I hate you.

In the summer, you are pleasant and peaceful,
but every windy winter day, you transform into a snowy, biological torture test.
You are the reason I have to wear two layers.
In fact, before I reach you, my coat is usually flopped over my left arm, and I probably said something about how wonderful the weather was.
The second I step onto your pavement, I shudder at the sudden chill and am forced to scramble to equip myself properly. I take my hat from my left pocket, fold the brim and pull it over my head. I take my gloves and put them on as my fingers start to turn white. And then I walk. Your unrelenting wind forces me to keep my head down, and I thank the world that I have glasses to keep sharp, stray snowflakes from colliding with my eyes at a wind speed of over fifteen miles per hour. And as I reach the end of the street and cross over to La Salle and S 11 St, your wind drops away and I have warmth once more. And then, it occurs to me, that the reason I am warm now, the drop of skyline over the respite of St. Thomas Universality, is the same reason that I was cold walking here. And I question why I always walk down your hellish route of a wind tunnel. There are so many other streets, all of which more pleasant by which I could reach Hennepin. And yet I keep coming back to you.

A Projection On Paper story revision by Zachary Storch

My father taught me the way of the blade. He said the most important thing to remember was why he taught me. He taught me so I would learn when to use it. He started with wooden sticks that he threw into the air. He showed me how he cut them such that they would split into eight pieces before landing onto the ground. I cut them once only.

The next day my father took me out to the river. He placed his blade into the stream and showed me how his blade cut the water and any leaf or twig that touched the edge of his weapon. I asked him why he did this, and he said it was to show the power and danger of the sword. We slashed at flying sticks again the next day. I cut one twice.

Eventually he taught me to hunt. There were wolves outside of town. I asked him what the wolves had done. He told me that they had pillaged chickens and grain. I took that as moral and a reason to use a sword. Thieves deserved the sword. We exterminated them.

In time it was sticks again. I cut one four times, but it was only a fluke. The rest I could only cut three. Father cut them all eight.

He sparred with me, too. He decided to use live blades. With restraint and precision, he scraped my arm and it bled badly. Father stopped then. When he lowered his blade I cut him back. I expected him to be angry, but he applauded me.

I grew older, and my skill had improved. Six times I cut the sticks. Father only cut them five. He still taught me, though now I knew I was the stronger. I would always learn from him.

Bandits attacked and pillaged town. I decided to go to their camp. Father came with me. I found six bandits, and I cut them all down. Then we encountered a woman. I raised my sword. She held her hands up and cried for me to stop. Father urged me the same, claimed she was innocent, that she was just one of their wives. She drew a small dagger from her belt as he talked. I turned my blade upon my father. I cut him down, then swung back at the woman and she fell with him.

I returned home.

Author’s Note: A revision of Pedagogy. I think this story has potential, but it’s still a little rough. It’s quite a bit better now like this.

A Projection On Paper story/proof I need more sleep/pretty terrible short-short story by Zachary Storch

Reptiles, (iguanas, to be more specific), are the only animal besides humans to play chess. I know this may seem hard to believe given their lack of thumbs and cognitive reasoning skills, but there are some regular reptilian Bobby Fisher’s. A more scaly chess master would not have lost to Deep Blue, and could most certainly best the Turk. It’s quite simple and all demonstrated by the events I saw during an afternoon three months ago. I was in the Caribbean. After finishing a round of golf and consuming extremely overpriced drinks at a local bar, I began the trek back to my hotel. On the way, I came across not one, but two of the aforementioned rock-climbing-quick-sprinting-cold-blooded creatures.

Logically, I set out to capture them.

The reptiles were fast. I dived at one of the two, but all I grabbed were painfully hot pebbles. They ran off, and I pursued. Off into the prickly bushes the four-legged demons ran, seeking to thwart my advance. I refused to give up, not so easily or quickly, even if I was in shorts. I grit my teeth and stomped through the needles, through the bladed foliage. At that my reptilian adversaries knew I had them in a tight spot. We were back on the golf course. One made for an artificially planted tree, and the other took a break towards the warm safety of a nearby sand-trap. Splitting up was a powerful move. I did what I had to. First, I ran and shook the tree with the climbing beast, vigorously so. That sent him tumbling down and sprinting to join his friend, to seek safety in the sand. I rushed over and kicked my foot through the dirt, giving them a start again. Back through the prickly bushes they went. Now, I was certain I had them on the run, that soon they would tire out. I went back through the brush again, legs bleeding, but I pushed onwards. The critters went into the road and still I followed, sure of my victory, when I was struck by a car.

For you see, the villainous masterminds had planned it all along. They may not have thumbs, but an iguana can play the world like a chess game.

The first Projection On Paper story, by Zachary Storch

Crash! Another tree hit the ground.

“So, how much do we get for a tree anyway?” said Jeff, newcomer to the logging business.

“Not much,” said logging supervisor Matt. “The big thing is just to clear them; we are paid for getting the job done so that buildings can be built. We have a guy coming here today that said he would be able to help us with that a great deal.”

Later that day, the visitor arrived. He drove up at a frantic pace and stopped just short of Jeff. Immediately after he leapt out of the door of the charcoal colored van, slamming it as he did so. He shouted out in a gruff voice to the other loggers: “I’m here! Everyone gather round! I’ve something amazing to show you, guaranteed to change your jobs and lives forever!” He then quickly ran around to the back of the van and swiftly opened the trunk. He shut it as quickly as it opened. He jogged back around to the front carrying a large case. Continue reading →

A silly, nonsensical Projection on Paper story

That darn baseball bat. The one over the mantel. Yeah, the one dad died over and mom lived over.

It was forty years ago when that fire broke out at the baseball emporium downtown. Dad couldn’t really think too straight back then, either. See, there was the fire, and he got stuck. A “baseball player” saved him. Smacked the wood beam he was stuck under clear in half and pulled him to safety. Smacked it with that darn baseball bat. Ten years later, I was born. Dad had kept the bat that had saved his life. The darn one. He had even started a collection of bats. That made us poor. Then it became things that were not baseball bats, but could be used as one. It was a huge collection. I started selling them under his nose; we were broke and needed food. But it didn’t matter how many I sold. Dad never noticed and he just kept buying more and more of them. Mom got sick. She was going to die. I tried to sell the darn one, the darn baseball bat. Now that he noticed. That one sent him into a rage when he saw it was missing.

And his heart broke down.

A Projection On Paper story by Zachary Storch

My father taught me the way of the blade. He said the most important thing to remember was why he taught me.
“I teach you so you learn when to use it,” he said.
I took that to heart, but never to mind. We started with wooden sticks that we threw into the air. He showed me how he cut them such that they would split into eight pieces before landing onto the ground. I cut them once only.

The next day we went out to the river, and my father placed his blade into the stream and showed me how his blade cut the water and anything that touched the edge of his weapon. I asked him why he did this, and he said it was to show the danger. That made me confused when we were slashing at flying sticks again the next day. I cut one twice.

Later we moved on to hunting. There were wolves outside of town, and we exterminated them. I asked him what the wolves had done. He told me that they had pillaged chickens and grain. I took that as moral and a reason to use a sword. A thief. Thieves could face a sword.

Then it was sticks again. I cut one four times, but it was only a fluke. The next I could only cut three. Father cut them all eight.

We sparred, too. A dangerous thing for certain when our blades were live, but we did it. He scraped my arm and it bled badly. We stopped then. I cut him back when he lowered his blade. I expected him to be angry, but he applauded me. No mercy. Merciful people could face a blade.

I grew older, and my skill had improved. I cut the sticks six times now. Father had gotten older too. He only cut them five now. He still taught me, only now I knew I was the stronger. I would always learn from him, even now that he is gone.

Bandits came by town. I decided to find them. Father came with me. I cut all I found down. Then we came upon a woman. She held her hands up and cried for me to stop. Father urged me the same, claimed she was innocent, that she was just one of their wives. She had a small dagger on her belt. Were she innocent, she would have struck her husband down. I turned my blade upon my father. I cut him down, then swung back at the woman and she fell with him.

I returned home as a hero. I would still learn from my father in his death. I would never do as he had done.

Only one post today but it’s good… a story!

Faster

By Zachary Storch

Jeff Hansen watched another tree fall to the whirling blades of the tree clearer, hearing the lurching of wood followed by a loud thud as the trunk landed onto the cleared grass, throwing up a cloud of musty dirt. The smells of sap and overworked, overheating motors was carried through the logging camp on sawdust.

 “How much is a log worth anyway?” Jeff shouted to Head Logging Supervisor Matt Kaleb.

“We don’t get paid by the tree Jeff, we get paid for clearing them all so buildings can be built,” Head Logging Supervisor Matt Kaleb smacked a mosquito off his arm as it jabbed into him. It fell down to the ground, dead like the trees but silent. “We got someone coming down here today who says he has something that will change our work forever, make it faster.” Continue reading →