The Autobiography of Tobias Dixon (long) (REPOST) (1390 hits)
Category: RomanceRating: 1.9 on 56 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by experima (View user info) at 2008-01-27 00:14:28 EST
this is for St. Jimmy. Thanks for the love.
previously posted on my other account, Diavola.
I hope you enjoy it.
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I lay quietly beneath the little patchwork quilt, dreaming; I dreamed of all the things other nine year old boys might dream about--of rowdy, sweaty ball-games, of ribbon-haired little girls with shiny shoes and starched white Sunday dresses, of spending a whole month's pay at the sweet-shops in town, or of perhaps sailing around the world someday. All of these things I dreamed in my precious repose, in the earliest of dawns and the coldest of bedrooms. I was stirred to the edge of waking when a creak from the old grey floorboards hiccuped its remorseful morning call; my mother slowly made her way across the room and laid her hand upon my shoulder.
"Wake, Toby, dearest, it's morning," she said.
"Yes, mother, I know," I replied.
She was as sorry to have the responsibility to rouse me as I was to be roused; but both she and I knew that poverty allowed her no choice but to send me to work each day. Her kind brown eyes always looked a little misty in the mornings. They watched me as I washed my freckled face in the wash-basin. They watched me pull on my worn, stained workclothes. They watched me as I attempted to coax my chaotic brown hair into a more presentable arrangement.
I told her it was an easy job I had. I was merely a breaker, I said. All I have to do is remove the pieces of slate and rocks from the broken coal streaming from the chute. Easy work, I said. She looked comforted at this knowledge, which I had to reassure her with almost daily, but I am doubtful even to this day of whether she ever really believed me.
She could feel the deep cuts the sharp slate carved into my little fingers. She could see my aching silhouette against the fire at night, as I tried to straighten out my back and sit up properly. She dried my tears each time I had to march down the street, following another boy's tiny casket towards the old parish graveyard. Most of all, she could remember my father, so many years before, as he lay coughing and dying, the black dust colouring his last breath.
I tried my best to keep a happy face for my mother. The money I earned bought us bread and other necessary goods, meager as it was; and the mine owner, Mr. Crandall, was the only man in town who would employ boys of my tender age. He often told me and the other boys in elevated tones that we were lucky to have the jobs, and that we should work all the harder for him, as he was breaking the law by allowing us to stay.
I was grateful.
I was very late to work that morning. Mother needed some extra help getting the breakfast dishes cleared up; the shaking in her hands was always worse in the winter. I eventually made my trip over the hill to the mine; unfortunately, however, at that time of day, my journey coincided with the journeys of other children on their way to school. Although I kept my eyes fixed upon my path, I could not help but notice some of the other children nearby me, books in hand, chatting gaily and walking in pairs down the curving road in the opposing direction.
Curious, I slowed my pace. As I did, my eyes locked with the bluest eyes I had ever seen in my entire short life. For a brief and sparkling instant, she and I shared something as profound as children can share. I did not know what it was, and I could not at the time possibly express it with the words of mere mortals, for I knew of none I could successfully assign to the feeling I experienced at that moment. Looking back, I am sure it was love at first sight; all I know is that I saw her, and my heart was stolen straight out of my tiny chest.
She looked away quickly. A bright blush flooded her pretty cheeks with deep pink; her dancing, toffee-coloured curls flew like angels with that sudden, shy turn of her head. It was as if the whole world had slowed down just to witness that one glorious moment of time.
I was enraptured, and consequently tripped over a stone in my love-blinded path, causing her bespectacled companion almost interminable fits of giggles. With a turn of a corner they were gone, and gone with her was my very soul.
I nearly floated the rest of the way to the mine, and I blissfully took my place on the long, wooden bench with the other boys. For a few wonderful seconds I felt my heart burning with love, but was soon brought back to my senses as my ear began burning with pain.
Mr. Crandall himself had seen me arrive so late. He was almost as short as I was, and so stout that the buttons on his vest were constantly at war with the button-holes. But he was strong and he was ornery, and that made up for everything else. He waddled, puffing angrily, across the room. Pinching my ear with his bloated hand, he dragged me off the bench and out the door of the building.
"Toby Dixon!" he shouted. His swollen, round face was like a great, pink balloon about to explode. "I do not tolerate tardiness in my business! Every moment you make me wait is money I lose! I warn you this time, but do not mistake me. If you ever cross me again, your whole body will be in more pain than your ear is now!"
"Yes, sir," I said, cringing, my eyes smarting with tears of humiliation.
I returned to the bench, finding my place again next to Davey O'Malley, the blondest, smallest, kindest, and most foul-mouthed boy I had ever met.
"Don't worry about Crandall, Toby," he whispered. "He's an evil old so-and-so, and he will get his this-and-that someday, just you wait and see!"
Of course, he added his own special flavour of descriptive words to the sentence, but I have left them out here. I appreciated his encouragement, nonetheless.
The rest of the day was indeed as tedious and uncomfortable as any of the days spent at that employ, but I was elsewhere, spending hours in the daisy field of my imagination with her, making chains to hang around her lovely neck, composing poetry and love-songs, doing cartwheels for her amusement. If my very own Guardian Angels had seen fit that day to lift me up by my boot-straps and carry me singing into Heaven, I cannot imagine the sensation would be any different.
I whispered to Davey about her. His big, brown eyes grew wide, like a cow's; he seemed very interested, particularly concerning her giggling friend.
Time, of course, trudges on. During the next few years, I did not see her again, since I had not forgotten the painful encounter with Mr. Crandall (or the many similar ones on various unrelated topics since.) I thought of her daily, though. At night, by the dim light of our little yellow candle, I would draw pictures of her, or read love stories out of a few musty old books we had managed to collect. The years at the mine had deprived me of regular schooling, so the ability to read, a gift from my patient mother, was a precious rarity among working boys. The stories I read fueled and renewed my love for the little girl of my dreams; if only I knew her name! I made up names for her from these stories, but my favourites were always ones from the Bible. I called her Esther, Ruth, Mary; any name I gave her was the sweetest name in all the world.
At the age of fifteen, Mr. Crandall allowed me to begin work for Mr. Regan, who supervised some of the mine's operations. I was to be a door-boy; Davey and the rest of the breaker boys envied me. A door-boy was on the job from morning until night, opening and shutting the door for the men and the coal cars that came in and out of the mine. I sat alone in the dark during the long hours, my dim lamp not affording much for me in the way of light against the pitch-blackness of the mine. Sometimes I would attempt to read, other times I would daydream of Esther Ruth Mary, until the next opportunity arose for me to open that door. I knew I was lucky, since that job was the sole ambition of most of the breaker boys; for although it was lonely and solitary, it was surely the more preferable occupation of the two, and it furthermore meant you were well on your way to doing real mining work.
Mr. Regan was a slight, pale, whiskery man with very kind blue eyes that always seemed to be swimming in a sort of watery, pink pond. He would constantly stay at Mr. Crandall's side, or, rather, at his back, as Mr. Crandall appeared to enjoy walking three paces ahead of Mr. Regan at all times. Mr. Regan was employed to keep the books and supervise some of the workers, and, luckily, I was under his charge during that time.
One day, as I was squinting my way through a particularly wide and heavy tome, Mr. Regan interrupted my weak literary endeavours.
"Whatcha got thar, boy?" Mr. Regan inquired, in a most polite manner.
I showed him the cover of my book, which was worn but had not yet fallen to pieces; I was nonetheless a little shy about doing so, as the book had definitely seen better days.
Mr. Regan cast his eyes down upon my book and shook his head, which made me in equal parts uncomfortable and indignant. I need not have felt so; he looked to his right and to his left and three paces in front of him, and, finding there was no Mr. Crandall in these places, he reached into his deep pocket and drew out a smaller, newer book with gilt edges and shiny gold lettering on the front. He handed it to me, and I accepted it reverentially; I had never before seen such a beautiful piece of art, nor had I held something brand-new in my whole life. I opened the book past the marbled end-papers and checked; yes, it was new. The type clearly stated that it was published in 1856. I wanted to cry.
"Keep it, boy," said Mr. Regan. "My wife's done read it already, and I don't reckon she'll be missing it. I seen you reading here in the dark some days. I thought you might like it."
"Thank you very much, Mr. Regan!" I exclaimed, the incredulity of what had just taken place nearly robbing the words from my mouth.
"Yeah," Mr. Regan replied, with an almost imperceptible trace of a grin crossing his lips. "With all that readin', you could maybe oughter be a writer, someday, too."
A writer someday. Never had any words entering my young ear sounded as beautiful as these. Without even giving it a thought, Mr. Regan single-handedly changed the course of my life. He began to bring me this book and that book, whatever he could find. He also had the town's teacher, his brother, come by my house sometimes, to study with me and help me catch up with the rest of the students my age. I was far behind, that was true; but my passion for learning only equalled my passion for the girl with the toffee-coloured hair. I took hold of knowledge with a vengeance.
Mr. Regan brought me these books, secretly, a new book about every other month. I devoured them one after another. My hands could not turn the pages fast enough! My job was difficult but happy. The solitude, books, the prestige, the pay rise--my mother was full of pride, my mind was full of words, and my heart was full of love!
One day, I decided to take my short lunch break outside. My eyes were temporarily blinded by the brightness of the sunlight as I searched for Davey. When my sight returned, they focused upon a glorious sight; it was her.
I felt faint and my heart was racing. I dropped my bread on the ground, which was fine since my appetite had disappeared completely by this time; I clumsily fumbled with my hair and grabbed my torn, dirty shirt collar and hastily wiped my face with it, making a desperate, albeit futile effort to absorb some of the grime that had permanently attached itself to my skin.
She seemed to be looking for someone; I made up my mind that this was my big chance not only to meet this delicate creature but to also impress her with my station. With courage that came from the depths of my teenage soul, I strode up to her. I boldly held out my hand.
"Good afternoon, miss, Toby Dixon at your service, chief door-boy." I added "chief" to my title, in order to inspire awe.
"Do you know where my father is?" She said, in a less than electrified manner, only looking in my direction to recoil at my filthy extended hand.
"Well, let's see, miss," I continued, at her service as promised, but surprised that such an ethereal flower was a miner's daughter. "Is he a runner or a labourer?"
A measure of confusion crossed her face. I offered further assistance.
"Well, why don't you just tell me your name. I know all of the miners here, and I am sure I must know your father." I was quite pleased with myself for thinking of this; not only would I help her with her plight but I would also discover her name! My joy subsided when I heard her reply.
"Felicia Crandall," she said.
The feeling of having one's stomach completely drop into one's lowest possible extremities is not an easy thing to describe. Therefore, I implore all those who read this to please go back to a moment in your own lives when your mouth fell open, your heart ceased function, and your threshold of complete terror was reached.
Felicia looked at me quizzically, and seemed a little amused, too. I gathered together the tattered shreds of my composure as best I could, and, after my mortification had fallen to a workable level, absently gestured to where Mr. Crandall might be. She thanked me. After taking a few steps toward her father's direction, she stopped. In that glorious instant, Felicia Crandall turned around and flashed the most beautiful smile I had ever seen. Then she was gone, and I was free to melt into the puddle I was destined to be since first I'd spotted her.
Davey, coming up right when I was most melted, asked me in his usual, colourful way, "What the heck was that about? And why do you look like a gosh-darn lovesick fool?"
I explained to him that this was the girl I used to whisper about on the benches so many years before; this was the girl I dreamed about as we picked slate out of the coal; this was the girl to which I had devoted every thought, waking or sleeping.
"Esther Ruth Mary, right?" he said, without any cursing whatsoever, which I appreciated.
"Yes," I replied. Davey slapped me on the back, winked, and shook my hand in a vigorous, dusty approval.
What a day.
As it turned out, Felicia was also somewhat affected by that day; twice more in the next month she found reasons to come to the mines to see her father. I saw them together. He was the most doting, gentle man with Felicia, and she was a complete angel to him, her shining blue eyes full of that utter trusting and devoted love that is a most wonderful thing to behold. I dreamed of the day she might look at me with those gorgeous eyes full of that love! She had indeed noticed me, however, and that was a start. I saw her blush, or shake those lovely curls, sometimes when she passed me. Or, when her father was not looking, she slipped me an occasional note or two. These were nothing serious, of course; just some friendly words and sometimes pictures of daisies drawn in the corners, just like the ones in the rings I'd placed around her neck in my dreams so long ago. I wrote the same back to her, a little more serious, a little more daring; my words to her were endless. She told me that my letters, which she kept hidden in a wooden jewelry box, were more precious than all the gold in the world.
Through stolen moments, five here, ten there, always in secret, always in earnest, we formed what could definitely qualify as a relationship. She faithfully visited me (and her father) every week, and this continued, blissfully, for two years.
I turned seventeen in the summer of 1858. Felicia, through Mr. Regan, gave me a lovely volume of poetry, complete with an inscription of love on the frontispiece. Mr. Regan himself brought me a little muffin with a candle on the top, courtesy of his wife; Mr. Crandall saw it, ate it, and boxed my ears for insolence. It was a wonderful birthday.
Later that afternoon, I decided, on this momentous occasion, that the time had come for me to tell Mr. Crandall about Felicia and me; I wanted to declare my intentions. I knew he would be angry with me, as angry as he ever had been. I knew that he would never approve of such a poor fellow as myself courting his precious daughter. I knew that he had disliked me on sight, the instant my tiny, tear-stained face ten years hence came begging at his door for a job. No matter; my love for Felicia burned brightly in my youthful heart as I rapped upon the door of his office.
No answer.
I repeated my knock; still no answer. I cautiously pushed open the door and peered in. Scanning the room with an ever-growing sense of panic, I spotted him--he was lying, motionless, on the cold, wooden floor. I leapt across the room and tried to wake him, but he would not awake. I dashed out of the building, crying for help. It was to no avail, however; Mr. Crandall was dead.
Felicia was inconsolable at the funeral. What was to become of her? She was now an orphan, as her mother had died long ago. The neighbour that had taken her in was old and infirm, and could not accomodate her much longer. She sobbed bitterly on my neck, her tears piercing my thin shirt-collar and dampening my skin. The feeling of helplessness I had! There was nothing I wanted more than to take care of this girl, but all I was able to do was to stroke her poor, sad head and wipe tear after miserable tear away with my rough fingers.
As we walked away from the freshly turned earth, we were approached by a grey, gaunt man who had come late to the ceremony. His fingers were as long as his shadow as he stepped up beside us and laid his skeletal hand upon Felicia's shoulder. She jumped, and spun round in natural terror; it was as if Death himself had touched her.
The man attempted to arrange his face into a look of sympathy, but quickly gave up. The rough, scabrous lines that had etched themselves deep into his cheeks did not allow it. Instead, he dug his fingers harder into her shoulder and opened his flaky white lips, revealing an incomplete set of teeth the colour of molded cheese.
"Don't be surprised, my dear," he hissed, his ugly snake-eyes glowing. "My name is Jasper Crandall, but you may call me Mr. Jasper. I'm your father's cousin, from the north; I am sure you have heard of me? Good. I am the only family you have left. Your father has wisely left both you and the mine in my gentle care, my darling, so I am to be your new daddy."
Felicia looked as if she was going to run back to the grave to join her father. She gripped my hand until the blood was nearly squeezed out of it, then Jasper Crandall, giving no notice whatsoever of me, pried Felicia's hand from mine and led her away.
I prayed for her from that moment until I saw her again. In the meanwhile, Mr. Regan assumed Mr. Crandall's post at the mine. A full two weeks later, Felicia mysteriously arrived at the mine on a Monday morning. She had never visited at that hour before. I rushed to her, and she fell sobbing into my arms. Her springy curls had gone limp with neglect; her dress was an old one I'd not seen in years. I was heartbroken to see her in this state. After her crying subsided, she began:
"It has been perfectly wretched living with Mr. Jasper! He is an evil soul!" She punctuated each sentence with an indignant sniff. "He treats me as if I were his slave, and he scolds me if I do not do his bidding. Now he says he is taking father's job back from Mr. Regan and I must be his assistant!"
I was horrified. Mr. Regan's short time in charge had been wonderful. Working for someone you love and respect is much easier than working for someone whom you do not. Also, the mine itself had fallen into serious disrepair; he had begun to look into this problem. While sorting through papers in Mr. Crandall's office, he discovered many violations cited by the local inspector that had been ignored. Once Mr. Jasper took over, however, Mr. Regan was powerless again.
Mr. Jasper arrived as scheduled that day, and recognised me immediately.
"What do you do here, my dear boy?" He had an unnerving habit of showing his rotten teeth when he spoke.
"I'm a door-boy, sir," I said, the word "sir" choking on the bile rising in my throat.
"Well, you have a strong, fine back and long legs. You will be a labourer, now. You might be a little young, but that should not be a problem. I want you to pick some other boys, to be drivers, labourers and runners; this place needs some fresh blood for those jobs."
This was unexpected; it had been our goal for years. We were rising in the ranks! According to our positions, we would be driving the coal-cars, or directing them, or loading them full of coal for the miners. Soon we could prepare to become real miners ourselves! How could such a horrible man make our dreams come true? I was elated, but then felt guilty, for Felicia's sake. I determined I would not enjoy my good fortune too much.
Davey was chosen by me, of course. He was as surprised at the news as I had been; he nearly swallowed his cigarette. Davey had taken up smoking with a relish. He declared that if he had to breathe coal dust all day long, why not smoke? There is only one shade of black-lung, he told me.
Our dreams of mine-work were dreams, indeed. Mr. Jasper was brutal and cruel, much moreso than Mr. Crandall ever was. Any mistake, any accident, any lapse in production was severely punished. The older men, the ones in their thirties, were either cast from the mine into desperate poverty and replaced, or made to work longer hours without rest; the younger men, myself included, were beaten with ferocity. Several times my errors had incurred Mr. Jasper's bony-fisted wrath, resulting in the birth of purple bruises, blooming like sickening flowers upon my face and neck. Sometimes he used his wooden cane, which I preferred; at least in that way I was not touched by his inhuman hands.
Felicia fared little better. She was made to scrub the filthy floors of the main buildings, for God only knows what reason, since the dust was so thick and heavy her work was undone within the hour. She served Mr. Jasper's refreshments, and followed him round and round, and attended to his every whim lest she be the object of his aforementioned ire; she had twice been left locked in a room for many an hour as punishment for a cup of cold tea.
Nevertheless, our love grew like a wild rose amidst the thorns, and we decided that we would be married.
In the very early dawn of 15 June, 1860, in the presence of the priest, my mother, Davey, Mr. Regan, and Amy, Felicia's bespectacled childhood friend, Felicia and I took our vows. It was a lovely ceremony; my mother had given me her own wedding ring to place upon Felicia's finger. My mother cried. Davey cried. We all cried. I kissed the bride, Davey kissed Amy (opportunist as he was!) then the bride, the groom, the supervisor, and the best man trudged up the hill, in the best of spirits, to work.
The day was spent, as usual, doing extremely hard labour; we spent the early morning loading up the freshly mined coal into the cars and riding them up and down the deep, dark veins of the mineshaft. It was an intoxicating day, not only because my heart was light and happy with the thought of Felicia as my wife, but because the pattern of the work that day was soothing somehow. The rhythm of the rolling cars, the hum of the furnace in the ventilation shaft, the cool, trickling waters in the depths--they lulled me with their familiarity. Something about the black water was beautiful to me; these pools and streams were the only ones I'd ever seen. Even the steam pump that drained them from the mine made a sort of repetitive sound that I found very comforting; for when you hear and see these things your entire life, they really do become a part of you.
I was awakened from my dreamlike workday when one of these patterns seemed different; something had changed. I can not describe the sound, but it was very wrong. Since I was at the top of the mineshaft, I thought it best to alert Mr. Regan. I had only to walk twenty paces before I met him, and I told him what I heard. He asked me to please fetch Mr. Jasper straightaway, then descended the mineshaft to discover what the problem was.
I found Mr. Jasper, as always, scolding and scowling, tormenting Felicia about some trivial matter. He quickly reprimanded me for not knocking; I ignored his comment and told him what I had heard. He growled and left the room, grimacing at us. I started to follow him, but Felicia said, "I love you!"
I forgot for a moment what I was worried about. I embraced my new wife, and gave her a kiss. She looked up at me with her eyes so full of love, exactly like I had wished she would so many years ago! I told her I loved her, too.
No sooner had the words passed from my lips than I heard something I will never forget until the day I die: it was a great crashing noise, of cars and people and breaking. It was a snapping, cloudy bang, the sound of an inferno. The ventilating furnace had ignited the old timbers that lined the ventilation shaft deep within the mine. The fire had consumed the entire oxygen supply inside the mine, causing suffocation in the depths. It also had ignited the gases which sometimes accompany coal-mining; the result was a fiery explosion that took the lives of every man inside the mine.
Mr. Regan was one of those men; so was Mr. Jasper. Felicia and I wept bitterly; we loved Mr. Regan, of course, but we wept also for Mr. Jasper, for, although we did not love him, he was a human being, one of hundreds gone in an instant. Many childhood friends were included in the list of tragic deaths caused by the massive fire. Davey, fortunately, was not one of them. He had, moments before, wandered off to smoke a cigarette.
The whole town was torn apart; there was not a soul who was not affected by the sad news. Someone's son, someone's daddy, someone's brother--the tears that were shed that day, our wedding day, could have filled the Atlantic three times over.
I settled in to our new home with my new wife. We tried to enjoy what would have been our "honeymoon." But I spoke often to Felicia about Mr. Regan. His face coloured my thoughts all week long; he had been such a wonderful friend! I remembered the days I spent as a door-boy, in the dark, alone, reading pages of books he'd given me; I recalled my birthday, and the little muffin with the candle, and I cried. But most of all, I told her, I heard his voice, that gruff, low voice, saying to me,
"With all that readin', you could maybe oughter be a writer, someday, too."
Felicia, wiping her tears of laughter and sadness away from her beautiful, shining eyes, thought for a moment, then said, "Make him proud, then, Toby. Write!"
And write I did. I told the stories of my childhood, of my youth; I told the stories of all of the miners that lost their lives. I told stories of love, of Felicia and me, of Davey and Amy. I then told the stories of my mother and my long-gone father.
Felicia inherited the estate of her father after Mr. Jasper's death, which took care of most of our financial troubles for a while. My mother passed on, God rest her soul, after eighty-seven years of life. I wrote book after book, the words pouring from me like a river springing forth from my soul. And many souls were touched by the miners' stories.
But the pride and joy of all my publications was this: I bound together the correspondence penned by Felicia and me in our youth, when our love was blossoming and growing. Those letters, those mad, daisy-filled pages became our literary crowning glory; her name is beside mine on the cover.
Oh how I wish she was beside me now! Like all the others, my love has gone before me into eternity. I remember the day I met her, when I felt the angels bearing me up, singing, to the gates of Heaven; I await, now, pen in hand, for that glorious day to come!
For now I am at the end of my life, writing this, my final book, the autobiography of Tobias Dixon; and I hope, my dear readers, that I will live on, with you, in these pages.
User Reviews
Submitted by iambetteratit (user info) at 2008-06-25 15:17:26 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by experima (user info) at 2008-05-25 16:14:06 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
thank you
Submitted by spyder882001 (user info) at 2008-05-25 16:09:32 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Awesome
Submitted by Brdn_Nkd (user info) at 2008-04-04 08:33:50 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Director (user info) at 2008-03-31 18:42:37 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by experima (user info) at 2008-03-13 23:17:29 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
<3 back at ya.
Submitted by rob_berg (user info) at 2008-03-13 22:25:40 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
AND another one:
<3
Submitted by rob_berg (user info) at 2008-03-13 15:20:28 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
<3
Submitted by experima (user info) at 2008-03-13 15:09:30 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
working 1,000,000 hours/week.
:)
thanks for the 2, Nietzsche.
Submitted by Nietzsche (user info) at 2008-03-12 21:54:17 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Where have you been lovely Prima?
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2008-02-02 14:48:59 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by apollo88 (user info) at 2008-01-27 22:25:28 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
i live in Houston, a turkish guy came to fit my satellite and I asked him about it and he also didn't know anywhere.
Plus it wouldn't be the same anyway. Anywhere in Houston is a 300,000,000 mile drive. The whole point of a kebab is stumbling into a kebab shop shit faced.
(Oh, and fuck off Bubba).
============
Eat shit, lardass.
Submitted by BeforeEmily (user info) at 2008-02-02 14:39:33 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Experima, email me lyraemily.at.gmail.com
Submitted by orphelia (user info) at 2008-01-29 17:27:40 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
I love a good kebab. Experima, you should come to tea. I think we share too many food interests. Bring apollo too. :)
Submitted by Brdn_Nkd (user info) at 2008-01-29 14:44:16 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by netimportant (user info) at 2008-01-28 05:41:03 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
I dream of sweaty ball games and I'm a 23-year-old woman.
i bet you very do.
Submitted by PukingDog (user info) at 2008-01-29 03:45:28 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
'Nuff said already. Good post.
Submitted by monkeyswithguns (user info) at 2008-01-28 11:33:25 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by netimportant (user info) at 2008-01-28 05:41:03 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
I dream of sweaty ball games and I'm a 23-year-old woman.
Submitted by Berty (user info) at 2008-01-28 04:50:53 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
"I dreamed of all the things other nine year old boys might dream about--of rowdy, sweaty ball-games, of ribbon-haired little girls with shiny shoes and starched white Sunday dresses, of spending a whole month's pay at the sweet-shops in town, or of perhaps sailing around the world someday."
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I must protest; these are not things 9 year old boys dream about. This is what Roald Dahl dreamt about, everyday throughout his adult life.
Well nevermind that. This was brill.
Submitted by haikumikoo (user info) at 2008-01-28 02:17:38 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by apollo88 (user info) at 2008-01-27 12:02:19 PST (#)
Ranking: 2
sometime i like cheesy beans on a baked potato.
but mostly, its better on toast.
Submitted by experima (user info) at 2008-01-27 12:01:19 PST (#)
Ranking: 0
i could talk about cheesy beans all day long.
beans on toast...bit of cheese....grilled tomatoes...
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I didn't read this, but everything above sounds delicious.
I don't think I've ever had beans on anything but tortillas...
Think I'll try toast first.
If I come back and this posts ends up sucking, the beans won't save you ma'am.
Submitted by apollo88 (user info) at 2008-01-27 22:25:28 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
i live in Houston, a turkish guy came to fit my satellite and I asked him about it and he also didn't know anywhere.
Plus it wouldn't be the same anyway. Anywhere in Houston is a 300,000,000 mile drive. The whole point of a kebab is stumbling into a kebab shop shit faced.
(Oh, and fuck off Bubba).
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2008-01-27 21:28:18 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Hot sauce recipe:
2 tablespoons crushed red pepper flakes
1 tomato, peeled,seeded and chopped
1 clove garlic, peeled
1/2 teaspoon caraway seeds
1/4 teaspoon ground cumin
1/4 teaspoon salt
olive oil (as required)
In a blender grind the peppers finely.
Add the garlic, spices, tomato and salt.
Blend well.
Scrape the mixture into a jar, pour over enough olive oil to cover, cover tightly and refrigerate until needed.
Submitted by experima (user info) at 2008-01-27 20:54:50 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
i live in burbank, california.
i've actually searched for a kebab shop here. none.
anyone who opens one will make a fucking mint.
Submitted by apollo88 (user info) at 2008-01-27 20:42:18 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
yeah those gyro's are minging.
where do you live?
Submitted by experima (user info) at 2008-01-27 20:32:19 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
nobody even knows what a doner is here.
the closest thing you can get is a gyro, and it's not the same.
i've been searching for a recipe for a proper doner chilli sauce for ages.
AGES.
anyone who can provide said recipe will get +2s for life.
Submitted by apollo88 (user info) at 2008-01-27 20:17:42 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
10/10 for coleslaw.
Submitted by apollo88 (user info) at 2008-01-27 20:17:27 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
i miss a good kebab too i must say
Submitted by experima (user info) at 2008-01-27 19:36:11 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
whatever you do, please don't tell me you're having a doner kebab as well.
you take them for granted...but when you can't have them...good LORD how you miss them.
Submitted by experima (user info) at 2008-01-27 19:34:46 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
omg orphelia. how you make my mouth water.
Submitted by orphelia (user info) at 2008-01-27 19:28:25 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Lovely.
PS Baked potato, cheesy beans and COLESLAW!!
Submitted by TheUniter (user info) at 2008-01-27 18:02:36 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by JoeyG (user info) at 2008-01-27 15:41:56 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by experima (user info) at 2008-01-27 20:38:52 GMT (#)
Ranking: 0
joey!
just stare at my camwhore for a few minutes. that'll put you back on track
-------------
ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!
thats better.
life is good
Submitted by experima (user info) at 2008-01-27 15:38:52 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
joey!
just stare at my camwhore for a few minutes. that'll put you back on track.
Submitted by JoeyG (user info) at 2008-01-27 15:36:03 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Diavola makes me think hot and spicy.
Hot and spicy makes me think saucy.
Saucy makes me think burlesque.
Burlesque makes me think of the Devil in La Senza.
The Devil in La Senza makes me think of Bill Clinton.
WTF IS WRONG WITH MY BRAIN?????????? WHERE DID EXPERIMA GO??????????????
This fantasy went in the wrong direction. Can anyone put me back on track?
*stabs voodoo bill clinton doll*
Submitted by loan_officer (user info) at 2008-01-27 15:33:26 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by HotWillie (user info) at 2008-01-27 15:29:33 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
No Comment
Submitted by pigeonbrain (user info) at 2008-01-27 15:26:58 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by experima (user info) at 2008-01-27 15:03:40 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
jacket potatoes with tuna sweetcorn and mayonnaise
nobody does that here do they
and i've been searching for a doner as well
Submitted by apollo88 (user info) at 2008-01-27 15:02:19 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
sometime i like cheesy beans on a baked potato.
but mostly, its better on toast.
Submitted by experima (user info) at 2008-01-27 15:01:19 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
i could talk about cheesy beans all day long.
beans on toast...bit of cheese....grilled tomatoes...
mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
Submitted by apollo88 (user info) at 2008-01-27 14:59:29 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
it's impossible to dislike a fellow cheesy bean eater.
three cheers to cheesy beans!
Submitted by apollo88 (user info) at 2008-01-27 14:58:28 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
having said that, I hadn't read it before and it was a jolly good read.
Submitted by experima (user info) at 2008-01-27 14:58:01 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
ps: you love cheesy beans.
so do I.
HEINZ BEANZ!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Submitted by experima (user info) at 2008-01-27 14:54:58 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
it's not a repost per se. i posted this two years ago under "diavola" but then "experima" got verified the very same night.....
ah, i'll shut it now and take my -2s.
Submitted by apollo88 (user info) at 2008-01-27 14:52:13 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
jeez.
my mouse is broken.
this is a REPOST THUS IS AN AUTO -2.
IF *I* GET HAMMERED FOR IT, SO DO YOU MY PRETTY FACED CHUM.
Submitted by apollo88 (user info) at 2008-01-27 14:51:28 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
bollocks!
this time, I promise.
Submitted by apollo88 (user info) at 2008-01-27 14:50:58 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
oops.
i actually meant +2, scrolly thing playing up.
Submitted by experima (user info) at 2008-01-27 14:50:30 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by St_Jimmy (user info) at 2008-01-27 10:39:35 PST (#)
Ranking: 2
This is quite a nice little story. I even marked it under my fiction label a while back.
---------
Like I said. This one's for you.
Submitted by experima (user info) at 2008-01-27 14:48:20 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
that's a bit rude innit
Submitted by apollo88 (user info) at 2008-01-27 14:44:08 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
No Comment
Submitted by experima (user info) at 2008-01-27 14:39:00 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
eh?
Submitted by rob_berg (user info) at 2008-01-27 13:50:32 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
PLAGIARIZER!
Submitted by St_Jimmy (user info) at 2008-01-27 13:39:35 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
This is quite a nice little story. I even marked it under my fiction label a while back.
This is probably the only time my name will be on a piece of good fiction. :)
Submitted by Badlands (user info) at 2008-01-27 11:15:08 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Well written.
Submitted by experima (user info) at 2008-01-27 05:06:32 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
i know.
thanks you guys.
Submitted by ChaosJester (user info) at 2008-01-27 04:51:43 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
What a pleasant story!
Still, some of the language used in the beginning (i.e. "responsibility to rouse me as I was to be roused") was a bit jarring.
All in all, good job.
Submitted by BLITZKREIG_BOB (user info) at 2008-01-27 02:02:01 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment