Author Archive: CalebTheTimeTraveler

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#4 Jack

| November 4, 2011 | 0 Comments

Jack drives to work every day. He commutes alone, from a subburb an hour away from the city. He lives with a wife he knows is cheating on him, and two kids which make the only two reasons he stays with her. And they’re pretty piss poor reasons.

His job is boring, “but it’s a job” he tells himself. He doesn’t go to bars. He doesn’t go to movies. He spends his days at work, and his nights inside, surrounded by his family, and alone. He sighs in the morning when he gets up, and when he climbs into his own, seperate bed, he fails to remember the good times.

He just drives to work every morning, and drives back every evening. And it’s in what would under any other circumstances, be a boring drive, a lament of everyone else’s existence, that Jack looks forward to. That Jack lives for. In his car, in that drive, is when he’s careless, wreakless almost.

It’s not that he drives like he’s crazy, or has an expensive sports car. He’s cautious, and his car is an old ‘97 sedan, the kind that even when it was new, was just a car.

It’s what he becomes in this car, when he’s alone. He puts in his CD, and sings along with the band, who seem to sing about all his wants. He wants to live his life without the care and caution he always shows. He wants to end his relationship with his wife, and leave her with the kids that spit in his face. He wants to quit his job for something exciting, and he wants to finally ask out that girl in the cubicle a few down from his. He wants to buck up, and tell the people in his life, just once, to shut the fuck up.

In his car, he’s who he wishes he was, and who he knows he can’t be. When he opens that door, he knows he has to be the Jack everyone knows and depends on, and not the Jack no one suspects even exists.

One can only guess who he’ll be after the impact…. If he’ll even be anyone.

#3 Bunny

| November 3, 2011 | 0 Comments


I draw the landscapes of space. I sowe the tapestries of time. My power is infinite, and undesputable. I am a force of great destruction, able to wreak havok upon the worlds I have created with a single flick of my thumb, and stroke upon the pad, not that I’d ever. I am too gentle to willingly destroy beauty, and far too busy to spend time in ruin.

I am kind, showing my love for all that is created, it is too beautiful to leave unadmired. And leave unfinished. Everything could always look better, a new coat, something to make it shine.

These worlds should be fun, no use making something bland, having it looked over, and passed aside. It is my gift of wings that gives flight to the art. It is my pen that makes their thoughts loud, and their emotions pure. It is my brush that flushes their faces full, and sparkle their eyes genuine and happy.

It is the heart and soul of the poet. It is the right of the artist.

Judge me by my worlds, and title me accordingly.

But I will share my worlds regardless. Beauty is everywhere.

And anything is beautiful to someone…

#2 Sinnerman

| November 2, 2011 | 0 Comments

I was a cop. The kind people wondered weather they were bad or just mean. I helped the Russians sell what they had, and loaned myself off to them for some extra cash. I called it a living for a few years. Then I got caught. 10 Kilos in my trunk. I was getting sloppier the more fed I got, and I should have seen it coming. I lost the badge, and bargained no-time for some information on the Russians. Bad move. When they found out I snitched, I ran. I tried hiding under every old rock I knew. No one would hide me. I was a snitch, and all the good time charlies didn’t want to put their neck out for a snitch. I couldn’t blame them, so I just kept running. Tried to get help from the ol’ cop buddies. The ones who didn’t spit in my face, were the ones who laughed in it. I cried out for help and not a one to help me.

When I heard the door bust open that night, I wasn’t surprised. They beat me with a chain, and put a pick in my eye. Last thing I heard was the chain dragging along the floor, and a whisper in my ear. “You oughta been prayin’ “

And now here I am. I remember someone telling me Hell is your past mistakes, your “sin”. Let me tell you about Hell, it’s more than just your sin, it’s someone rubbing your sin in your face as they lie and tell you you have a chance at redemption.

So for me, Hell is a Police Station, and my penance for a life as cowardly schnook is being an enforcer of the damned. Someone runs out out of hell without paying their tab, it’s my job to tie them up, and bring them back on down. And if someone ain’t dyin’ on their own, I gotta help them find their way. Usually with a chain, and sometimes with an ice pick. And worse to worst, I gotta do it dressed like I’m a bloody mascot.

It’s a hell of a living.

#1 Tess

| November 1, 2011 | 0 Comments

She opened her eyes, and like awaking from a dream only then to realize how strange everything was. Her mind wandered the room. She realized every importance, and unimportance. She held the items for their heft, and touched the funiture for their spring. She pushed against a wall, just to see how sturdy it was, and starred into the light in the center of the room, waiting for it to flicker, just to see if it’d burn out by here mere gaze.

She had always known the origin of each item, and the itent of each. The couch she bought off her mother when she had her’s replaced, the Love Seat she bought when she realized why her mother thre out the couch, the fireplace that might as well had been there for decoration as she had never lit a fire in there in her time living here. The DVDs and CDs in their cases, on the shelf, each a story on them and each a story to them. The Books she never read, but always meant to. The painting was there for decoration, a simple sunset drawn by a starving artist she never met, sold at a discount funiture store, bought by an old boyfriend, and left there when he moved out. She used to think it “tied the room together”, or at least that’s what she would say. She never did quite understand what exactly “tieing the room together” meant, but now, she asked who painted it. She scurried to flip it around, hoping for a name. She wondered what paints they used, what inspired them to paint it, where the cloth came from, and what kind of tree the wood frame was. Was it a sunset, or was it a sun rise? Was the sun even moving, was it even Earth? Was it bound by time? was it even something that could even exist? The questions scattering in her brain. She stepped back from the painting, just staring at it. She extended her hand, and slowly placed it onto the sun in the painting. She stood in almost shock when she could feel the painted fabric beneath her hand. It was cold, so much unlike what the painting depicted.

She stand in disbelief, as a tear ran her cheek. She felt lost, and didn’t understand why she was doing this.

She fell to her knees, hiding her face in her hands. She wanted to dream again. She wanted to know why she only now realized how strange everything around her is. How solidly everything existed around here. It made her stomach churn, and made her head hurt. In a very literal sense, the room, and the world the room represented were all too real for her.

2011 Challenger: CalebTheTimeTraveler

| October 31, 2011 | 0 Comments

Bonjour, Je me présente. Mon prénom est Caleb.

I don’t normally pull out what little french I do know, but seeing that most the folks here have much more talent than I, and do much more than I, it should seem in my best interest to at least seem a little more French than I normally am. (I hear French comics are a little more appreciated artistically.)

I am not currently employed in any art field, nor am I taking any courses, or studying them. (Or for that matter, have I ever. The biggest mistake in my life was taking Journalism over Creative Writing in 11th Grade) I do hope that someday though, I find myself in the field of comic books, possibly conjuring with names I whisper praise to when I speak silently to myself.

I am a writer mostly, but draw on occasion, and if you catch me at the right time, I might even be playing my trumpet, who I have named Carol after Hal’s one time love.

I won’t say this will be easy, ’cause I know it won’t. I’ve seen Harlan Ellison write a short story in a day, and the sweat on his brow is proof enough for writing challenges. But I will promise I’ll have fun, and I’ll finish this challenge, and I promise, everything I throw out here will be new, no cobwebs from me.

 I notice many others have put up Their Tumblrs, so might as well too.