Here is a collection of all my favourite stories and poems I have written.
Please enjoy them at your leisure.
Everything on this page was written by me.
The most recently added entries are at the top.
The Real Reason Why Mr. Beaman
Retired - This poem began three years ago as a collection of simple math
term rhymes. Now, over the last week, I had been trying to find the sheet
of paper with those rhymes on it. But since I couldn't, I decided to
change the poem's direction. Those of you who have taken at least one math
class from Mr. Beaman will know what it means. (Added 11/29/03)
The Optimist vs. the Pessimist
- This was my original idea for my grade 12 yearbook box, but my mom talked me
out of it. So it's going here. (Added 06/17/03)
The Relish - Based on Edgar Allan Poe's "The
Raven." Okay, I wrote this when I was in grade 10, so, I know it sucks at
points. But the overall concept of a man who is searching for an old hotdog is
intriguing, no? (Added 05/30/03)
Within the Saltwater Bottles - A very serious
piece about the side of the drunk you never get to see. (Added 05/30/03)
'Tis the Season - This just goes to show
you good ideas can come from illness. (Added 05/30/03)
Dream Date - The result of waking up too soon.
(Added 05/29/03)
Writer-To-Be - Through the mind of a writer.
(Added 05/29/03)
Cards & Court Drama
- These are classified as 55-word stories. The purpose is to tell a story in 55
words; no more, no less. Well, maybe less. (Added 05/29/03)
Between Moments of Consciousness - Peer into the
mind of a channel surfer during the commercial break of his favourite show.
(Added 05/28/03)
10 Rules for Writing Simple Poetry - A collection
of blatantly hypocritical guidelines. (Added 05/28/03)
One Down... - What's on this writer's mind?
Nuclear war? Government spending? Broccoli? No. Something far more
relatable. (Added 05/28/03)
The Real Reason Why Mr. Beaman Retired
There was a student
long ago
Whose math skills were extremely low.
Although he tried his very best,
He couldn’t seem to pass a test.
Completing high school’s final year,
He had to face his greatest fear.
Before he was to graduate,
His math skills needed to be great.
He said, “I know just what I’ll do –
There’s one day left, and it’s review!”
But being a student of Beaman’s class
Made help as likely as a pass.
But after lunch that day, he went
To Beaman’s room, with some relent.
He walked right in with pen in hand
And said, “I just don’t understand.”
And Beaman, he just rolled his eyes
As if to say he’s not surprised.
Then Beaman, holding in a grin,
Sat down and said, “Then let’s begin.”
The student was now filled with doubt
But cleared his throat and let it out.
“To start, my pencil always slips
Whene’er I free-hand an ellipse.
I can’t remember matrices
And all those trig identities.
Could you review the sine law, please?
And how do you convert degrees?
I’d be remarkably ecstatic
If you would define quadratic.
For triangle area, is it right
That ‘A’ is one-half base times height?
Or is it half ‘a’ ‘b’ sine ‘c’?
These formulas are killing me.”
And on, and on, the student droned
Until the bell for fourth had toned.
While Beaman’s class was filing in,
The student rose, with some chagrin.
But ere he left, he heard a voice:
“You know, there is another choice.
Avoid the need for one big cram
And buy the final math exam.”
At this, the class put down their text –
They all knew what was coming next.
The student’s fears declined, as such,
Which caused him to blurt out, “How much?”
Then Beaman stood and did confess,
“A hundred thousand bucks, no less.”
The class engaged so much in laughs
They couldn’t make their circle graphs.
The student left, with much remorse,
As things had gone from bad to worse.
That night, he thought his choices through –
He knew just what he had to do.
The final exams then came and went,
To all graduands’ heart’s content.
The final grades were handed out
And from the student came a shout:
“An ace!” he cried. “An ace! I passed!”
A crowd around him gathered fast.
And sure enough, as he had told,
One hundred percent he did behold.
“But how?” They asked. “How did you do it?”
And all he said was, “Nothing to it.”
He left the crowd amazed and awed
They couldn’t help cheer and applaud.
Then one accuser yelled, “You cheated!
The final’s purpose you defeated!”
The student did not wonder why;
He knew that some might think it sly.
But in his thoughts was no resent:
“Best hundred grand I ever spent.”
The Optimist vs. the Pessimist
I came. I cant.
I saw. vs. I suck.
I conquered. I cowered.
The Relish
Once upon a
morning dreary, while I woke up, weak and weary,
Over a largely quaint and sickening volume of the night before;
While I sat there, nearly barfing, suddenly I heard a scarfing,
As of someone gently narfing, narfing near my chamber door;
“ ’Tis the garbage boy,” I muttered, then yelled, “the trash is by the door,
Only this and nothing more.”
Ah, as well as I
can ponder, it was in the heat of summer,
And my mind would often wander to’ards the fun of nights before;
But, although I much adored it, some part of me deplored it,
And that part of me thought morbid thoughts that filled my mind with gore,
And these thoughts were of the hot-dog that I’d had the night before—
Tasteless here forevermore.
But an awful
bitter smelling coming from my back door—yelling—
Illed me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now to keep the beating of my heart, I sat repeating,
“ ’Tis the sick’ning smell of garbage entering at my chamber door,
Yes, the bitter fumes but seeping entrance at my chamber door,—
This it is, and nothing more.”
Presently the
stench grew stronger, hesitating then no longer,
“Sir,” said I, “or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore,
But the fact is it is Monday, and being that, it is the one day
That I must remove the mundane smells that reek from roof to floor,
But I scarce was sure I heard you—” here I opened wide the door;
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into that
darkness peering, long I stood there, only fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
Dreams of relish left inside my clean refrigerator door,
Dreams of hot-dogs thrown out just because I hated eating more,
Dreams of mixing them together to make food one would adore—
This alas, might be no more.
Back into my
chamber searching, all my soul within me lurking,
With an outreached arm, I grabbed the cold refrigerator door;
As I opened it with all my might, I saw there with my raw eye,
The exact same can of relish pictured in my mind before;
As I grabbed it, I heard rumbling near the corn’r of D and 4,
Here I bellowed, “NEVERMORE!”
With the can in
one hand, running, I yelled to the truck, “I’m coming!”
(Why, you may of course be wond’ring to which truck I would implore;
It is the garbage truck that I would like to try my luck at
Trying to catch and search through yuck that had been put there days before;
Searching through the large disgusting pile of food from days of yore;
Searching for my hot-dog gore.)
As I grabbed the
truck, still moving, I began my job removing
Trash that once did please the eye of man, but will so nevermore,
As I reached in and I threw out things that had a stench I blew out
Making but the noise a fanny makes when releasing fumes of gore—
Aha—I think I found it—what is this upon the floor…
A rotten apple core.
But although my
almost finding brought my hopes in an unwinding,
I did never cease my mining for the piece of hot-dog gore.
When I finally did find it, I sat up and reminded
Myself of the can of relish that I took from my fridge door
And I spoke to the driver, “Could you drop me at my door?”
Quoth the driver, “Nevermore.”
And the driver
sitting lonely on his leather seat, spoke only
That one word as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further did he utter as he ate his bread and butter
’Till he barely heard me mutter, “Other drivers did before.
On my driveway you can leave me, and I shall speak no more”—
Of your bunion that is sore.”
Startled at this
stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“All right,” said he, “what thou utters is the bidding I’ll implore,
But I will not drop you off in your driveway, or your coffin,
And it will not be as near your door as you had hoped before;
I will only drop you off at the corn’r of D and 4.”
Thus, I answered, “That won’t bore.”
And the driver,
still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straightly wheeled the garbage truck towards the corn’r of D and 4,
Then upon the leather sinking, he pulled up and said, “I’m thinking,
Just what were you actu’lly doing rummaging through waste of yore?”
Ah! But what could I answer to this question he did implore?
Only this: “For hot-dog gore.”
As I walked up to
my driveway, I could feel a rumble my way
As the driver of the garbage truck did rumble on his chore.
He said, “Hope you have a good one,” as he sucked his Jell-O puddin’,
And but of what could I answer but, “I may be back for more!”
Thus, he left, as I walked up to my wobbly old front door—
Now it’s time… for hot-dog gore!
With the relish in
my one hand and the hot-dog in my other hand
I did set my relish on the counter to find my can op’nor.
As I turned the handle—creaking—that old relish started leaking,
And I had to find a place to put the can of relish o’er.
Thus, alas, I chose the sink for it was handy—near the door—
And near also, hot-dog gore.
With the remnants
of my relish, I did feel so never selfish,
’Cause my hot-dog gore was yell’ish in colour and in fumes of yore.
But, I placed the relish on it, and I placed my lips upon it—
This was not the kind of feeling that was here to give awar(d).
This was not the one sensation that I craved the day before—
Ugh, I think I’m gonna hurl.
As I started
feeling woozy, I did place the piece of oozy
Hot-dog on my pallid bust of Pallas above my chamber door.
And I grasped my stomach tighter, then releasing, held it lighter,
Oh, my stomach is a fighter when it comes to eating gore.
Then regurgitating, I could see the hot-dog on the floor—
Sick’ning there forevermore.
And I felt my
stomach loosen as the feeling began to worsen,
Man, am I the only person who eats hot-dog from last score?
Oh, well, I must be going, as my gut gave one last boing,
Only if to say, “I’m going to kill you for eating day-old gore.”
It was right—I do not feel so well—my life was but a bore
To but watch only Act IV.
And the hot-dog,
never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And its stench hath all the steaming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o’er it streaming throws its shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted… NEVERMORE!
Within the Saltwater Bottles
It was morning. At least, I thought it was morning. I was sprawled out across my queen-size bed with my clothes on, and my alarm was flashing 12:00. I could tell because of the red light flashing off my Mario Lemieux poster, making it look like he was scoring a goal every second. I had trouble opening my eyes because it felt like someone had poured salt on them. I turned the bowling ball on my shoulders to look at the calendar beside my bed. All numbers up to and including January 21st were crossed out. That meant it was Monday. Monday. Damn it, of all days, why did it have to be Monday? Monday meant it was four days until Friday, and six days until I could get drunk again.
I fumbled for my watch on my bedside table, and puzzled over which one was the Indiglo™. I brought it close to my face and searched the perimeter for different buttons. Finally, after three tries, the blue light shone through and told me that my watch read 7:36am. I heard a soft moan come from my mouth and watched as a single droplet of salt water fell on the watch face. I looked up, hoping my ceiling was leaking; it wasn’t. I let my head drop, and let out a sigh of regret, of loneliness. I must have rolled over, because I could feel the bed rise up and fall again. Once I knew where I was, I figured out my weekly attempt had once again failed. As if triggered by this realization, my mind began playing the images in my head, as it did every day. I tried to shut them out but it was impossible. The picture of my wife with a bottle in her hand, the picture of me telling her to go home, then of me watching her get into the passenger side of our car, then me looking away hearing the sound of a car engine getting softer and softer, and then… the crash. Each time was louder than the last. I could feel a small stream of water tickling my cheekbone, and I suddenly realized what I was doing; I was crying.
There was nothing I could do. She was gone, leaving only her empty side of the bed for me to remember her. It was hard, but I remembered what I had promised myself and her, and got up to get ready for work. I knew that it would be a tough battle, but I couldn’t stand to be apart from her. I also knew that too much alcohol wasn’t good for the brain; fortunately, that fact was on my side.
Once I was ready, I found the right face to paste on while I was outside. One that said, ‘I know what happened to my wife, and I’m doing something about it.’ Only I knew what that something was.
I began the countdown. 160 hours. This time it was going to work; and in a weird way, that made me feel uneasy. My mouth former the words, ‘Honey, I know that what happened to you was an accident, and I know that what will happen to me will not be an accident; but I hope you will forgive me, and we can spend the rest of eternity together.’ And somehow, from somewhere, I heard the three most meaningful words I could ever hear: ‘I forgive you.’ And in those simple words, I knew I was doing the right thing.
‘Tis the Season
Take this mallet and pound on my
brain
To drown out the droning hum.
A million conversations surround my ears
Each louder than the last
None of which make sense.
I try to scream, but my throat is clogged.
Concentration is impossible.
My heavy head falls to the desk
And emits a pulsating throb
That slowly increases my limb’s density
And diminishes my voice to a crackle.
A hand on my shoulder – 50 pounds at least –
Forces my head up and points to the door.
My weak legs carry me outside
Where a car has been waiting for me
To finish my seven minute trip
From 303 to the backseat.
My energy meter drops fast
And no amount of rest can replenish it.
Try sense to make I not
Know for I pointless it is.
This blanket is making me hot,
The TV is blaring on volume 15,
And Jack Benny is out of focus;
Probably because my glasses are on the end table
And there’s a washcloth on my forehead.
I guess I’ll just take the two Advil,
Lay back, and wait the remaining five days –
No sense wasting a perfectly good cold
By going to school.
Dream Date
Do
you leave untouched the immortal feelings,
Onerous decisions and
irreplaceable thoughts
You
have filled my subconscious mind with?
Or have you rendered the
imminent scars
Unhealing for all
eternity?
Lustful
images float amidst the ivory clouds,
Only to be dissolved by
the dawn of the morning sun.
Virtuous sensations of
passion
Erased by this impalpable
wilderness of hate.
My
emotional flower has wilted,
Even
though it hath never seen the dark of night.
Writer-To-Be
His glasses sliding
off his brow,
His hair a matted mess;
A piece of paper he stares down,
His eyes in need of rest.
A sigh of hesitation breaks
The silence of the room;
His overwhelmed frustration makes
His task impending doom.
The sounds of rainfall fill the scene
With music, soft and dreary;
His mind begins its nightly dream,
His consciousness grows weary.
A flash of lightning fills the air
And in his room has parked;
Although awakened from the scare,
An idea has been sparked.
His pen in hand begins to move
Towards the paper white;
His thoughts like guiding lights above,
He slowly starts to write.
He writes until his hand is numb,
His pen begins to slip;
He sits back to stare at what’s become
Reality’s final grip.
In his works, some did proclaim,
His talents are not shown,
But there’s no doubt that this child’s name
In his mind, will be known.
A writer was his chosen fate,
For others, hard to see;
But in this child was no debate,
Because that child was me.
Cards – a 55 word story (#1)
I was feeling lonely one day, so I taught myself to play Bridge. My family thinks I’m crazy because I researched all the books I could find, memorized every possible move, and practiced them a lot. But now that they’ve put me in a home, there’s nobody to play with. So, I taught myself Solitaire.
Court Drama – a 55 word story (#2)
“Your honour, I intend to prove that my client is innocent of all charges of bribery and manslaughter. But first, let me present you with a small token on behalf of my client, who admires and respects your dedication to uphold the lives of our families, for instance, your family, who currently reside at 428…”
Between Moments of Consciousness
“Seinfeld will return after this…”
“…special guest. We are here talking with…”
“…the African lion. As it prowls though the night, we can see it…”
“…pay only $29.95 for the Slice-O-Matic. It slices, it dices, it…”
“…peels back from the skin ever so nicely. Now, we put it in…”
“…the middle of the field where the kick-off is about to take place here in
beautiful…”
“…Alaska, where hundreds journey every year to try their hand at…”
“…swimming, water polo, and shuffleboard all await you on your vacation to…”
“…the post office, a safe and tranquil place of business – or is it? In this
exclusive footage, we see…”
“…Tiger Woods lining up his 45-foot putt. If he sinks it, he will take…”
“…the turkey out of the oven, leaving it sit on the table, awaiting the…”
“…deadly attack of the wolverine, whose teeth can tear flesh apart with…”
“…a top speed of 140 miles per hour, making it the…”
“…best way to liven up a bathroom. With this unique painting, you can…”
“…cut vegetables in half the time, leaving only the…”
“…firemen to locate the source of the fire in this broken-down old…”
“…hot-seat, so here’s the next fastest finger question…”
“…how long would it take with the Abdominizer to see results? Our recent poll
shows that with just 15 minutes a day, you can have a firmer stomach in just…”
“…29 seconds, a new Guinness record for the longest…”
“…drive in the fairway belongs to…”
“…Jerry! Jerry! Jerry…”
“…Seinfeld will now return.”
10 Rules for Writing Simple Poetry
Rule #1
When writing simple poetry
One never should forget:
It is of utmost importance
Not to leave it incomplet
Rule #2
When writing simple poetry
Into thought one has to take:
One may not just throw words around
It must be sensing make.
Rule #3
When writing simple poetry
One should go not complexic:
When poetry is done and said
It should not sound lysdexic.
Rule #4
When writing simple poetry
The words are what’s compelling:
To make a poem’s impression last
One should recheck their speling.
Rule #5
When writing simple poetry
Especially that of rhyme,
To keep in time’s what one must try –
There should be an appropriate number of syllables per line.
Rule #6
Caution must be taken
There’s an edge one must not border:
When writing simple poetry
To keep the lines in order.
Rule #7
When writing simple poetry
A bell should start its clanging:
The writer should be sure
It doesn’t leave the reader…
Rule #8
When writing simple poetry
One must be consistent:
One simply cannot alternate
Between rhyming and non-rhyming.
Rule #9
When writing simple poetry
There’s one attention grabber:
One should look out for the mistake
Of having unproper grammar.
Rule #10
When writing simple poetry
There really are no rules;
And so, if you’ve been reading these,
I’ve turned you into fools.
One Down…
The world is overcast with unsolvable quandaries that constantly increase in their difficulty to be solved. Of course, I could be talking about such problems as global warming, immeasurable garbage heaps, polluting the ocean, or are humans just getting to damn smart for their own good. However, none of these happen to interest me at the moment, so I intend to provide you, the reader, with an in-depth summary, analysis and process, and hopefully share some light, on a more relatable problem – the last piece of cake.
Now, you may be thinking, “Whoa, Geoff, that’s something I already know about,” while I’m thinking, “Too bad, I’m the writer.” I’m doing this for the little guy, who might be staring at a forlorn piece of cake right now, and wondering, “How do I take that delicious piece of cake? I wish someone would tell me how.” Well, this little fellow can wait no longer. The first thing that must occur is that you are standing face to face with the cake. No one else should be around, either, because he or she may want that last piece of cake as well, or just simply watch you take it, which even I cannot describe why it is done. (It probably has something to do with a personal tally they keep of ‘last things you’ve taken without telling anybody.’) If it happens that someone should enter the room, simply leave the vicinity of the cake, and return in two minutes. Repeat until person has left the area. If the cake is still there, you may proceed.
Step 1: Decision
Before you begin, you must ask yourself the $64,000 question: Are you really hungry? This is a serious question. You may only want to eat the cake because it happens to be the last piece, even if you’ve eaten the previous three pieces. Or, you may want to eat the cake because you are a neat freak who needs wash the plate that the cake has been sitting on. If this is true, seek medical attention, and then return to the cake. If, after careful consideration, you decide you do want the cake, (and do not have a mental problem anymore,) proceed to Step 2.
Step 2: Preparation
Now that you have decided to have the cake and eat it too, it is time to make all of the necessary preparations before taking it. First, locate a small plate onto which you will place the last piece of cake before you eat it. Fight all temptations to use the same plate that the cake was on. This only shows laziness and slob-like qualities on your part, and (if anyone happens to be watching you,) decreases your chances of ever having the last piece of any new cake to come. Unless of course you are the only one in the house, in which case, enjoy the indolence of self-induced mononucleosis, and use the big cake plate.
Next, you must choose the proper utensil. Avoid all urges to select a steak knife, because, although the inquisitiveness of what it is like to eat with a dangerous weapon may have arisen, it is best not to risk slitting your tongue and bleeding to death, on the off chance you are a haemophiliac. Instead, choose a good strong 4-pronged fork, or, if none happen to be available, a spoon will do the job while eliminating the possibility of piercing the roof of your mouth. Be very careful not to make any loud noise when choosing the preferred utensil, because you don’t want to attract attention to yourself. Unless, once again, being alone in the house has ensued, then feel free to practice your rendition of Phantom of the Opera, so long as your neighbours don’t mind the seduction of the classics. Once you have made your selection, proceed to Step 3.
Step 3: Taking
Many people would have you believe that this is the easiest step in the process; however, this is far from true. It requires careful planning and perfect precision. While the ultimate goal remains to capture the cake, a sideline goal must be introduced to prevent other people from hearing you. First, examine yours and the cake’s surroundings, deciding on a good angle at which to attack the cake. Advance towards the cake as if it were a temperamental cat in dire need of a bath – on tiptoe, and very slowly. Be careful not to actually picture the cat, because you may feel the need to grab it with extreme force at the last second, which will cause your search for sustenance to veer away from the remnants of crumbled icing which remain on your hands. Once you have made your way to the cake, place your smaller plate next to the piece of cake and prepare for the classic method of placing the cake on your plate: the tip-topple.
1. Place your pointer finger next to the cake on the opposite side of the plate.
2. Gently tip the cake so that it topples onto the plate, landing face-sideways. (Ironically, this is where the name ‘tip-topple’ comes from.)
3. Tug the cake towards the middle of the plate, for presentation, and to decrease the amount of crumbs that will find their way to the floor. (Trust me, there are always a few.)
Congratulations, you have successfully taken the cake, and may proceed to the most favourite step of all – devouring.
Step 4: Devouring
Take the cake and find a nice quiet place in the house in which to dig in. The living room couch, your bedroom, or a locked bathroom are all perfect choices. Yet, the ultimate decision is up to you. Once in your preferred consuming prefecture, take your eating utensil and proceed to gorge your face with the sweet nectar that you have so painstakingly worked to obtain. By all means, take your time, this process should be enjoyed to its fullest potential. Once finished, return to the kitchen and place the plate in the sink for someone else to wash.
Now that the cake has finally been completely eaten, sit back, relax, and relish in the fact that you have voluntarily taken the onus to provide the family with its next cake.