The mayoneese was slipping by your fingers, the lettuce was coming out of the down side, and the worst was that it was all mixed with some nasty chipotle sauce. But what happens? What does my little silly brain does? I think it is freaking cute. Damn, the patagonial rabbit is cute, baby seals are cute, even freaking wool balls look cute. Why on earth would I think that, the most disgusting thing in my day was cute? I hate hormones.

And the worst of it is that I can't even get all sweet and touchy feely, because that is not me. And I won't be any other than me, even if lately I'm not sure who that is. So I have to stick with hanging out, throwing paper balls at each other, and talking about retro video games. Because that is us, that is me refusing to like you, and that is you being obvlivious about it all. And so here I stand, unheard, unsatisfied, and unwilling.

[1. I promise I'll make a real post soon
  2. Well my character was inspired by two people I know, Mrs. Kite knows them both
  3. It is a work of fiction]

By I'm the penguin


Posted by SgtPepper | Posted in | Posted on Sunday, March 01, 2009


[Wiki's RustChain.JPG]

“Oh, I know, it’s the you always trying to sound interesting isn’t it?”
“The what? No.”
“Yes, the ‘Oh, I’m so special because I see things in a different way.’”
“C’mon it was just a comment.”
“Just a comment, it’s always a ‘just a comment’.”
“That’s totally beside the point, now you’re just finding lame excuses to fight. This isn’t even the case when I’m seeing ‘strange’ things out of normal ones, this is so damn obvious for me.”
“No, I’m not, and god you’re arrogant! It’s just that when I ask you, what do you see in this picture, you answer me honestly, instead of making something up that sounds somehow interesting. I want you to answer ‘It’s a freaking chain’, a FREAKING RUSTY CHAIN!”
“But it is not a freaking rusty chain for me, IT’S A FREAKING TREE!”

[Mrs. K i t e]
apparently redox reactions inspire