… and I’m just over here thankful that the goddam “Clippy” nightmare is over.
I don’t know who finally went Sarah Connor on his ass, but I’m eternally grateful.
Tag Archives: Eric Robert Nolan
“Scattered like seeds” in Charlottesville, VA
Shared a little guerilla poetry in Charlottesville, Virginia this week with poetry mini-books, designed and produced by the fondly remembered, late Robert Hansen at Poems-for-All.
Spillwords Press publishes “Hardy Orchids Haiku”
The nice people at Spillwords Press featured a haiku of mine today; you can find it right here.
Thanks once again to Chief Editor Dagmara K. for allowing me to be a part of the Spillwords Press community!
Three poems of mine selected by Lothlorien Poetry Journal.
I’m honored to share here that three poems of mine have been selected for publication by Lothlorien Poetry Journal: “school shooter,” “The Windy Morning” and “The Rough, Violet Stone.”
Thanks once again to Editor Strider Marcus Jones for allowing me to see my work showcased by this excellent literary magazine!
Throwback Thursday: Spring Break 1994!
This was taken at North Carolina’s Outer Banks in 1994. Pictured at right is the indomitable, inimitable, irreplaceable Dave Kline, of Mary Washington College fame. (Yes, his fashion sense was legendary.)
Who is the goofy guy at left? I have no idea.
Anyway, what a trip that was. I’m sure I’m not the only one of my dormmates who remembers it fondly.
The Piker Press features my apocalyptic horror tale, “At the End of the World, My Daughter Wept Metal”
I am honored to share here today that The Piker Press published my apocalyptic sci-fi horror story, “At the End of the World, My Daughter Wept Metal.” It is even featured on the “front page.”
The story follows the tragedy of Jacob Farmer, a bereaved husband struggling to raise an adolescent daughter in the wake of her mother’s death. He is also a brilliant inventor, a role in which he takes pride — until his breakthrough medical technology destroys the human race.
You can find the story right here.
Thanks, as always, to Managing Editor Sand Pilarski for allowing me to share within the wonderful creative community of The Piker Press.
Enjoy! And please be careful with nanotechnology.
Getting back to my roots.
If you’ve ever played with G. I. Joes outside as a kid, then, every once in a while, you’ll still notice an “environment” in which it would be cool to set them up. This, for example, looks to me like a nicely defensible position.
“Coca-Cola came to town.”
Coca-Cola came to town.
Pepsi-Cola shot him down.
Dr Pepper fixed him up.
Now they all drink 7-Up.
— I remember this childhood rhyme from standing at the bus stop in the early 1980’s. (I was pretty amused when Mikey Wagner rattled it off one cold morning.) There are a number of variations to it, including one that is apparently unique to Britain.
I usually avoid soda entirely — my dentist had a couple of things to say about how bad it is for the teeth. (It’s not the sugar; it’s the drink’s acidic effects on enamel.) But tonight I indulged in a Dr Pepper anyway. Hey, it’s my favorite, and Roanoke is the Dr Pepper Capital of the world.
Oh, by the way, I only learned tonight from the article linked above that the beverage is correctly spelled “Dr Pepper,” with the period left off of the “Dr” part of the name. Weird world.
I swear to you, every time I get my hair cut, it gets grayer.
It’s like the scissors are cursed or something. (Hey, that’s the start of a horror story — one of you get on that. I’ve got enough works-in-progress as it is.)
The solution is obvious — I need to never gat a haircut again. Maybe I’ll develop super-strength, like Samson. After a lifetime of trying in vain to develop superpowers, I figure the universe owes me.
“She Walks in Beauty,” by Lord Byron (read by Eric Robert Nolan)
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
[Dedicated to My Autumn Girl]
