pane panel glass

It was dusty, for it was seldom cleaned. Someone had touched it once, leaving a handprint behind, a ghostly reminded of past presence. Cobwebs grew against the plastic separating it from its neighbor, fake wooden slats poorly disguising that it was one contiguous sheet.

During the summer months, mosquitos pushed in futility against it, trying to reach the things living inside, whom it protected. Now, though, frigid winds caressing its smooth surface, the pane was only bumped by the occasional flailing branch or falling leaf.

With painfully glacial slowness, the semi-liquid panel oozed downward, drawn by gravity’s weak force toward the battered flooring panels below. Warmed a few hours each day by the setting sun, the window looked out over a peaceful garden in which a snuffling shih tzu sometimes barked.

americanifesto / 場黑麥 / jpr / urbanartopia / whorphan

Man, 34, “Sees clearly, now.”

In the wake of his first ever solo spring-cleaning (during which, however, according to a subsequent eye-witness report, only a few of the dirtiest windows were washed, and only some portions of the wall-to-wall carpet received a merely mediocre vacuuming), Darius Gordon Crickleburg, 34, of Waynesboro, NC, finished feeding the spring-loaded electrical cord into the built-in storage compartment of his brand new vacuum-cleaner, and stepped back to view his handiwork. “The rains are gone, now, and I can see clearly. It all seems so much nicer – all the plants look so much more green, and my house is no longer a total pigsty. I believe I shall write a song about this monumental event in my life,” Mr. Crickleburg said as he settled into the reclining lounge chair he had moved to the garage some years earlier, during the last, then-wife-assisted spring cleaning, and never retrieved. “Look at that,” he continued, pointing out of the window at a house across the street. “I can see Mrs. Chuhsin-Handell's house very well, and all of her begonias look so colorful, and pretty.”

Before said monumental event, very little light penetrated into the dark, dank recesses of Darius' double-wide home, which, since his wife left him last fall for a female shipping clerk from Spokane, has been but infrequently kept up. “The last six months, since Rachel left, have been rough, but the dark clouds seem to be gone, and I don't feel quite as down on my luck as I did before. It looks to be a bright day, outside, a day of abundant sunshine. It is as if I can see all obstructions, all obstacles, that stand in my path, and I can not only see them, I know how to surmount them – what to do about them.” Things continued to look up, and to run smoothly throughout the day, until sunset, however, when Mr. Crickleburg purchased a case of beer from the corner store, and fell to drinking.

場黑麥 mentiri factorem fecit

Like Irish car bombs? Try a 9-11 suicide high-jacker

In honor of the fathead who named the Irish car bomb, the Confederated Mixologists of America (coma.us.biz) announced today the newest drink to make light of a murderous reality. Just as the Irish car bomb ridicules the lives lost during the Troubles, this new drink ridicules the lives snuffed out on that sunny day in 2001. Entered in the books officially as the 9-11 suicide high-jacker, this liquid drug mixture requires of its user no personal sacrifice of any kind, nor does it reward her with even the semblance of dignity.

To make a 9-11 suicide high-jacker, mix two parts cinnamon fireball whiskey with one part baby's tears, and throw in a pinch of concrete dust. Hurl the mixture from the shattered window of a one-hundred-and-ten story building, and garnish with a battered box-cutter. Enjoy!

場黑麥 ioanni elymucampus fecit