Monday, January 24, 2011

Fiction Korner

I was on some kind of eerie plain. Or maybe it was a plane. It didn’t much matter. All I knew was that a well-dressed, kindly woman was offering me peanuts and club soda, a shimmering source of nourishment and comfort in the cold, indifferent expanse of tall grasses. Her soothing alto voice cut through the stillness and the silence. Her fulvous hair was pulled into a tight bun, an ardent and unwavering fist resisting the tyranny of open spaces.
It astonished me how lost I was. It had been only a day earlier that I’d found myself in a tired, windblown town that boasted the world’s largest freight rail classification yard but only one saloon. The town bored me--I failed to find its local color charming, or even acknowledge it. I suppose my predicament a day later was punishment for my carelessness.
I stared intently up at the woman with my one good eye, so as to distinguish which way was up. The monotony of the landscape was playing tricks on me. The sky had assumed the same colorless color as the earth. The woman was wearing a smart navy blue uniform that flattered her figure. The wings pinned to her chest said “Caroline.”
The peanuts were dry roasted but did little to curtail my plight. The club soda couldn’t remove the stain of cocksureness and self-deception from my left ventricle. Caroline meant well. She was perhaps the purest distillation of good intention but she too began to blur and fade into the formless ether. My vibrantly colored reference point had become dull and dimensionless. I spit in vain like an avalanche victim to get my bearings but my thin, impotent saliva hit my face and the ground simultaneously.
“Welcome to Tomorrow,” said the pilot over the intercom. “The local temperature is desolation.”
--Jawn Steighmeaus

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

Poet's Korner

Today we bring you a piece from Chris Peebles' Chartreuse Period, which lasted from 2:11 PM till 5:38 PM on February 16, 2004. It's entitled “An Ever-unfolding Game of Tit-For-Tat on Levels Both Benign and Grave.” Down the hatch:

I am not a precision tool.
But that doesn't make me
a blunt instrument.
I'm somewhere in between,
leaning more towards one
or the other depending on
the planet's oscillating
distance from the sun.
All things in life are
oscillation. Why is that so
difficult for you to grasp?

Sunday, January 16, 2011

Komedy Korner

The old "Donkey in a Top Hat" bit as told by Svetlana Mendoza, Part XII:

“We can’t just stand here!” said the donkey, suddenly very passionate. “There are bones to process and fat to melt!”
“It’s out of our hands...” the foreman began, but it was too late. The beast of burden made a beeline for the plant’s entrance, undaunted be the angry throng.
“Hey, a scab! Get him!” yelled one of strikers. His fellows then proceeded to beat the donkey about the torso and long ears.

To Be Kontinued...

Friday, January 14, 2011

New KreationKast!

Namaste, Kreationists! Today after much anticipation, the latest KreationKast has been released--or "dropped" to use the parlance of our times. It's a real doozy.

Thursday, January 6, 2011

Fiction Korner

I've always wanted to write the perfect story. To encapsulate the energy of all the weirdness I see in the world. I was talking to my local newscaster (and good friend), Ron Jason, about this one day. We were sipping coffee from a communal bowl at Tsarry Night Diner. He glanced up at me with the glazed eyes of a man resigned to the fact that he was utterly at odds with the world around him.
"I can't help you. You know I can't. I feel like you're asking for help just so you can remind me of my disconnection from the world. I'm a friend, too, you know. I'm not just a pretty face on the television."
"We don't call it television anymore, we just say TV... But no, I don't think you're out of touch. I think you're wonderfully insightful."
In my haste to reassure him, I reached toward Ron's arm, upsetting our two-gallon coffee bowl in the process. Hot java went everywhere, the creeping edges of the puddle forming the shape of a stegosaurus. Ron began to weep.
"Am I going to be like that dinosaur?" He sobbed. "Am I going to be extinct because I'm no longer fit for this world? Is my brain the size of a pea?"
After that, I left. I was trying to write the perfect story, not comfort an overemotional newscaster with two first names.
-Ronald Raygun

Kondolence Korner

We regret that our first post of the new year is a vehicle for tragic news. Early this morning, our beloved kustodian Errick Walsh was found dead in the HQ’s rear stairwell. It’s too early to pinpoint the exact cause of death, but the koroner suspects it may be related to the broom handle that impaled Walsh’s abdomen when he conceivably fell on it.* Even in his last moments, it would seem Errick was kommitted to the kause, fulfilling his duties lest we kreate in abject squalor. Errick Walsh will not be remembered exclusively as a proficient janitor but also as an enthusiastic man who had a zest for life. Death is mysterious and often scary to think about, but it’s also inevitable, and we wish our Errick the best of luck in exploring the great, postmortem unknown. He will be sorely missed.** A memorial service will be held at the Third Russian Orthodox Church of Boise tomorrow at 11 am.

Errick Walsh

*The circumstances surrounding Walsh’s passing are indeed fishy, and foul play hasn’t been ruled out. Let us know if you hear any details that shed further light on this unfortunate event.
**As crass as it is to bring up business during a time of grieving, the fact is we need a new Kreation Kustodian. Please slide résumés under the HQ’s front door, and, please, be humble--you’ve got big work boots to fill.