Emo Eddie

knight of the Short Table

Awkward Buffalo

Weed Blossoms

Weed Blossoms
By: Jameson Meyer



“Is it true Dad?”
I didn't know what to say to that. Not so much because of the question itself. But the way she said it. She looked up at me with the wide eyes of innocence and a sincere curiosity that can only be found in a child of six. The hope in her voice was matched only by the intensity and faith in the fact that I would, of course, know the answer.
“What do you think?” Was all I could say. It was the pat-answer for any parent. It usually meant one of two things; either they didn't want to steal the magic from a dream they wish they were still having, or they simply had no clue. In this case it was both.
She looked away and rubbed her chin in mock contemplation. Like a six-year-old professor that has just been asked the secret to life. “I think if you believe it, then it’s true.” She nodded to herself as if to say that her answer was both correct and irrefutable.
“Makes sense to me” I said.

It had become the norm now. Every Sunday on our afternoon walk, without fail, she would ask me some question that would shake the very foundations of my beliefs. It’s amazing really, how kids can understand the metaphysical so well, and still forget how to tie their shoes. I have a Masters in English that I worked for three years to get. I've studied in two countries, and written a best-selling novel and somehow managed to keep my composure in an interview with Oprah. Yet this 3ft tall mini-human child of mine can somehow make me question life and the very fabric of time as well as the power/existence of God all while humming the theme song to Spongebob and skipping through the tall grasses.
If you believe it, that makes it true. The more I thought about what she said. The more amazed I became. This really should be a game. 'Summarize the core beliefs of any nation/army/religion or pretty much mankind in general in 10 words or less'. I shook my head to try and forget the endless questions that her statement arose in me. Then, looking back down at her, I saw the truth and wisdom in her proclamation. Words always hold more weight from someone that doesn't understand how to lie. She was looking right back at me, with the biggest, silliest grin I'd ever seen. “Easy now, open your mouth any wider and it just might get stuck.”
She giggled, “It looked like your brain was hurting.”
“So you were smiling at my pain?”
“No, I was smiling because I made it hurt.”
I knew it. I had created a monster.
“Sorry Dad, you just made your 'thinking face'.”
“Well, I'm happy to amuse.” That was actually true. It wasn't often lately that she smiled so wide. I consider myself a fairly cultured person. I've been to a few places that are beyond the touristic norm. I've seen things that most wouldn't believe. But I had never felt sadness until I saw my child cry and knew that I could do nothing to help her. I could live several life-times and still never forget that feeling. It's something that you never expect to affect you the way it does. It’s like having your entire life called into question, because you never learned this. And everything else you have ever done seemed so useless because you never figured out how to stop it.
“You're doing it again” she said smiling. She squeezed my hand to break my trance. I looked down and caught the goofy grin again. “I must look pretty ridiculous if it’s got you this giddy,” I laughed. But she wasn't looking at me anymore. “We're here” she said.
Standing at the entrance to Forrest Lawn Mortuary is the most conflicting feeling I have ever known. I mean, on the one hand, who wants to actually walk into a cemetery? It’s like walking into death. But on the other hand, there is really no better feeling than walking out of it. So that's what I think about. I'm not really walking into this place; I'm just getting properly positioned so that I can walk out. Denial. Some say it's wrong. But those people have never seen Star Wars episode 1. I took a deep breath and walked in.
The next few minutes we walked in silence. The air was cold and dry; but even still, I felt small beads of sweat roll down my wrist and seep into our clasped hands. The moisture made the closeness uncomfortable but neither of us dared let go. The cemetery wasn't a very scary place. In fact, it was quite the opposite. Rolling green hills, scattered tall oaks, perched right up against one of the few mountains in the area. The dead really had a great view of the valley. I swallowed hard at that thought. Firstly because of the irony of it, and secondly because of the sadness it brought with it.
I hadn't even realized that we had stopped walking until she spoke, “Are you gonna say anything?”
Looking down at the grave that lay at our feet words pretty much left me, along with what felt like all the air inside my lungs. We both knelt in the grass.
“Hey you” I said. I felt my voice crack. Breathing really wasn't something you ever think that you will have to remind yourself to do until moments like these. Looking down at the name etched on the stone headpiece everything about this place seemed so insignificant. It was just a name. And a slab of stone. It didn't mean anything. The headstone never spoke back to us. So why did we come here every Sunday? Then as I watched my daughter trace the name on the grave in front of me with her tiny finger. I felt myself wondering why we didn't come here every day.
“I like her name.” She said.
“Me too.”
“Hi Mom. A lot happened this week.” She laid down in the grass staring up at the stone, as if it were looking back. “I wrote a story that Dad said you would have loved about a cat named Miss Kittypaw- she was the contested leader of the desert lands known as Litterboxia. Her armies slaughtered the countryside and burnt down all of the peasant’s houses until they named her Empress and worshiped her like a Goddess. Dad said you would have liked the bloody massacre parts. I was really descriptive.” Tears stared to crawl down her face, but she kept talking. It was like she knew they were there, but was happy for it, maybe it was her way of feeling like she was being heard. “Dad let me try wine. Just a sip. He said you wouldn't have liked that. But it would be our secret.” Then realizing what she had just said she turned to me, “oops, sorry Dad. I forgot.” I couldn't help but laugh. “S'ok Maddie.”
“Oh!” She said excitedly and stood up. “Dad also got me new shoes! See!” She pulled up her dress and showed off her new Mary Janes. “Cute right?!” She sighed. “Well I guess that's about it. Dad, your turn.”
“I miss you.” I tried to put on a good smile with limited success. “I had forgotten how much I hated cooking.” Maddie laughed. “I really only gave her a sip of the wine. It was more just to knock her out anyway, she was driving me nuts.” I felt a small nudge in my ribs.
“Oh, I have been meaning to ask you about something. This whole heaven thing. Is it all it’s cracked up to be? 'Cause if not, then you can always come back. We wouldn't mind.”
“But not as a zombie,” Maddie interjected.
I smiled. “Not as a zombie,” I agreed.
“Hey look!” Maddie said. “A new flower!”
A small blue crabgrass blossom had grown next to the headstone. “Thanks Mom!” Maddie said after she had picked the flower. She was some kind of amazing thing, this child of mine. I stood up and threw her into the heavens. Her laugh rang out into the air and echoed over the hillside. The tune lingered in the space around us, as if the air weren't used to such a noise and held onto it for longer than usual.
We said our goodbyes and made promises to come back next week. The walk home was always a somber one. Just as we had past the cemetery gates I heaved a sigh of relief and felt a tug on my hand. “Ya know,” Maddie whispered, “I would take zombie-mom too.”
“Me too, Maddie. Me too.”

Mission Accomplished

Well that was a chore and a half, but it's finally done. All of the Zane Legends stories have been posted. If you have no idea what I am talking about then check out the explanation of what/who/where Zane on the right side of this page.

It has been long overdue. Some of those stories are years old. There really is no great logic behind a lot of the ridiculousness that exists in them, the only thing I ask is that you keep in mind its just a writing exercise, not a work in progress to reach 'greatest 21st century novel' status.

Read them if you want, or ignore them should you so desire. It's really up to you. You can even create your own variation of the game and try it for yourself. It's actually quite the experience. I would definitely recommend doing it with at least one other person though, because half the fun is reading them after and wondering what the crap you were writing and laughing at each others insanity. Mockery is, after all, the greatest form of flattery, not to mention the most fun!

Mystery in a Box (ZL)

Mystery in a Box

Criteria: Crime/mystery, in the dark, crazy person

Some people have a knack for finding strange things; strange things always seem to find Zane Legends. This, of course, is why Zane found himself lying on a hard wooden floor in utter darkness. It was so dark that he wouldn’t have been able to see his own hands waving in front of his nose, even if they weren’t tied behind his back. The only thing he could smell was his own sweat, and the only thing he could hear was a faint scratching sound.
He tried to sit up, but immediately hit his head on what was apparently the top of the box he lay in. “Bloody sausages,” he muttered to himself, “I’m tied up in a box.”
A sudden knocking against the box made him jump and hit his head again. “Knock, knock,” called a voice. “Are you finally awake?”
Before he could answer, the top of the box lifted up, and he could see. It was still rather dark, the only light source was a small candle set on a desk in a corner of a large stone-walled chamber. Sitting in front of the desk was a short, balding man holding a pen. Zane looked around to see who had opened the box, but nobody else was in the room. It was then he noticed that he wasn’t just lying in a box. It was a coffin – an old looking coffin, made of wood, not one of those fancy ones that most people’s families spent thousands of dollars on to bury their loved ones in.
“Ah, good to see you’re awake,” said the man at the desk.
“Who are you? Where am I?” asked Zane. After asking, he immediately realized that those were rather cliché questions, the kind that a boring person would ask in a situation like this, but he didn’t care. They were pertinent.
“You may call me Arthur,” the man said with a slight smile. “As for where you are, that’s for you to find out.”
Zane just stared at the man, and said, “Huh?”
“You see, Zane, I happen to be writing a mystery.”
“A mystery?” Zane asked, dumbly repeating what he was told.
“Yes, Zane, a mystery. You see, unfortunately, someone has died.”
“Really?” Zane asked, somewhat confused. Very confused, actually. “Who?”
“Well, you have, Zane.”
“I have?” Zane looked down at his body, wiggled his fingers and toes, breathed deeply, and listened for his heart beat. “I don’t feel dead,” he declared.
“Well, it’s up to you to prove that,” Arthur replied. “And it’s best for you if you do so quickly. You see, you’ve also been charged with the murder.”
“But I didn’t… wait, what?”
“Yes, Zane. You’ve been charged with the murder of one Zane Legends, a rather famous person in these parts. If you wish to save yourself, you’d best solve this mystery quickly. The guards should be here any moment to take you away. In fact,” he paused, listening for the footsteps that could now be heard, “yes, that’s them coming now. Good luck Zane.”
“But…” Zane tried to say, but at that moment the large wooden door on the opposite side of the room opened, and six fully armored men walked in.
“Are they wearing… armor?” Zane looked down at his own jeans and t-shirt to confirm to himself that he was in fact in the real world, or at least had been not that long ago. He looked over at the man, Arthur. He was sitting in his chair, watching Zane, and writing in his notebook at the same time.
“Zane Legends,” trumpeted the armored guard standing in front, “you have been charged with the murder of Zane Legends. We are here to take you to your trial.”
As the guards led him out of the room and down a long torch-lined corridor, he tried to figure out what was going on. He looked around for clues, because that’s what they did in the movies, but he had no idea what clues looked like. What if he passed a clue without realizing what it was?
“I must be dreaming,” Zane muttered to himself.
The guard standing to his left laughed. “Dreaming? No, you’re not dreaming,” he said. “Don’t plan on waking up right before the trap door drops beneath you. That would be more cliché than those horribly clichéd questions you asked earlier. Not to mention it would ruin a good mystery.”
“How did you…” Zane stopped himself from asking the question. The guard’s voice seemed strangely familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it.
Too soon they walked into a large room. In the front of the room was a bench raised several feet, and in the middle of the room was a big rock. The guards led him to the rock and told him to sit. It was the most uncomfortable rock Zane had ever sat on.
“Zane Legends,” shouted the person sitting in the middle of the bench. “You have been brought today before this court to answer to a charge of murder. How do you plea?”
“Um… not guilty,” Zane replied.
“Oh,” said the speaker. “Well, that wasn’t planned. We expected you to be guilty.”
“Wait…” Zane said. “You seem familiar.” Then, he realized something incredibly important. “Hey! Today’s my birthday!”
As one, everyone in the room jumped up, cheering. There was a bang, and confetti fell from the ceiling into Zane’s hair, and everyone started singing.
“Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday Zane Legends! Happy birthday to you!”
Zane almost cried. Everyone he had ever met on his many travels surrounded him now, wishing him a happy birthday.
“But wait,” he said, “where are we?”
Arthur, who had joined them, said, “Ah, we can’t tell you that, it would spoil the mystery!”
“Oh, sausages!” Zane replied.