My Life in 50 Words

Born in Minnesota.

A whopping 10 pounds and 3 ounces.

Moved to New Jersey.

Different.

A new brother.

Life changed.

Thomas the Tank engine and the baby dominated my life.

Change again.

Georgia.

New friends.

New School.

New weather.

Sports replaced Thomas.

Teenage years.

Music.

Pressure.

Still in High School...

What is Art?

What is art?
Art is beauty splashed on a page in color and words.
Art is creativity; the means to manipulate, mold, and mend objects into a priceless creations of matter.
Art in Michelangelo "Hands of God" painted so carefully on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.
Art is an opinion.
Art is Frank Lloyd Wright's taste for design: The Robbie House.
Art is John Lennon's "Imagine" reverberating through Madison Square Garden.
Art is a statement.
Art is a nudist standing in an art studio.
Art is human emotion on a page.
But the questions remains unanswered: "what is art?"

The Fight

I woke to my dad shaking me awake well before sunup. The house was quiet and my dad and myself trudged outside groggy eyed to our Volvo with a single fishing pole and small plastic tackle box. We trundled up to the coast where we parked our car next to a single dimming streetlight, and walked across the gravel parking area towards the sea. The ocean was cool, calm, and poised as if it were to engage in an epic battle with a six year old in search of his first fish. "It was the deep breath before the plunge" in Lord of the Rings jargon, but as I baited the small hook with minnows, the vast sea seemed to raise her fists ready for the fight. The sky slowly turned from its deep evening purple to a pale morning pink and orange. As the golden sun crested the horizon, a light wind rippled across the sea, splashing waves across the rocks and sea salt into the crisp air. The sea was ready for our first fight.

My first cast was perfect. It landed, bobber and all, just behind a small collection of rocks, just out of the current, yet where the Snapper Blues waited like circling sharks to feed. The bobber floated up and down, swaying with the current, a flash of brightest orange surrounded by masses of blues grays. And then it was gone with a gigantic tug and a graceful bend in my fishing pole. I gave a yell of surprise and delight, and pulled myself out of my sea entrancement and grasped at the pole with sweaty hands. With another jerk, the pole slipped out of my fingers like a bar of soap and disappeared over the rocky ledge toward the foamy surface. As the rod bounced down the rocks, I dropped to my knees and with a lunge, swiped in its direction in search of the plastic handle, but came up short, my small fingers closing on thin air. With a small splash, the rod disappeared beneath the surface.

I sat down, and felt hot tears of disappointment fill my eyes. I had lost my fishing pole within the first ten minutes of battle against the daunting sea. As the sun arched its way high above us the ocean, I sat down defeated upon the salty rocks, my face now shinning with sweat, sea spray, and tears. The sea splashed back and forth below me, playful, mocking, and victorious. I had lost the first fight.

Pesent Bread

Begin by pouring flour, salt, yeast, and water into a large metal bowl.
Mix them thoroughly together with a wooden spoon.
Cover the mouth of the bowl with saran wrap and then a faded red kitchen cloth.
Place the bowl in a warm place.
Let it rise simply for an entire day.
Once risen, plop the dough genitally onto a kitchen surface covered in dense yellow corn flour.
Copiously coat the dough.
Bake it for twenty minutes at a high temperature.
Let it cool for a minute or two and then thickly slice the crunchy peasant bread and serve it with butter.
The hot crunchy outside and the soft doughy inside together in harmony with the melted butter, saturate your mouth in a crunchy softness seldom experienced with bread.

Caleb Florence's thoughts on the LIT MAG...

I like the smaller format
I like the variety of photographs and abstract drawings
I like rough layout in contrast between the gas, liquid, solid, plasma format
I like the idea of the themes, but I don't think we should be restricted by it
I like the wide variety of prose, poetry, and stories

I don't like how the majority of the magazine was written in the same font. I think it should be mixed up to influence creativity

I think we can improve on the layout a bit. I think it feels a bit cramped and squished together although that may be just because of the smaller format

Overall, I liked it....

Superman's Side Effects

Well folks I hate to break it to you but being Superman sucks. Why exactly God chose to give all this mighty power to ME, still evades my mind, but I struggle through it. I try to...
I hate flying. Never liked it, never will. The first time I was on a jet, I threw up four times. Once across my moms lap and into her purse. She wasn't pleased. I didn't learn about my superpower till I was seven.
It was an accident, but I ended up levitating myself on top of our garage. That's when I learned I was, for lack of a better word, "special." My bother and I were playing "wall ball," when I through the ball so hard at the wall, it landed well above the target, and bounced up onto the roof, rolling down the tin sheets till it was stuck in the gutter. Frustrated, I playfully attempted to jump and reach the ball but quickly found myself floating gracefully through the air to the roof top.
Thirty years later, and I am till queasy even after the shortest flights, despite the regular dosage of pepto bismol. Will I eventually grow "the stomach" even to handle a short flight? Probably not. Its embarrasing and leaves me looking like a pansy. Remember I am sopposed to be Superman! I have no problem busting thieves and villans, but I would rather take a taxi to get there any day.

Fire and Ice

Fire and Ice

Some say the world will end in fire;
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To know that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

-Robert Frost

This poem is one of my all time favorites. Its simplicity yet complexity creates a contrast between opposites illustrated by few. The poems simple words portraying such power of fire, ice, and hate although could be called a "cry for help" by some, but to me are a masterpiece.

Remeber the Panzer

I remember...
Rain lashing against the windshield, the sound of splattering water droplets, and the humming and thumping of windshield whippers.
I remember...
Hot dry air beating my frost bitten skin, the chilly dashboard, and a forever foggy windshield.
I remember...
The whine of the ignition, the coughing sputter, and then roar of the diesel engine as we lurched forward in a haze of dense black smoke.
I remember...
Chipped gray faded paint, mismatched seat buckles, cracked faded leather seats, and grimy, sooty tire rims.
We remember...
The Panzer.

Acrostic Poem "The Life of Fire"

F flames
I ignite
R roar
E expire

Haiku "Forgotten Winter"

Winter cold and gray,
fond memories gone; a snow flake
left upon the ground.

The Decent of a Tear

Emotion

Silent Swiss

Underneath the rubble, a golden key lay. A gloved hand picked it carefully out of the remains of the safety deposit box in the banks crumbling plaster wall. His hand raised it to eye level, blew off the sooty ash, and then turned between his fingers so it caught the dim shafts of light, peaking through the vaults door. The key was about an inch and a half long, solid gold with the numbers 3176 engraved on the handle. They matched. He twirled it in his fingers so it flashed and sparkled from the halls light, reflecting off the dark walls. He slipped it in his chest pocket and turned hurrying out of the devastation. The concrete remains crumbled and cracked below his combat boots as he staggered to the thick steel door. Grasping the vaults door frame, he swung himself easily over the smoldering wreckage of an expired detonator, and slipped through the dark shadowy halls of the office building. Exiting the building out a back basement door, an idle black Audi A4 was sitting next to a graffitied dumpster. Silently, he hopped the railing and accumulated trash bags lining the concrete low wall and slipped into the cars back seat. He closed the door, and turned to face a man dressed in an Swiss tailored black suit. In one hand he held a black leather brief case and in the other a sleek magnum pointed directly at his face. The thief calmly removed his mask. The man lowered the his gun. Without a word, the thief extracted the tiny golden key from the network of tiny pockets lining his chest, and placed it on top of the brief case, pushing it slowly across the glossy leather surface towards the man. The mans eyes fell to the key. He picked it up, raising it to eye level catching the dim light from the dank ally street lamps out side the car. Silently he slipped the key in his own breast pocket and pushed the brief case across the leather seat toward the thief. The thief gave a nod to the man and stepped out of the car as silently as an owl leaving its perch in search of prey. The door shut with snap, the tires screeched, and the car roared out of the alley, leaving a mist of alley sewage frothing in its tire wake. The thief watched the car whip around the corner into the road, its brake lights a slash of red in the dark night. He turned and in a second was swallowed by the darkness.

The Kitchen

On those days of sticky hot weather I love to sit and smell:
sipping soda,
munching Swedish Fish,
thinking of cool Scandinavia.
Listening to the kitchen sounds of sizzling sauteing steaks,
absorbing delectable smells of a stewing soup.
I could sink into a stupor of submission to the kitchen.

Gamble

He was trapped in chance. The odds were not in his favor. The decision could cost him more than poker chips. Red dice jingled in his moist left hand. He let them go, bouncing across the green felt.
"Snakes Eyes!"
Relief swept over him and then terror. Out of the darkness slithered something huge...

Five ways to deal with: "Flies in the Soup"

1. Delighted, she places the fly in her mouth, slowly letting the soggy warm carcass dissolved in her mouth.

2. Completely aghast, she grabs her mouth with her left hand and her undulating stomach with her right, and belches her soup across the dinner table.

3. Mrs. Fulton carefully spoons out the fly, sets it down next to her china bowl, and proceeds to eat the steaming pea soup.

4. Running to the kitchen, she desperately grabs a set of chop sticks and grabbing the fly by its rear leg, slowly lowers the fly in a small plastic box. Running to the living room, she opens a chest drawer and adds it to the other dozen creatures found in previous pea soups.

5. She swaps bowls with Mr. Fulton.

Ms. Guinn's Class Adventure

It was a sunny Monday morning and all of Ms. Guinn's class arrived to school on time. All the class was seated quietly with their hands folded when they noticed that Ms. Guinn was not there.

Just then Eleanor noticed a letter on the board. It was addressed to all of them.

Olivia sprang from her seat, opened the letter, and read to the class:

"Just because I am not here,
do not worry or feel fear.
You must work together as a group,
like ingredients that make up soup,
If you work together you will find me,
just begin in the library."

The students looked at each other wondering what this could mean. Orion jumped out behind his desk and read the last line of the riddle: "...just begin in the library."
"Ms. Guinn wants us to go to the library! We should go to the library and meet her there!"
So Ms. Guinn's class all filed out of her class room and proceeded to the library.

When they arrived, they did not seem Ms. Guinn waiting for them. They waited. And waited. And waited. Tired of waiting, Adeline proposed, "Maybe we should look for another letter like the one she left us in our class room." "Yeah," cried Jacob, "Maybe Ms. Guinn left us another clue!" "It must be here in the library," added Antania,"Hidden!" They all agreed, and set out in the library in pairs to look for Ms. Guinn's letter.

After five minutes of frantic searching, Maclain and Lizzy noticed a corner of a white envelope, similar to the first letter concealed behind a stack of children's book. Student Renny and Anna also saw it, and hurried over, calling to the class that they found the missing letter. The rest of the class gathered around holding their breath to see what Ms. Guinn wanted them to do next.

Jack opened the envelope, unfolded the note and read aloud:

"Just because I am not here,
do not worry or feel fear.
You must work together as a group,
like ingredients that make up soup.
Working together like in team sports,
my next clue is somewhere next to the basketball courts.

Jack looked up after he read the letter and shouted, "We should go to the basketball court. That is Ms. Guinn's next clue!" "Just like the library. I bet that letter is also hidden." Ella said thoughtfully.

So the students all hurried outside to the basketball court. When they arrived it was deserted. They all walked over to the basketball court, but did not see the letter anywhere.
"Maybe we should look for another clue like the one in the library and our class room." said Maclain. So again they split up in pairs, and set about searching the basketball court and play ground.

After ten minutes, Daniel shouted that he saw a corner of envelope. "I see it too!" yelled Travon exuberantly. The rest of the class ran over, and at the very top of the slide, an envelope was peeking out between the end of the play structure and the top of the slide.

Richard scampered up the slide, grabbed the letter, and tossed it down to Andy. Andy caught it, the turned over the envelope, and ripped open the next clue. Andy unfolded the paper and read aloud:

"Just I am not here,
do not worry or feel fear.
You must work together as a group,
like ingredients that make up soup.
Now to find me, return to my room,
and you might find me next to the balloons."

"What balloons is she talking about?" asked Jasmine.
"We don't have any balloons in the class room." added Kya.
"Why would there be balloons in our the class room?" piped up Aiden.

Wondering why there could be balloons in the class room, they all sprinted back to Ms. Guinn's room. When they arrived, the sight they saw made their jaws drop...

Ms. Guinn was standing in the front of the classroom next to a huge bushel of balloons. Next to the balloons was a table with a huge birthday cake. Ms. Guinn smiled and laughed at the astonished looks on her children's faces. "You must have forgot it was my birthday. I thought we could have a little game and work together to celebrate. You all did a wonderful job working together and solving my riddles. Let's celebrate and eat cake."

The students cheered, and all lined up so they could each get a large slice of cake. They ate the cake together and talked happily remembering their adventure. Ms. Guinn smiled in the back round and laughed. It was a good day.

Something Rotten

Rex Prince was standing in his office. The lights hummed in a dull baritone while the plastic blinds bounced against the white window sill, propelled by the AC vent above him. He lowered his head into his hands.
"This headache will not stop throbbing," he mumbled, "Those ridiculous pollen trees coat my car and the inside of my tender lungs."
He coughed, and then opened his office door, thinking to himself that he should get a cup of coffee to relieve the pain. He opened the door to the small kitchen in the back of the copy room. Claude was there too. He turned and smiled at Rex. He was holding two steaming coffee cups.
"I thought you looked a little ill," he said, handing him the larger of the two mugs. "Allergies and pollen have the same effect on me as you apparently."
Res brought the steaming cup to his nose and inhaled. It smelled sweet, most likely Colombian. He drank deeply, the steaming coffee sering his throat. The drink hit his system like raw adrenaline, causing his nostrils to flare and his eyes to open wide. It was delicious, but held a hint of a pungent taste Rex had no explanation for...
(Act Four, Scene One...)
"Olivia, get your butt down here so we can talk!"
Claude let go of the stage banister, and turned away, facing the audience his hands crossed against his barrel chest.
"I don't know what she is doing up there. She has been looking for her sweater for the last half an hour."
Claude turned and faced the leather couch on which Horatio and Hamilton were sitting patiently.
"Where is your dad again?" he asked slyly.
"Upstairs." replied Hamilton.
Claude grunted and looked at his watch.
"I am going to get her," he said as his ran up the stairs taking two steps at a time.
After about thirty seconds of silence in the living room, Olivia came bounding down stairs pulling a sweater over his head.
"I couldn't find it till I looked under the bed," she said, grinning at both of them. She turned to Hamilton. "I thought your dad was asleep, but his door was open?"
"Well, he's taking his five o'clock nap..." said Hamilton his voice trailing off.
He got up, and jogged up the stairs. When he got to the upstairs landing, his dad's door was indeed open. His heart froze. Muffled bumps and scraping were coming from the inside of the bedroom. Hamilton braced himself, and charged into the bedroom his fists barred, ready for a fight. Claude was already there, a dripping knife in his bloody left hand and his dads neck in the other.
"He just wouldn't die fast enough," he grimaced, turning squarely to face him. With a yell, he leapt forward at Hamilton, the knife bared. Hamilton side steeped the mad Claude, flattening himself against the bedroom wall. Claude tripped, stumbled, and then landed on his own knife with a scream. He moved no more.

Code name: Caleb 007 Florence

It may sound foolish, but I have always dreamt of being James Bond. Aside from the many cheesy plots and sticky situations he often gets into, James Bond seems to be someone who continues to make regular returns to the Hollywood stage and leaves with the lady and victory. Bond, also known by the notorious yet secret code name 007, is a character that I admire for his determination and daring, and one who seeks the quest of glory among criminals and women since his first appearance over forty years ago. Equipped with state of the art gear, Bond is a man who seems to vanquish terrorists and drug runners alike, and seemingly ending up with the girl. Bond, although a hero, also can be misjudged as a women loving agent, often appearing complacent and arrogant among fellow British Secret service henchmen. I therefore encourage everyone to look past the women living side, and realize that deep in his heart, Bond is truly follows the motto: "world before women." James Bond does have a heart, and if the world did look past his suave stature, most would find it hidden just below the surface if his slippery character. Often, I too would feel obliged to rid the world of evil and end up with a Hollywood sweat heart myself. Bond continues to maintain this urbane craftiness throughout all of his films in which I take most influential likeness too. With his uncanny ability to dodge bullets and assassination attempts, I tip my hat to such an astute and world caring person.

Photography Blog

The day is cool as a breath of air sweeps through the grass. Shafts of light cut through the trees creating a kind of splotchy perimeter around the field. The ground is warm and dry, the grass cut short so that sports of all kinds can be played here. I am sitting still, my face squinting up into the sun. Birds chirp and sing, cars rumble off in the distance, yet in this field, an element of peacefulness reaches me isolated me from the outside world. A metallic click snaps the warm air as a camera shudder bites the atmosphere, forever freezing that moment. I open my eyes and turn to face a glossy concave camera lends feet from from my face. The moment diminishes in a blink of an eye. My dad peers out from behind its sleek black frame. He has finally finished breaking in his new camera. This is his fifth shot, hopefully his last.

(The rather inappropriate) Shaggy Dog Story

"Dad I am leaving!"
"Alright, be home before twelve please!"
"But Dad it ends at twelve, and it takes over a half an hour to get home. Plus, I have to drop off Crystal home and..." (his voice trials off)
"Nope, be home before twelve."
"But dad..."
"No son! If I have told you once, I have told you a hundred times. Always remember: age before booty!"

My Childerns Story

My Childrens Story



VERY ROUGH draft...

There was once a colony of animals that lived in the country. They lived far from the rest of the world, tucked away in a valley between two tall mountains. The mountains stood tall, and at the top, snow covered the peaks in icy drifts, covering everything in a bright white blanket. In the spring, the snows melted, sending torrents of water down the mountain side, filling the valleys rivers and creeks. During the summer, the fields expanded into lush green paradises of flowers and meadows of tall grass. In the fall, orchard trees that grew along the sides of the mountains sagged under the weight of fresh fruit. The fields grew into golden crisscrossing grids of grain, and the flowers upon the berry bushes blossomed into juicy fruit. However, when the winter wind blew down from the mountains, and the high peaks turned white with ice and snow, the river froze into a frosty snake and the valley grew gray and bare and alone.

The animals that lived between the mountains loved their home. Most lived in the fields during summer, sleeping under the starry sky. In the cold winters however, generations before them had tunneled deep inside the mountains, building halls and round corridors with rooms and burrows for families to share and sleep in. During the day, the animals would gather in the grand room, which was a large open cavern and kitchen with a large fireplace to heat the cavernous halls and a wide open flagstone floor for eating.



A Rough Plot: Kids some how turn into there favorite animals in dream (not really sure yet). So, they now live in these mountains where they gather there own food and work as a team to survive in nature. During the winters, they have always been prepared by stocking small amounts of food, and rationing them for the long cold days. In the story, this mammoth winter is coming and they have to fortify there home and stock up on food. They work together to rebuild and excavate their tunnels under the mountains and jack up there food supply. The winter comes and they are prepared. The spring comes, and somehow they return back to themselves and return home.

The Night

The air is cool and still. The night sky turns a deep violet hue as the blood red sun drops behind the dark sloping mountains across the valley. A silver mist descends upon the valley's lush green meadow as darkness creeps across the winter sky, enclosing the night in an icy grip. The thick grassy fields froth and sway below, undulating in sweeping currents, as breaths of winter wind sweep between the high frosty mountains. Across the mountain peaks, the moon gently rises above the ridges, casting dark shadows of the treetops down across the valley. Pictures and shapes of shadow dance and flitter across the grassy fields like a fast forwarded shadow puppet show. The moon continues its sweeping arc above the fertile earth, illuminating the valley below, bathing it in a soft shinning pearly glow. The night has arrived, and the world is at peace.