Run.

The air is black with ash. A child is screaming. "Mommy! Mommy!" it desperately screams. No one replies.

Waterlogged, charred wood. It is clear that the firefighters' efforts failed miserably. The red bird was easily able to vanquish the entire CarnEvil. No more clowns, bootleg liquor, or freak show. Gone. All gone. This "unexpected" fire should come as no surprise though. Let's just say the people that ran the tacky attraction were not the sharpest pencils in the pack. They were the stubs; their lead all gone and their erasers used up.

The blare of the sirens eventually resides. Finally mismatched cast members all come out. The bearded lady, the midgets, and the other odd, assorted performers grudgingly march from their various hiding spots around town and assemble around the enormous trucks that had, previously, lugged them into town. In what seems like only seconds, the entire troupe is gone; vanishing into thin air like the patrons' money at the fair. The only evidence that remains is the ruins of the fair-ground. The blackened wreckage is an eyesore and the air reeks of carbonized wood, but already vines and shrubbery are beginning to embark on their journey to reclaim the scorched landscape. And so it is. Gone the commotion that had riled up this quiet town. Returned the mundane day-to-day lifestyle that has proved to be the bane of my existence.

Aside from myself though, I believe the only person who actually misses the CarnEvil is Michael Sanders. In order to understand the reason why he undoubtedly yearns for the traveling spectacle, it is necessary to dive into the man's life and carefully examine his odd disposition.

Sanders is a character. Despite his deceivingly drab appearance, he would consider himself to be of the "hipster" generation, the one that parties at raves until the wee hours of the morning. You see Sanders is a DJ, and a good one at that. Mixing beats is his passion and he has been doing it all his life. This career and lifestyle choice though, is one not easily pursued in Finche Pointe. This god-forsaken community has sworn off musical entertainment in favor of package stores and tattoo parlors. So, when there turned out to be an MC among the CarnEvil crowd, Sanders was ecstatic. It's not everyday that he's able to converse with another human being while using his complicated musical jargon. But now, this harmonious relationship is forced to come to a close due to this unfortunate fire. The MC is gone, and with him, Sander's aspirations and high hopes. The calm has returned before the ashes have finished settling.

Mixed Tidings on Pointe

The swiftness of change. Almost overnight, an entire carnival set up shop next to the decrepit Garrett Lanes. With neon lights, cheap stalls, a freak show, an "organ grinder", and bumper cars that break down more often than they collide with each other, this fair has all the makings of the classic tawdry carnival. This concoction of "talent" is humorously and aptly named CarnEvil (Ba dum tish). It is filled with an exorbitant amount of capricious clowns; entertaining kids by day yet inhabiting Queens by night. Even though I'm quick to criticize this dreadful CarnEvil, it is the most exciting thing to come to Finche Pointe in nearly a decade. This is quite sad, considering the last thing to rile up the Pointenians was when the remnants of occupant 201 were discovered in the bathtub after decaying for nearly two full months. When asked by reporters why it had taken so long for the unmistakeable smell of a decomposing body to arouse suspicion, Ace Allen eloquently replied, "Some people prolly jus thought dat somone was cookin dinner. I mean, meat is meat, it don have to smell good." But enough of exciting things. A CarnEvil can only stir up only so much commotion because. Aside from than that, the bleak and lackluster neighborhood remained unchanged. Keezy Le' Breezy continued "dancing" (if you consider dancing to be memorizing the dance moves in each popular music video broadcast on MTV) in CM (Creative Movement or as I like to call it, Copying Mtv). The self proclaimed "Sugar" continued to cut hair and sew weave into peoples' hair. Usually, the name "Sugar" is intended to emulate the sweetness that a particular person has. In this specific case, "Sugar"should not be associated to the bright, crisp, white sugar that proliferates in kitchens. Instead, the correlation should be with the brown, spoiled, fermenting sugar found on the ground at amusement parks (like CarnEvil). But oh well, maybe change isn't so swift after all.

A Brief Exposé of a Dismal September Morning

No sunlight filtered in through the half-open window of my old, decrepit trailer. The numerous clouds that filled the sky obscured the sun’s glare. The chipped paint on the side panels looked even worse than usual and the overcast sky added to the dreary day. A chilly September wind started to pick up, and it whistled as it blew through the myriad of holes in my RV. I forced myself to get up and leave my cozy bed in order to close the partially open window. My trailer was a mess; dirty dishes filled the sink, clothes littered the ground, and my guitar and its many cords lay waste to an entire corner. I looked in the mirror and saw my sunken, tired eyes staring back at me. I hadn’t shaved in several days and was in desperate need of a hair cut. These two characteristics, though, would enable me to blend in perfectly with the rest of the denizens residing Finche Pointe. It was a run-down neighborhood. Its prime had past and crime and poverty had set in. There were boarded up windows, a risqué strip club (where you could get more than a dance if you knew who to talk to), and a tawdry bowling alley whose owners had long given up the hope of ever being able to turn even a meager profit. The enormously tall Finche Pointe apartment building punctuated the sky. The developers had tried to attract the rich and affluent in order to spur the economy. Obviously, though, that plan failed miserably. The obnoxious residents that inhabited the drab building were an eclectic lot. Every now and then you would run into a character who did not quite blend in with the rest of the monotonous crowd. They always tell you though, that the unexpected should always be expected. Just some food for thought. While I pondered why I had chosen to move to this miserable place, the piercing sound of an 18-wheeler resonated through the air. Apparently, one of the morons from Piggly Wiggly got their truck stuck on the round-a-bout. How they had managed to accomplish such an idiotic feat, I don’t know. That didn’t stop them from asking for help from the other imbeciles that were mindlessly milling around the neighborhood. Shortly after, black smoke again began to spew into the air and the truck was on its way. The simpletons wandered off, and the peace was restored to the neighborhood.