I "produce" a story...

Karl here.  Today I have prepared this for you…

Once upon a time there lived a young man named Rudy Bega.  He liked to play squash in the fields till one day he was almost gourd by a bull. 

“Beets me why you play in that field all day, Rudy,” his mother would say.  “You should find yourself some cute tomato and take her on a date.  Lettuce go out and look for one or don’t you carrot all?”

Rudy wouldn’t listen though.  He would just turnip the volume on his stereo and go on picking at the corn on his toe.  He couldn’t afford a girlfriend.  Not on his celery.  Besides he had just ended a relationship with a girl named Barbara but she treated him badly and he had come to rue Barb.

One day Rudy said to himself, “I have to pea.  I wonder if the pumpkin provide enough water to flush the commode.”  So he mustard his strength and rose out of his chair…

No, no, no.  I can’t go on.  It is too cruel to you, dear reader, to continue.  And so that I may make amends here is a sweet love poem…

Hearticulture

My spirits rose the day

I saw you on the beech.

I had searched fern wide

For a love like yew.

I kissed your tulips,

And caressed your palm.

I gazed into your irises for hours.

We rode in my two cedar sportscar.

Then I refused you a fir coat

And our love didn’t go as plant.

You decided to leaf.

And now I sadly pine.

Ok, I’ll stop.  I dare say you’ve been pun-ished enough. 

I’m Karl Fogsen.  Thanks for reading anyway.

Stories grow into the strangest things...

            Karl here.

            I was in a weird mood and just started typing.  This is what came out...

As crickets and tree frogs sang their summer songs to the night a lone traveler wended his way down a dusty country road.  The lane lay before him in the scant moonlight like a pale serpent writhing its way across darkened fields of corn.  Slightly bent under the weight of a rucksack he softly hummed to himself a half remembered tune.  Memories of long ago and far away played in his mind.

He had not always been a wanderer.  Once there was home.  Once there was family.  Once there was love.  But they were far away now.  Distance faded them from the view of the mind’s eye.  He wondered if they were still there, waiting.  He longed to return to them.

But there was something to do first.  There was a faint call that drew him forward along the road.  It was near now.  Soon the trek home could begin.

He mounted a small rise in the lay of the road and looked ahead.  There in the distance was a lake, the gibbous moon reflected in its placid waters.  More keenly now than ever he felt the pull of something, something that wanted him to approach the shore.  No, to go further than that.  To enter the lake itself?

He hesitated and shifted the rucksack.  There were clunks and rattles from the collection of objects inside.  He had brought them a long way.  He could not stop now.  He strode the remaining distance to the lakeshore and stood peering at the water.

“Well, I’m here,” he said quietly, “What now?”

Come, enter the water.

Again he paused.  Uncertainty filled him. “No,” he said, “This is as far as I go.”

Enter the water.

“No.  I will not,” he said firmly and quickly added, “But I have what you want.”

Enter the water and give it to us.

“Leave the water and come get it,” he countered and dropped the rucksack on the ground.  He was beginning to become frightened.

The air which had been moving off the lake like a breath became still.  The sounds of the summer night grew quiet.  The stars above him ceased their twinkling and sharpened.  A decision was being made.

Suddenly there was a swirl in the water just offshore.  In the dim moonlight something, no someone, was rising from the lake.  For a moment a cap, adorned with hooks and lures appeared to be floating on the surface of the water.  Then a skull rose grinning beneath it.  The traveler gave out a horrified whimper, and as a skeletal form stepped onto the bank he spun and ran.

Water cascaded from the undead sportsman’s vest as he took the rucksack from where it had fallen, unzipped it and removed two six packs from within.  Dropping the pack the skeleton returned to the dark waters.

Can’t fish without beer.

Kinda spooky, eh?  Well to shake off the eerieness here's a moment of humor...

Shouldn't the years listed as B.C. be known as the Antechrist period?

I am Karl Fogsen.  Thanks for reading.



Testing...1...2...3...

Karl here.  I hope you all have been paying close attention or have been taking good notes for it is time for a pop quiz.  Stop that whining.  No, you don’t get to study for it.  It’s a pop quiz and by definition you don’t get to study for pop quizzes.  So get your papers ready and here we go:

A Pop Quiz

1.      Define the following:  Marventure, Jupitulate, Spargling

2.      Draw a diagram showing the bits and pieces that are left out.

3.      Ask a friend to hold you six inches off the ground.  Shout “Zimble!”  Was it worth it?

4.      Figure the area of expansion of Zimble for the next three decades without using the marventure.  Spargle the jupitulate if you must.

This quiz will represent 73.149% of your grade.  The rest is lab work which we will get to later.  Just remember to have your wet suits ready.

I am Karl Fogsen.  Thanks for reading.

Improv and literature don't mix...

            Karl here.  For this new post I will attempt to spontaneously compose a short fiction using only suggestions from the audience.

            So, may I have a suggestion for a place, please?  Yes, you sir, the gentleman with the bouffant.  Niagara Falls?  Thank you, sir.  Now, I need an occupation.  What’s that ma’am?  What do you mean “you sure do”?  Bouncer, see this lady to the door.  Right, an occupation, if you please.  Philanderer?  Is there much money in that?  Okay.  One last thing, we need a reason you might call a doctor.  I’m sorry I didn’t quite hear that, miss.  What’s that?  Shingles?  Sounds more like a job for a roofer.  Haha.

            Ok, so “Niagara Falls” “Philanderer” and “a case of the Shingles”.  Oooh, look at the time.  I’m afraid we’ll have to leave it here.  Such promise too.  Goodnight all!

            I am Karl Fogsen.  Thanks for reading.

Professional rivalry gets ugly...

            Hello all.  Karl here.  The following is an excerpt from my upcoming romance novel, “The Vampire Highlander’s Captive Bride”:

            The wind off the moor whipped Count Vlad McTavish’s flowing mane of raven dark hair.  His black cloak billowed revealing a scarlet tartan lining.

            “Och blah!  Ye’ll no’ deny me agin, lassie.  D’ye think I dinna know who poot all that garrrrlic in me haggis?” he brogued.

            Clasping her torn bodice to her bosom Lady Montgomery looked up into Count McTavish’s steely cold gray eyes.  Defiance was in her voice.  “I will never love you,” she declared.  “I would sooner die than love a beast like you.”  But down deep she knew it wasn’t true.  A secret desire had been growing within her since the day she saw him putting on his kilt and she’d accidentally caught a glimpse of his sporran.

            Now, tell me Hannah Howell can do THAT!

            And now here’s your esoteric moment of humor:  Thetamesis!

            I am Karl Fogsen.  Thanks for reading.

It's lonely at the bottom too.

Editor’s note:  Karl has just realized he is all alone on this blog.

            Hello?  Anyone here?  This is Karl.  Hmm.  Maybe they can’t hear me.  I’ll shout.  HELLO?!  IS ANYONE READING?  Nothing.  Well, I guess I’m the only one here.  I’ll try again.  HELLO  hello   hello    hello.  Wow, this blog is so empty that the text echoed.

            Well since I’m alone I may as well post another of my favorite poems to entertain myself…

Walter was a chicken who loved the finer things.

He wore glitter on his feathers and jewels on his wings.

He didn’t understand other chickens in their coops;

How they lived day to day in one another’s poops.

The other chickens told him that they thought it gaudy

To wear gems on your wings and sparkles on your body.

But one day it was Walter who the dinner table graced.

Then everyone agreed that Walter had good taste.

And now here is a donut in a singles bar:  “Hi, I’m a torus.  What’s your sign?”

I am Karl Fogsen.  Thanks for reading.

Just a short post.

Welcome back.  Just time enough today for a poem…         

Unrequited

She begged him to stay,

But instead he went

She asked him to pay,

But he gave not a cent

She pled, “With me live.”

But still he would not

She implored him to give

But nothing she got.

She’d had it to here

With her difficult swain.

She shed not a tear

When he was hit by a train.

Beautiful, huh?  Sometimes when I read that poem I get all teary and I have to go lie down for a while.  When this happens I have to tell myself one of my favorite jokes to cheer myself up.  Jokes like the following…

A man and woman were overheard talking.

Man:        I know a fellow who made $42,000 selling earwax.

Woman:  That’s gross!

Man:        No, that’s net.

            Ha!  I love that!  Heehee.  I’m Karl Fogsen.  Thanks for reading.

An introduction...

Editor’s Note:

           

I first met the author Karl Fogsen in May 2009.  From the start I was amazed by the quality of his work.  No other author known to me fit the term “hack” so well as Karl, and apparently I was not alone.  In every major periodical in which his work was reviewed the sentiment was the same…

“…Unfettered by talent…” The New York Times Sunday Book Review

“…Unhindered by ability…” The Chicago Tribune

“…Unencumbered by skill” The Branson Courier

Karl is blissfully unphased by this complete lack of competence and continues to produce some of modern civilization’s worst poetry and fiction.  You will also find through this blog that his world views are equally skewed.

So prepare yourself for the reading ahead.  Steel your mind.  Drink plenty of fluids.   And by all means, when your head begins to hurt, stop.  Enjoy. 

Thanks for coming to Karl Fogsen’s Wry-ting, Litter-ature and Unthoughts.  My name is Karl Fogsen and I’m not overly fond of the title of this blog.  My editor insists on it however.  He says that except for the “wry-ting” bit, which suggests actual wit, the title truly relays to the audience what awaits them on this site.  I will trust you, the reader, to make a final judgement for yourself.  To do that I must first present to you a sample of my authorship.  It is called… 

Buttertop

Through the green of the forest a sunlight dappled brook burbled its way to the greater waters of the sea.  On the bank of the brook stood a stately tree which dangled its roots into the water like a barefoot child might dip their toes on a lazy summer day.  Against the tree’s smooth bole, on a velvet mat of green moss, a gnome rested himself.

If you had come across this gnome while you were out walking in the forest one day, possibly mushroom hunting or blackberry picking, you’d think him no different than any other gnome you’d ever met.  Except, that is, for his hat, which was big and floppy and very, very yellow and from which he got the name, Buttertop.

He was presently reading a wonderful book he had found about treacle and its uses when a noise came to his over-large ears (they helped hold up his hat.)  A small panicked voice was coming from somewhere in or around the brook.  He followed the sound with his eyes until he saw a small beetle perched on a leaf floating on the swirling water.

“Oh!  Help me,” the beetle cried, “I am surely being swept out to sea!”

Quickly Buttertop took a long thin reed from the stream's bank.  "Latch onto this my lad," he said as he held the reed out to the beetle.  "Carefully now!"

As the leaf passed under the reed the beetle scrambled onto it and clung there.  Buttertop lifted him to the safety of the water’s edge.

“Thank you, thank you!” cried the beetle, “I was certain I was lost!”

“No, no.  None of that is necessary little one,” answered Buttertop, “but tell me how you came to be on that leaf in the first place?  Can’t beetles fly?”

“Beetles fly as well as flies beetle,” replied the beetle, a little mysteriously.

Unable to follow that logic Buttertop searched his mind for another topic of conversation.

“Do you like treacle?” he asked, thinking of his book.

“Oh yes,” said the beetle, “Why, every October thirty-first all my friends and I go round shouting ‘Treacle Treat!’”

Buttertop squashed him with his thumb.

The moral of the story is:  People will only put up with so much of that sort of thing.

The End

Now then, that wasn’t so bad was it?  I’ll leave you with this small unthought:  If Matthew Broderick had been cast to play Iron Man, would they then have called the movie Ferrous Bueller?

I am Karl Fogsen.  Thanks for reading.