Musings of JR Simmang

Curtain opens on single spotlight point on stage. Within the spotlight is a small shuttle cockpit and two people sitting in chairs behind it. Both are wearing helmets with reflective material and suits so that their faces cannot be seen and bodies are obscured. To the right of the dashboard is a suspended window.   1: It’s been a while. 2: nods 1: Something about the dark of space, though, that makes it all seem like a while. It’s as if we’ve become part of it ourselves, stretched from here to the other end. 2: You think you’re space? 1: In some small way. 2: There’s no small way when talking about space. 1: goes quiet 2: I only meant that space is huge. 1: No. No, you’re right. I don’t know why I got quiet. Sorry. 2: I guess I don’t get it. 1: I know, sorry. I’m just saying words. I guess I mean that you can either feel small and insignificant or let yourself fill in the space… or maybe let the space fill you. 2: Huh. 1: I don’t know. Sorry. beat ...

Advanced Metaphorical Image Casting would have been better titled Advanced Stupid. Mrs Dunbar already had several nicknames: Mrs Dumb-Fart, Mrs. She Done Fart, most of them ended in Fart. In a way, it was her own little rebellion. Cassandra Little peered back over her shoulder, out the open door. She uttered a spell under her breath, and the world in front of her faded into a dull shimmer, and the hallway outside the door appeared in crystal clear view in the center of her field of vision. She allowed her mind to move slowly down the hall toward the artifacts that were collected in Goodnight Hall. "Sh, child," she heard in her head. She turned her vision and faced a short man who was probably older than he looked. His hands were disfigured, and he stood hunched over. His thick neck supported a too wide a face, and his mouth was crooked into a slanting smile. "Sh," he said again, and he held up a hand. "You're about to witness the coming storm."...

My fingers betray my age. I had spent so much of my life admiring the hands of the Elders, and my own do not live up to my expectations. Elder Rathbone had elegant hands. I wonder if he'd felt the same pains, the same stiffness, the same disappointment. "Father," my son says, "you're being wistful again." He is absolutely correct. I am. "Do you wish to go for a walk?" Do I? I slouch into my chair and stare deeply into the horizon. I know Ms. Falterday is getting closer to me every day. I have not been inconspicuous. I know Mr. Mosely has tracked the elusive robberbrush. I know the Administration has begun its own investigation, and I know the Barbicans and the Order of Locke know exactly what it is I've done. "I don't," I reply. "Son, it might be for your own good if you decide to begin keeping your distance." I don't look directly at him. Instead, I peer over the top of his head and at the last remaining a...

This is a work in progress, so there are some gaps. Thanks to Writers Digest for helping to get my creative juices flowing! THE LIGHT OF AMORTH Goodnight Hall was already fragile. Now, it was a steaming heap of broken banisters, crushed concrete, and the charred remains of the delicate double doors. Georgina Fosterday stood shouting at the children looking down at her for answers. “There’s nothing to see here, children. Go back to your classes.” She waved her wand in front of her and the rubble glistened lightly, lifted and formed a temporary wall. “Who’s the one responsible,” asked Obdigan. “That was pretty powerful.” “Pretty powerful?” she responded. “What’s missing?” Obdigan scanned over the wreckage. “Umm…” “Where are we, Obdigan?” “Goodnight Hall.” “And what do we keep in Goodnight Hall?” He paused and moved closer to the rubble. “Watch your step, Obdigan!” Obdigan froze, his foot poised over a twisted knot of seraphic metal and human flesh. “Dear gods,...

Once I speculated that death was a void, a bleak blackness spread before us eternally. But, the assumption there is that we remain conscious in death in order to perceive of the blackness. Then, I presumed that consciousness itself must also die, but if that was the case, it must also have a beginning, and that beginning must be born from blackness, from nothingness. However, I wound up travelling down this rabbit hole that took me to understanding that, since energy and matter can neither be created nor destroyed, consciousness must be constantly a part of our existence, collectively or otherwise. That is why I am no longer an atheist. However, I do not believe in God. “You seem to be recovering, Dr Amos.” I reclined in my hospital gown, staring at the voice of my caretaker, Demi Housieaux. My bandages had slipped across my eyes, and the most comfortable position I could be in required that I lay semiretired on my back. The pressure behind my eyes felt enough to make them bur...

AREN’T WE ALL We never stopped talking. Perhaps it was because we were afraid of what would happen if there was ever a moment of silence between us. Perhaps we just didn’t want to listen to the persistent clinking constantly undercutting our conversations. It was always there. Circuitous. Repetitive. Unavoidable. We spent the better part of the summer of ’09 digging through the attic, ’10 through the basement, ’11 through the bedrooms, and ’12 in the kitchen and bathrooms. The only thing we found was an old pocketwatch, that was no longer running and stuck at 11:10, a stack of old newspapers dated September 12th, 1951 with an article about an exploding rocket, and a stuffed wenge llama with the initials JEH stitched into a tag on the collar. I made the joke that we’d found Jimmy Hoffa’s grave, but his middle name was Riddle, which led to another joke about Voldemort, but I was the only one in the family who’d read the Harry Potter series, so I was the only one who laughed. Af...

Arting. It's a human thing. The Mona Lisa. David. The Chrysler Building and the Goodyear Blimp. They're all works of art, and someone designed, drafted, and built them. I want to art. My wife and I sat down the other night in a crowded room full of trinkets and garbage. We were knee-deep in an event hosted by Austin Creative Reuse  letting our subconscious minds direct our hands as we turned the garbage into found art. In writing, we use a similar approach. Found poetry takes words, sentences, or phrases and turns them into poetry. I draw a lot of similarities. Furiously, I modge-podged bits of plastic, wound pieces of wire, glued down images, and even suspended something in a plastic box! When all was said and done and my fingers were nearly stuck together, I sat back and admired my work. My uneven, awkward, barely standing, confusing mass of... something. I don't know. I wouldn't call it art. My wife, an actual artist, had produced a three-dimensional collag...

My daughter just turned three today. A bittersweet moment, to say the least. We all get older, and with age we have more responsibility. We start to realize our many potentials: potential to do good, potential to think, to reason, to live with each other. It is these responsibilities that mould us and shape us into the adults we'll be. I listen to the podcasts of a psychology professor who does an excellent job of explaining the philosophy of Piaget. People must learn to be good to one another. And, guess what, it starts at home. After the party was all said and done, and the other three-year olds left with their parents, my daughter cuddled up on the couch with her nana, and the two took a nap, and I started to think about my role. I'm writing now while they sleep on the couch. And, while they sleep I wonder if I'm doing the right thing by her. Then, I started wondering what I meant by "the right thing." Kant, one of my idols, believed there must be a moral...

I was an odd freshman (who wasn't, right?). It was 1998, the Year of the Tiger, and I felt like prey. Band nerd, speech and debate, theatre, chess club, choir, and math/science club were just the beginnings of what would be an overall horrific  successful high school career. Backpack in tow, my best friend and I navigated past pubescent uncertainty and headlong into outright confusion of adolescence. I was lucky, looking back, to have moved from Colorado a couple years prior, to wind up in a school that celebrated hard work and work ethic, that trusted the students to build their own educational experience and strive to perfect it. Things changed in April 1999. April 20th to be exact. In one fell swoop, two high schoolers changed the course of educational safety. They brought up questions like "What does it mean to create a safe space?" and "What rights do students have in their environments?" and "What are the legal ramifications of protectio...

Once that sun sets, the stars come out, and the Englishmen get quiet. The wind makes the sails swell a gentle cascading rhythm with the waves. During the night, I am well. I am free. "Up, apes," the monstrosity of a man shouts from the top of the stairs. I have not revealed that I speak and understand English. English was mandatory in my home. "No, son," my father would correct. "It is pronounced Free-dum. Write it out, f-r-e-e-d-o-m." He would smile at me while his gentle hands guided my clumsy fingers. "We will leave our home, Chichi," he would whisper. "We will leave, and - make sure your 'o' closes at the top - and you will see the land of plenty. There will be grain and milk, and you will be full." The last light of dawn fell to the contours of his face and made laurels of his greying temples. "I will be there with you, Chichi. Now, pronounce it like Dr. Wellesly." We would sit in the dark corn...