The essential elements of a ghost story are Time and Place. Time, because a haunting represents two points upon that continuum (the past and the present) colliding; Place, because the perceptory functions of the human mind are limited by its particular imprisoning body (until the moment of that vessel’s expiration), which necessarily occupies a single location, a point among infinite points in space. The values of these variables, for purposes of this story, are as follows: Time, the 1980s. Place, Sheumakkee Creek.
Bernice Zelewski, a nursing student, crossed Sheumakkee Creek most days of the week by means of a wooden footbridge, erected some decades earlier. Exiting her apartment on the northeast side of town, she crossed the Sheumakkee Creek footbridge, continued some five or six blocks across town, and arrived at the nursing school building, where she studied and socialized for much of the day before walking back through town to the footbridge, which she crossed before continuing to her apartment building. This pattern was interrupted infrequently by holidays, illnesses, and various other occurrences as prosaic and quotidian as the pattern itself, of walking back and forth across a bridge that spanned only fifteen or twenty
feet — an unremarkable interval that served to separate one unremarkable day from the next.
Around here, we always have lofty goals. We always have had lofty goals! On one such occasion, cchris and I decided for about five minutes that our time would be best spent as a writing POWERHOUSE duo for writing romance novels. I mean, we are both experts, and we have big ideas that should be lucrative. As you can see in this comic, things were actually going incredibly well, and we should write a little of it every day and then release a line of romance novels on Amazon’s self-publishing services. Isn’t that the dream? Isn’t that the reality of thousands of people? Thousands of MILLIONAIRES from their author career paths they’ve chosen. God I mean look at how well I’m writing today!
Clearly this is the best destiny I’ve got going. Click the comic, if necessary.
The International Co-operative Corporation for Corporate Cash Enbiggenment (ICCCCE) today announced a new initiative described as a “beautification and cultural enhancement project, which would have poor people phased out of existence by 2025.
In a press conference earlier today, ICCCCE Chairman Rich Dubloon said that he’d first noticed the issue when dropping his children off to play with some economically disadvantaged friends they had met during a cultural exchange at their prestigious private school.
“I bought the school immediately, don’t you know. Put a stop to that rot!” said Dubloon. “Now you might call me a right old fashioned sort but I didn’t realise these sorts of scallywags exist, you see! I’d seen them in pictures and at the talkies but damned if I didn’t think they weren’t make-pretend! A contrivance, you see!”
From time to time, Saxon is visited by one of the muses — the one that inspires poetry. The poetry that emerges is unpredictable in topic and form. It cannot be channeled; it can only be held onto for dear life until its completion… and then it is published here on whatever Thursday is nearest and empty on our schedule. So pull up a seat and click your fingers in appreciation of this gift from above.
<3 Sneer Campaign
Ken, one of four quintuplets, was born March 19, 1994 in the neighbourhood of South Boston. He was raised in a small wood-panel home with three sisters. His father, Frank Bonesworth, affectionately known to friends as “Bones” was a hunter with no formal education. His mother Anna, was a stay-at-home carer to her children. Both parents came from 6th-generation South Boston families. He attended the prestigious Academie de Collier, working as a hunter alongside his father during vacation. After graduating in 2000, Ken became an apprentice hunter.
For millennia, human beings have desperately wanted to be able to see into the future. Originally, they needed to predict which way the herds would roam, or when the chieftain would die. Eventually, the focus turned to the weather. Droughts could destroy communities. Floods and storms could wreck lives or sink cargo vessels. Blizzards could kill whole herds of meat animals. Livelihoods really depended on which way the wind blew.
Nowadays, the climate and environment obviously doesn’t matter anymore. Natural disasters? Pfff. Merely an inconvenience to some, a surreal topic of conversation to others, and ratings boosts to still others. Most of us will be caught wholly unprepared for a rainstorm on any given day, and we don’t care because if we catch a cold it won’t turn into a fatal consumptive disease. At least, not yet.
It is time to update the folksy folklore to reflect the interests of now. It is time for little rhymes to guide your actions, to remind you of the things that are true. Or could be true. Or are true enough. Just act like they’re true. In this instance, it’s not going to hurt you if you do.
Santa Claus knows how to live. He has a wonderfully cozy home in the Land of Igloos, unlimited cookie access, and Mrs. Claus makes him a Christmas Dinner almost every night. He doesn’t have to do anything that exerts him physically because he has a legion of well-paid elves to do his bidding. Unfortunately, this rich lifestyle can lead to health problems.
Santa is becoming a little “jollier than usual” if you catch my drift.
Nursery rhymes are a staple for most of us as we grow up. They are age-old classics from yester-century, usually, with some modernizations and updates so that we aren’t teaching children about drowning kittens in wells like it’s just a thing boys happen to do, so here’s a cute little rhyme about it. Or, oh here’s some nightmare fodder about the clumsy egg man who died.
It seems that Mother Goose lived sometime in the 1800s, made a collection of poems for children, and that was that. No one ever tried again because why mess with perfection, I assume they thought. Well except for modern day poets such as Andrew Dice Clay, who I understand modernized nursery rhymes in a more ribald sense. But that is of no use to anyone, anymore.
Luckily for us all, we at the Sneer Campaign have unearthed some “new” versions of beloved nursery rhymes, which the sophisticated children of the 1920s and 1930s enjoyed and learned from. Their lessons were timeless and universal, so children of today will benefit just as well. In fact, the children of today will benefit even more because modern kids have not a lick of urbanity or savoir-faire. So have their nannies and au pairs strap them down and force them to recite these poems. It builds the right kind of character that the world desperately needs!
Everybody loves France. So – oh, no? That’s not a thing? Well they should. Their tendency to surrender is exaggerated, their cheese, whilst smelling like the olfactory equivalent of the Westboro Baptists Church, is known to be delicious for some reason, and they discovered radium, without which I wouldn’t be able to find my glow in the dark mouth guard when the combination of my saliva and grinding teeth inevitably shoots it across my bed like so many bars of prison soap. I’m sorry, I’m not doing a very good job of celebrating France. I must, as I often do, turn to poetry to communicate my deeply felt, depthy feelings about France to you all.
It’s that time of year again, the Dollissiest day of the calendar! Last year, the very first celebration on this site of this holy day was a thundering success. Paper Dollissas were THE most popular toy among children aged 4-104, and it is no surprise. Everyone loves paper dolls.
This year I decided to simply draw our little world in the style of Richard Scarry, who happens to have been born on a June 5th, himself, and also happens to be one of Dollissa’s favorite illustrators! For some reason, I was never exposed to Busytown very much at all, even though it has been around since the 1960s, but I can easily imagine the Sneer Planet through the Scarry Lens. In fact, after drawing this today, I can imagine the normal human earth world through the Scarry Lens. I am not entirely displeased.