Sunday, June 26, 2011

Dear Doctor Kevorkian,



I know you just died but I need your help. My name is Renaud Grotzky and this is my story, briefly:

“You’re a fuckin’ sissy!”

My boss shouted at me. I don’t know why he always calls me that and it’s really not that professional. I suppose it’s because I complain. I complain a lot. But you would too if you were me; my job sucks! I work at Mount Rainier in Seattle, Washington. There is snow here all year round, and for that reason the fun never stops. I carry sleds to the top of a large hill called “Leffe Hill” all day. After little children slide, screaming down the entire way, they leave their vessels of excitement at the bottom and I round them up. They get to walk up the stairs that sprout up along the side of the hill, but I have to walk the sleds up the middle. I slip and I slide and my face is always bruised. I wear shoes with inch-long spikes in an attempt to prevent the slipping, but it never works. I inevitably fall and I fall really hard. And nobody is ever concerned about my wellbeing! It’s not fair! And I can’t quit this shitty job because I’m working off a debt I owe to the owner of Mount Rainier—it’s a long story and I really don’t want to bore you with the details. I had the worst time today and I’m completely fed up. I carted more sleds to the top today than ever before; it’s peak season right now because everyone’s on vacation and the day seemed endless. I’m dead tired right now but I thought I’d write because I don’t know what to do. The fun never stops and for that reason I must continue to suffer! Please write back. Or at least have someone from your estate write me back.

Eternally Yours (I wish),

Renaud

Saturday, June 25, 2011

Curries of India


“Go to Curries of India
“Go to Curries of India”
“Go to Curries of India”
“Go to Curries of India”

So many people have been recommending Curries of India to me lately that I said to myself, as I was walking downtown, “you know what? Just go in. Just do it. Give it a try. Come on.” And you know what? I did.

I picked up a smile about a block away from Curries of India in anticipation of what was to come. Nobody told me what was in there, but I was expecting Curry because it’s in the name—And I’m a fan of Curry, don’t get me wrong. I just, for one reason or another, had never gripped the opportunity when it presented itself. I approached the end of the block on Court St., paused momentarily in front of the last storefront and looked up. It said Curries of India in large cursive letters. I looked back down at the translucent entryway and walked in.

“After all this ranting and raving about Curries of India, it’s high time I order a dish!” I announced to the vacant mini-restaurant. I directed my exclamation at the Indian couple standing behind the counter. Their eyes widened and they each took a step backwards. I tilted my head toward my right shoulder and scrunched my brow a bit, the universal gesture of quizzicality.

“Hi there! I’d like a dish of your finest Curry!” I said as I walked briskly toward the counter. They cowered in fear. The woman wore a red sarong dotted with golden stars. She crouched low on her knees and held up folds of the sarong to shield her eyes from the sight of me. The man crouched not quite as low down as his wife, but nonetheless expressed his fear through the trembling of his voice.

“You get out of Curries of India!” He shouted, holding his pointer finger as if it were a dagger he was threatening to take my life with, shaking slightly.

I stood, puzzled.

“I’m sorry sir, I’m not sure what I did. I just wanted to—“

“GET OUT I SAY”

I turned around on the spot and marched swiftly out the door. I stood in front of Curries of India and I scratched my head. I looked up at the large cursive letters in search of some kind of answer but all it told me, all it would ever tell me was Curries of India. I decided to make a phone call.

“Hey Jeff, it’s Stephen. Good, I’m good. I just—remember when you told me I should go to Curries of India? …Jeff? What do you mean you didn’t recommend it? Of course you did, I just talked to you yesterday about it. Yes, yes I’m sure you have heard of Curries of India we literally just talked about it yesterday. You said you go there for lunch everyday. Hello? Jeff?”
 
Jeff hung up. My eyes grew wide and remained wide as a result. I looked about the street and saw passersby passing me by and I saw someone I knew across the way.

“Amanda!” I shouted. She glanced in my direction. There’s this thing called the cocktail effect that states that there are 20 or so words—different words for each person—swirling around everyone’s heads that can be used as an automatic trigger, an immediate call to attention; “Amanda” would be one of those triggers for Amanda.

Amanda made eye contact with me from across the street. She froze. The stance she settled in to at that moment reminded me of my cat Finnegan whenever I used to scream at him from my porch when I was little. Her back was slightly hunched, and her hands were held out in front of her, displaying crooked claws. She ran.  

Curries of India! You told me to go to Curries of India!” I yelled to her fast-moving backside.

I was bewildered. Flummoxed. Vexed. 

I walked along Court St. in search of something meaningful. People would walk past me on the sidewalk and mutter "Curries of India" under their breath and pretend they didn't. People I didn't even know. 

"You need to eat at Curries of India you asshole!" Someone shouted at me from a fire escape attached to the side of a building.

"Who the fuck are you?" I asked. 

The man who yelled it jumped back through the window of his apartment before I was able to clearly see who he was. I didn't know what to do. I looked at my watch to check the time and saw that written all over my skin, in tiny letters, everywhere, were the words "Curries of India" with a line under it and I started to panic. 

"Curries of India? Curries of India!?" I began asking everyone on the street. They pretended like they didn't know what I was talking about but they all knew. They definitely knew. I screamed louder, with more force. I questioned everyone. Nobody seemed to have an answer. 

I ran behind a building and huddled in a corner. I pulled my knees to my chest and hugged my kneecaps, the orbs of delight. I began to rock involuntarily, calming myself: "Curries of India. It's all OK. Curries of India. It will be alright." I sighed an orgasmic sigh as I saw a man walking towards me wearing a shirt that said Curries of India and carrying a greasy brown paper bag. 

"Curries of India," He said with a smile. 

Friday, June 24, 2011

Empire of Ice Cream (Renga 2)

Protagonist: "Yes, thank you for being open with me. Honesty is really the only basis for friendship that I have found successful. Instead of unsuccessfully batting my way to the e-mail hall of fame, or fulfilling whatever other self-worthy work I put myself into," I offered my encounter, that I may personalize our mistake.

Woman: "What are you a cocknose? Who has a face that expands and contracts with the air," the woman on the sidewalk retorted.

Protagonist: "I, sir, am a plant. And I am not cocknosed, I have a cousin who's cocknosed and it is not funny," I apologized.

Man: "Come on, man, you know you look weird right now, let's just crawl under the clubcrawl rules," the Johnny said, twisting his face in an insidious smile.
Protagonist: "What are the clubcrawl rules?" I asked, innocently.

Man: "This is called the alley."

In the rushing next few minutes I hailed a cab and put my put-you-at-ease-demeanor on the seat. Beside me, adjacent my bench, sat a tall distinguished man, with a handlebar mustache. "Not single, are you?"

"No", I said, tucking my chin into the collar of my dress, which lay flush with the excess skin on my face. The sound from my voice rolled off my chest, and down my skirt.

And I moved, or the car moved. Or both moved? But I got that feeling. You know that reeeaaal eerie feeling you get when the people you were just thinking about are now suspect. They might not be real, see? Your hearing kinda steps back a couple of feet and your sight gets a little, almost unnoticeable, blur to it. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Were those guys here? Who is Protagonist, or man, or woman? Never heard of them in my life. Getting out of the cab, that's when. And that's wh—And that, that's—

And that's when it happened. The whole world got brighter, the songs of the birds seemed to get louder, and the strides of everyone around me seemed to become bouncier and longer. My stalking walk turned into more of a lounging stalking walk, sort of like the transition from orange to red orange, but much less emotional. So maybe not like the transition from orange to red orange. Now that the sun was out, that much changed and that's about it. The couple had been walking faster than me and now I couldn't hear them, which was disappointing. All this "shit" I was hearing about, different from the shit that I knew about, was pretty fucking interesting, god damn it, so I ran to catch up. I stepped on a couple of ants and yelled really quietly, sort of like a whispered yell. But sound came out so it definitely wasn't a whisper, plus I hate whispering so if I had whispered I probably would lie about it and say that I hadn't, because I don't want to associate with whispering. But I also want to tell the truth because...well you know what they say. A little goes a long way. Soon as you step into the first white lie...it gets bigger, and bigger, and looms larger, and larger, until BANG! I had bumped into the young couple. Instantly the skinny, somewhat skanky girl, sort of like one of those ghetto girls with no manners, jumped on me and started pummeling me. The young man looked on, a little bemused, as if he was not at all annoyed or confused by the recent change of atmosphere. 

But I escape the beating, and to me I am not here, and to you—

So I saw a lot of people walking around today.  One of them looked angry but it turned out he was just walking to the store to get some eggs.  I saw this one young couple walking and talking about what seems to be a friend of theirs named Chiara.  It seems that Chiara had done something with "shit" towards the girl who was speaking.  Chiara seemed to have done some fucked up "shit", talked a lot of "shit" and the girl said that if Chiara didn't stop talking about this "shit", then "shit" would be go down the next time they met.  The young man told her that she did not have to fuck up Chiara's "shit" because he didn't hear about any shit the night that Chiara supposedly talked "shit" about her.  He said he was there the whole night with her and their friends and he knew nothing of any "shit" from that night.  He did, however, know that this other girl who had told her about how Chiara was seemingly trying to share or perhaps give "shit" to her always tells people that other people are trying to give away "shit" to others for no reason.  Nonetheless, the girl did not believe the young man and told him that she didn't care about that and that she didn't like Chiara anyway, and I assume that she didn't like the "shit" either.  They continued their walk and then it got warmer for the next few hours because the sun came out.  I like the sun.

The sun is like a gigantic warming machine, chilling the day out. Wayyy out.

Cigarettes didn’t relax me like I hoped they would. The streets were empty and glowing orange as I carelessly stumbled down the street, crunching dead grass under my bare feet, wandering in and out of people's front yards, occasionally stopping to stare into illuminated living rooms. I took another drag off the first cigarette I had ever lit, and waited for some kind of relief. My head was not light, my nerves were not calmed, I just had a bad taste in my mouth. I kept walking. Eventually the sun rose.

And before you knew it...

My cock slid easily between her butt cheeks. "Can you sit still?" I asked as I leaned over her right shoulder (she was moving back and forth and so was I--it wasn't working out. Something had to give.). It's weird to utter a normal kind of question while engaging in anal sex. My leg is jittery under my desk, I can't help it! Mr. Stanton's class is so boring! But my cock is kind of starting to feel ultra sensitive...But the whole class is looking at me like I'm in kindergarten but I'm really a teenager...Wait. What the hell just happened? Now I am about to cum and I'm sitting in the front row and everyone's staring at me. And I'm also 13 years old and having anal sex and what the fuck? That's disgusting. 

That's real. That's unreal. That's. That.



Contributors 
Renaud Grotzky
Jared Garfinkel
Lauren Villareal
Kevin Ralston
Farrell Mckenna 
Patrick Reynolds
Ryan Criswell  
Mub


(The names of other contributors have been removed due to political affiliations.)

After party (Excerpt from a larger work)


“Do you come here often?” He giggled.
“No, only when I’m horny.” She said.

18 years of practicing instruments and writing thoughts, revising thoughts, crying thoughts, and naught, led her to this after-party. She was here because that day she acted and sang until her veins popped from her outstretched throat. She was a beautiful girl. Chloe, the beautiful girl. She was the mulatto girl from Newark. She says so with an upstate New York accent. Smurnov, looks deep into his cup as he imagines licking her strong jaw, gripping her weak little hand, massaging her cheeks with his cheeks. He makes love to his cup of wine with his eyes, but the love is all hers, even if she never knows it.

“So you're 18?”
“Yeah.”
“Well then you're just right, aren't you?”
“Um, yeah, I suppose. I'm not sure what you mean.”

He lets the silence become stale then basks in it. Their pupils dance across the room, in feigned awkwardness. They are actors, performers of the couch, and each knows it. A hand from one reaches toward some imaginary object on the marble table. A hand from the other straightens a shirt sleeve. Where to look? They pretend to ask themselves while letting the air become dense with anticipation. Now the air will breathe.

“I'm going to take your hand now, you know. You're going to spread your lips to opposite ends of your face. You're going to smile, understand?”
After a moment of giggling she finally spits out her part of their play.
“Yes!”
“Yes. Do we escape or do we let the audience follow my tongue through you mouth? Everyone is watching. They're saying I’m a pedophile, a creep searching for a high school piece of ass. I don't much care, but I think its important you know, so you can laugh with me.”
“I'm never sure how to respond to what you say. I'm not sure I should keep speaking to you.”
“Would you like me to leave?”
“I'm...not sure.”

Their corneas show the same amount of white to one another and he lets his mouth go agape and his tongue peak out so she can see the liquid lingering on the pinkish-red top. Smurnov thinks himself a master at putting imagery into the heads of others. What he doesn't know is that she sees none of this, and that at the very moment he describes himself as a pedophile she becomes enamored, intrigued and reminded of her abusive father. Her father stood at a height of five-foot-nine, with a long black beard and mustache, and an always present look of wearied gentility. None of her repressed memories come to the fore, but she experiences a tingling in her lower back, where her father hit her with all his might on a summer day when she was eight years old and resisting. On that day he massaged and bit that spot of pain, smiling lovingly at each pained withdrawal. But she doesn't remember this, she feels this. She begins to search for the source of the feeling and Smurnov realizes he has lost her attention.

Smurnov begins to rub his head. The pressure feels good, so he continues to push his fingers into his skull, and finally looks up at Chloe pensively.

“Put your fingers on my face.”

A long while follows, but ultimately Chloe moves her hands to his face and closes her eyes, opens her mouth and lets the noise of the room disappear as their skins connect and combine to give mutual pleasure that is more intimate than either has experienced. Chloe begins to moan, first softly then with more power and force, then with a trembling vigor. Smurnov follows suit and begins to rise while raising Chloe with him. The room becomes quiet outside of the moans and a bit of slow jazz playing in the background, kitsch jazz. All the pale faces become serious and steady, as if each is taking a mental video of the event for future judgment. The host, a doctor in his 50s, rises, shaking, and thrusts a finger into the air, nearly saying something, only to lower it, mid-word. Wa—There is no social handbook to abide by in these situations. There is no correct action, and inaction is alluring. So the background watchers watch, as their names suggest, and one by one each eventually leave. As the background leaves they wag their heads from side to side at each other, making sure to wear saddened and disgusted faces the entire way. Moments more and only the host and the two remained in the nearly quiet room.

Rick, the host, finally coughs, something he had been working up the courage to do for a very long while. Upon hearing this, the two recognize their call to leave, to let this moment die, so that later they can later think about it. Her hand gently releases pressure from Smurnov's face, leaving a longing in each cell under each cell in his face and in her hands. The two separate without a word with their attentions on their lonely cells. Smurnov goes to his bus stop and Chloe to the house's bathroom, where she would sit on the toilet and cry as she remembers some of her dear old childhood memories, and waits for her mother to pick her up.  

Saturday, June 18, 2011

En Route


And a giant green man began taunting us—all of us, from the side of the road whence he came. He was completely made of leaves, grass and dirt clods and he howled at us while pumping his fist in anger. He then began to throw himself at our bus. All onlookers, on both sides of the aisle recoiled at the ridiculous sight. He would smack hard against the windows and make a confetti of salad that swiftly hit the pavement and dragged below the machinery of the coach bus. You think that’d be all, but you’d be mistaken. He emerged from the patches of grass that adorn the periphery of the street, where the sidewalk runs along the road. He’d fling himself from there. He’d also jump from tree to tree, glaring malevolently at all of us until he’d attack farther up the road, always the same confetti of salad. I got sort of bored of it all though, and just got back to my book and started reading. I think he’s still out there but I will not give him the time of day. 

Tuesday, June 14, 2011

Handshakes (Product of our Scarsdalean cinematographer)


June Guest Posts


One Christian PepperNickel


#All of the names, events, circumstances mentioned in this obviously fictional story bear no resemblance to those in the tri-dimensional perhaps non-fictional sphere of breathing and life. Obviously this can't happen#

From the life of one Christian PepperNickel:

And mother? Meredith? She's got her own issues. Devils dancing above her head in an alcohol-infused passionate harmony of agonizing death. There she lies, on the bed, after another night of vicious liberating behavior. Sideways she takes up the whole bed, like a creature twice her size and three times less possessed of any mental capacity – incoherent and unaware of any altered condition she is in.
The dog crawls into the same bed. Tonight the beast will hold vigilance over mother's breathing corpse.

The whole house seems to be literally falling apart, trying in mocking vain to match the human chaos within its walls. A friend passes through one of our narrow hallways. As he does, a wooden frame follows him, crashing down from the wall it had been crucified to – a futile attempt to detach itself from this wreck.
But all of us are tied to one another. All in the family, and the house – rather sadly – included. It too, drawn into a whirlwind tornado; renovated once by father, only to conceal the scars lashed into its three rooms. We brought these scars.

Mama's still hurting – she cried earlier in the night, refusing to leave the front stairs, there on the stone structure she remained slouched over. But alas, she is now in bed and silence finally arises.
Father obviously doesn't care, to Jack the guests have always been more important. He never understood mother's agony. Her frustration, a call for help. He, he would much rather drink himself, pretending in front of all the others that we were pure standardized perfection. Sure, we suffer, he seemed to convince, but in much the same way as the other Micks. That was a lie.
The inner despair of this family – our family – heightened all norms and expectations. In truth, we are a conflicted lot, he knew we couldn't take one another.

Still, it pissed me off that he never cared about mother. The fucking chauvinist, much preferring to berate her; he seldom offered words of praise or encouragement when the family did somewhat well under her guidance. In truth, he was dependent on her. Sure he built and painted the beige walls of our prison-house, but the man was unsure how to even cash a labor check, let alone pay the housing bills.
My mother carried the burden of two parents on each of her shoulders, for he was often a third child to her – fourth if you counted the dog, which was surely viable.

But here she lies, and there he entertains. Everyone else thinks things are okay, and only we the family and God see these naked wounds. Crucify the pigs, liberate the swine. Rise, rise, rise, for you are all guilty. And meanwhile, there in front of the guests, I saw him dead. He punctured himself like a balloon, pork knife smiling out of his stomach. Goodbye Jack, for once I loved ye...father.


A story by K. Haranczyk



Untitled


if happiness is a choice
you have to use your voice
but i lost it along the way
i shouted and screamed
until i could only whisper
and then it disappeared
it never crossed my mind to find it
as others searched,
overturned blankets and sheets,
doormats, dirty rugs, empty boxes and cans,
discarded food scraps, creaky closet doors,
the bathtub drain, the jail cells,
textbooks, and professional eyes
as if it had a place to hide
as if silence was not a source,
a beginning
a way to free my tangled veins
of complicated heartbeats 



By: A Ryan

Monday, June 13, 2011

Les mots

Tears filled her eyes as I told her we'd watch the sun set from the Seine river someday, some distant July in our minds, in our future reality. And we'd sip Bordeaux after cappuccinos with cinammon sprinkled on top. I laughed hystericaly on the inside and thought of how easy it all was.

I first discovered my proficiency in words in fourth grade, when I had to talk Stacy Boland out of jumping off of the top of the bleachers behind the high school. It wasn't my "suicide" deterrant speech per se that I was proud of; rather, it was the ardor that I incited in her breast, the love that drove her to the brink--all a result of my delicious little nothings I'd spew in torrents from my gullet. I told her I was moving to Colorado that day. And I did.

las palabras

Now, sex was the mission and it proved to be just as easy as love--far, far easier in fact. Love requires a sick desperation that lingers in your eyes and attaches itself to every word that you speak. You can't help it. The only thing is, everything about my demeanor, all that I  say and do is contrived. Completely and utterly contrived. You see a man with a sexy smile, the end of his lip reaching up and contorting everything into an evil, undeniably desirable entity that cannot be stopped.

So, sex is simple. Cerebral topics and expertly crafted sentences are a buzz kill for sure. If you stick to something light and playful the palace is yours.

But, ladies and gentleman, I am no misogynist. So las palabras weren't for me.

die worte


My presence is imposing. When among company, I am the only person in the room. If and when I want something done it's done. Done before I suggest or merely imply that such a thing would be a good "something" to be done.

But, I like words. And the mere implication of speech is not for me. I am stolid and sturdy, sure. But I want to give and take, not just command.

Now what?

A boy (Morbid Cupcake #2)


On the evening of January 2, 1996, the child was born. His mother retched from the pain of her stretching innards and the veins bringing blood to her eyes were irreparably damaged. Father soaked the evening in somber linen, for he knew that this child was godless and would be raised to be fearless. The Father knew this family, The Grots, were those of the most twisted essence. They beat their animals, drank in the blood from freshly killed cattle, and of course, refused to do their taxes. In the Father's eyes, the end was near, and he knew that on May 21st the world would end. 
Yes, the world would end and all should know, but how, damnit how(!) could he let the people of Earth know? He palmed the child, and all around the room the family of the Grots watched him warily, sensing his protestation. He gazed at those red orbs in the child's face, and the secret lay there plain in sight. In his eyes he saw the burning villages and the demons of hell all rushing into his mind in the blink of a second. In that moment he felt the agony of maimed children laying in the street, of mid-way divorces never completed, of black holes sporadically appearing and sucking up doctors only to rip their bodies into multiples of their sins. He was horrified and he began to cry in that otherwise gray and silent room. Now, now, now! "Kill him now!" His mind demanded, while his cold hand spoke only readiness, and his soul preached weariness.  The pressure of the moment made his mind turgid with thought, and the pressure built. His eyes rolled until his gaze met his brain. Darkness. 
Seeing the unconscious man, the Grots proceeded to carry his vessel out into the rain. They moved like rats, all haste and quiet. Now God poured his oceans onto his face, and his palms, and his groin, and into his agape mouth, until he was filled with God's glory and he awoke spitting waves onto the land and ready to begin. 

"May 21st, I know you to be that day of days in the year of 2011. This boy will feast on souls." But they will be one. One fed on  and the other fed,  but both in consumption. Grot and World are one.

Monday, June 6, 2011

Car ride (excerpt)


He shoves his buttocks into the minivan and sits with arms pushed closely against the new friends he has found. They drive for a few minutes and the group talking and laughing eventually blurs together leaving him a bit dazed, a bit aware. The awareness is one most hope to evade. It is a certain awareness of why the car is holding the friends, and why the laugh doesn't break a certain sound cap. He closes his eyes and visualizes a map through a city he has never been in. The map is filled tornadoes and lightning covered streets, carnage. The ground is collapsing and the trees are peeling apart, while he, the observer, goes from street to street to inspect the damage, to count the bricks on the street and draw imaginary lines connecting them. The bluish black sky above churns and is a necessary part of this map, because it signals points of future destruction. His eyes open and the memory of the sky lingers, pushing its way into reality, as the laughs return to his awareness, and he resumes his moment of social interaction.  

Friday, June 3, 2011

Boobies

Running to the park, those three had a good time. They did strides after shrieking through the wind and the wind streaking through their unkempt hair. Whilst working up a sweat whilst building up the muscles behind the callused, dirt addled pads of their bare feet, they caught sight of extravagant green, purple and billowy pink. They gravitated toward the colors until they discerned that they were actually dresses, not mere colors that clung to the brothers and sisters of their former classmates!

Forming a gang on the periphery of the congealed blob of mother, father, sister, brother, these three looked on with intense interest. Two of them performed The Vulture on the one. Mothers shielded shocked eyes behind inexpensive pairs of glasses as they watched two vultures attack a meek figure slowly bending his knees so that his center of gravity was lower and lower to the ground---a prerequisite for complete obscurity. The meek one got lower and lower as The Vultures got ever closer. They got infinitely closer every prepubescent summer second until they concluded the scenario with a kill: A Party Boy on one side and A Tickle Attack on the other.

Girl with pink hair watches on. What up. The dejected ahtist. "Give me a fuckin' Tuber I'll getcha somethin' out of it."

Those three sped from the ceremony and pomp wildly and howled, of course, home. Prom. 







Wednesday, June 1, 2011

Walnut Street Prayer Dance

They madly danced in the streets. Three pairs of soaked arms sluggishly flailed, while a car with a propped door let out a song with no particular words or rhythm, just a song. Eyelids slid down over their white balls while wetting a portion of their lashes, as salty sweat dripped into the unperturbed portals of the zombie-like street-men.The wrinkles bulging over one another bounced slowly with their bodies, with their night. Can you see the static dynamism?

Another joins the fray and the street is calm outside the circle of the four.  One svelte shoulder did slump, one back did bend, one foot did collide with one ankle. Contained is lazy movement in humidity, lazy animals in urban-suburbia, lazy steps taken in odd fashion. Lazy, lazy, lazy pigeons flapping dirt covered wings. But  while the sweat is dripping and their tongues are flapping time and the world abandon each other. Don't ask "How long were they in the street?" "How long were we in the street?" "How long did the shoulder go limp before it popped up?" nor "How long it took for a buttocks to jump inward and the car music to switch songs, switch to a new paradigm of lazy movements?" No one knows.

No flute player went into the street to lure we four into the sidewalk, no animal charmer made our heads bob up and down, nor wiggle east to west, but the air bursts pushed our limbs, forced our brows down. The night made us start and continue, but the morning made us retire.