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			<title><![CDATA[The Obstructionist]]></title>

			<link>http://theobstructionist.com</link>

			<description><![CDATA[
Truth, Lies, and Micro-Fiction.
]]></description>

			<copyright><![CDATA[
©Seth Eagelfeld
]]></copyright>

			<pubDate>Wed, 18 Jun 2008 20:14:13 GMT</pubDate>

			<lastBuildDate>Tue, 02 Dec 2008 20:05:37 GMT</lastBuildDate>

			<docs>http://cyber.law.harvard.edu/rss/rss.html</docs>

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			<title><![CDATA[The Obstructionist]]></title>

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			<link>http://theobstructionist.com</link>

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<item>
<title><![CDATA[“Stop The War”]]></title>
<description>
<![CDATA[
Union Rd was the only road that went through the whole of Wilson because for a long time it was the only road that Wilson had. Or needed. Around it had been built the first homes and McMansions, at the time dwarfed by all the farms (back when there still were farms). Now, the road, for decades unused and falling apart, had to be navigated carefully by the Police Cruiser for potholes and gaps, something which wasn't helped by how nervous the officer was, a nervousness shared by the young teenager sitting beside him.  For the twenty minutes that the kid, John, had sat at the station almost every officer on duty had told him what a great job he did, how well he handled it, tough kid, and so on. Now there was a knot in his stomach as he wondered what they'd think when they saw the large pile of vomit right next to the car, at the scene. For Lt. Garily, the problem was that the oldest unsolved case in Wilson's history had been "solved" not by himself, the oldest officer on it's police force, but by some young punk who'd probably been looking for a quiet place to smoke some dope.  The last two members of the Class of '71 had been found; not in a dumpster or buried under one of the many houses that were being built back then, but in their own car, in the much-hunted-for '66 Chevrolet, in one of only three untouched wooded areas left in Wilson, New Jersey. Why the fuck didn't I ever look there, Garily kept asking himself as his long career dissipated before him.  It turned out that Mark and Jane hadn't been murdered. The young high school students weren't heavy drug users who pissed off Atlantic City mobsters and been whacked, nor had one of the Mexican workers around at the time raped Jane, then killed both of them (perhaps the most popular theory in Wilson lore); and neither had killed the other because one got pregnant and then left town. They were both killed by a vacuum cleaner pipe hooked in to the exhaust of Mark's Chevrolet. The bodies, though terribly decomposed by 30 plus years, were both in one piece, resting on eachother--the kid had said.  Garily brought the car to a halt outside that part of the woods.  "Stay here" he told the kid, who was more than happy to follow such directions.  He walked up to the old car slowly. The paint had peeled off, the windows and lights were caked with the grime and filth of time, the plate and logo were unreadable; but it didn't matter. The Cop had seen every picture of every possible design, paint job, or disguise the '66 Chevy could have. This was that car, this was their car. Garily cautiously tried clearing the passenger window to see if he could get a better look inside. It was no use; just the same two dark masses of something. He lowered his hand to the door handle; his palm had gotten sweaty as hell and his fingers were shaking.  He tried once--it didn't work. He tried again--still nothing. For a moment there was a brief hope that he wouldn't have to be the one to do this. They'd need firemen with special tools, he thought, all this time has sealed it shut. He gave a another tug and heard the stubborn door's dirt seal go crack! and start to open. The smell of old death and decay flew at him and knocked him back. He'd spent thirty years in the suburbs giving traffic tickets and chasing imaginary pedophiles; this smell was new. He covered his nose and mouth with his arm and went forward again, pulling the decrepit door open in one brave swoop.  It took a moment for him to realize what he was looking at. It didn't look human, but didn't look like anything else either. Then he saw little clues: Teeth, fingers, bones. Garily backed away and fell down on the forest ground. He got out his radio.  "It's them." he told whoever would be listening on the other end, as if they'd just understand what he meant. He dropped the radio and pondered his futile situation. The orange suburban sunlight blasted through the newly opened tomb and made the two shapes seem almost peaceful. 30
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<link>http://theobstructionist.com/micro-fiction/stop-the-war/</link>
<pubDate>Wed, 18 Jun 2008 20:14:13 GMT</pubDate>
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<title><![CDATA[“The Crap Artist”]]></title>
<description>
<![CDATA[
It's been some time now since Jason Moore lowered his pants and took a shit on a canvas. No, he didn't do it in public (god forbid!), but looking back, he might have been better off if he did. Because, as it turned out, no one gave a shit that Jason shit on a canvas. The great galleries of New York, scattered throughout Chelsea and SoHo, absolutely refused, refused to have that 'thing' on their walls; not just because it meant nothing and was awful, but because no building in New York needs to try an attract roaches and flies. After days shopping it around to even the lowest-brow of the high-brow, Jason realized that all he had was a wooden frame covered by fabric, covered in shit. "I would only be so honored to have this man shit on me"  -- Jason Dorger, New York Art Collector But the do-it-yourself spirit still exists here on the Manhattan Islands and a week later Jason had begun trying to sell his repugnant work right in Central Park. Still, though, no one bought it (would you?). And save for the few tourists who were willing and quite excited to drop a few dollars and take a photo with the shitty artist, Jason found himself broke and completely ignored.  A few weeks of this went by until a grounds keeper, a old man, finally tried to get him to leave, saying gently:  "I'm no art critic and certainly don't call myself 'cultured', but isn't that just...shit on a canvas? I have enough work to do, cleaning up the pests attracted to human trash, it's not really fair to make me chase after the ones associated with human feces, right?" "What he's really doing is exposing our own discomfort with our own internal processes. Throwing shit on people, though seemingly offensive to philistines, is really an attempt to get us back in touch with our humanness and a true work of genius"  --The New York Times But the artist: hungry, bitter, and angry was thoroughly unmoved by the plight of this kind working man and in a fit of talentless, unexpressed rage, threw a whole handful of the substance decorating his canvas right into the man's face. "It's not really shit throwing, but a satire on shit throwing. I don't see how that's offensive."  -- William Gibbons, Art Professor, Columbia University. The small noise formed by the feces hitting face seemed to reverberate throughout the park. The laughing children, the business people on lunch break, the bad teenagers cutting school all began to crowd around, as the man wiped the shit off his face, everyone staring like it was car accident: interesting, strange, and 'Hell, thank God it's not me'. "True Brilliance! Testing the limits of society, like all artists should. Those who criticise him reveal themselves as thoroughly unintelligent and wrong. Shit is the new paint."  --The Village Voice But Jason's anger didn't subside after marking the old man; he now began to throw more and more of it at the people around him, which didn't cause the crowd to run away or diminish, but grow and keep growing. The shit-throwing spectacle soon became a major media event, with crowd and coverage reaching the levels of those 'Free Concerts in the Park' they used to have. It took thirteen bathroom trips that day for Jason to replenish his stock (the port-o-john he used has since been named after him), the last four of which were broadcast live for the whole world to see. "Awesome, just awesome. Throwing shit on people is the shit."  --Maxim Now, after all the books have been written, after Jason has displayed the 'Shit Catapult' he built in both the MoMA and the Met, after a major international tour saw our celebrity throwing feces on an array of foreigners (causing minor diplomatic incidents each time), and after the art-history classes and museum study-departments have been filled with practitioners of 'Excrementism', and even after the cool kids have taken to wearing designer t-shirt with fake shit-stains on them, I still have to admit--though I do so in a whisper--that: I don't get it.
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<link>http://theobstructionist.com/micro-fiction/the-crap-artist/</link>
<pubDate>Mon, 05 May 2008 14:28:54 GMT</pubDate>
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<title><![CDATA[“A Simple Agreement”]]></title>
<description>
<![CDATA[
He came to again for what seemed the 40th time in the last hour. It was amazing how little time actually passed between  episodes of consciousness, even though he was sure--each time--that he had been 'out' for a year. He sighed, but then--almost--smiled, happy that he had sighed. From the moment he realized that life would one day end (roughly around age six) the fear of the final hour had consumed his life, had effected his view of everything and, sadly, had left it's mark on every minute of his not-long-enough existence. But now, with near-death not a possibility, but a certainty his only concern was one of impatience. And as his heavy eyes opened once more in the hospital bed, returning from wherever it is the sick go when they drift off, his only question for god/fate/etc was 'why am I still here?' (a question shared by the hospital staff). He had asked this many times in the last week (which was/is to be his last), but only now did a voice answer, although much too young to be God.  "Any hour now. That's what they said at the nurses' station." a young man said. He was sitting in the dark hospital room on one of the guest chairs.  "Do I know you?" the dying man asked, with the few aching parts of his body that hadn't yet shut down, half-wondering if this was the person who comes to take you.  "No. And I don't know you. But I know you're going to die. Any hour--"  "Yes, any hour now." he said, cutting the young man off (who clearly was not employed by a higher power).  Between the two of them it was the young healthy one whose face was filled with fear. His voice shuddered as he went on, "Before you go I need to ask you...for a favor."  "A--", he wasn't sure if he had disappeared again.  "A promise. I need to know what happens."  "I...die. I go--"  "But where? What comes next? I need you to tell me. Wherever it is, I need you to find me." The young man recoiled a little, having finally gotten it out. The dying man, however, didn't need this.  "What do you want from me? Why are you asking me this? Why should I...." he was using too much breath and it was all he had left.  "I picked you because the nurse said 'any hour now', it could've been anybody. But it's not really a favor, I can give you something in return."  "You can't have anything I want."  "But I do. I have one thing that you don't: a future. I have time, lots of it, and I'll give it to you. I'll carry on your name. I'll fix your mistakes. I'll find the girls you knew in high school and get to know them, and their children. I'll look for all your forgotten passions and I'll take them up. Everything you left unfinished, I'll finish. I'll give you a decade more on this earth and all you need to do is contact me, once, during that time.", as he finished he leaned in closer to the bed.  "What do you want from me?", the dying man repeated, but now in earnest, not bothered.  "Just to tell me what it's like afterwards. Where you are. Is it beautiful? Horrible? Dark? Light? Anything. Come back, somehow, and tell me. That's all. Just one sentence even. Or one word: Good or Bad."  "But what if there's...nothing?", here the dying man gave a sad smile, happy that even this didn't scare him anymore. But the young man trembled.  "Then you won't come, and I'll know that that's it." he put his head down.  The other one's eyes had shut again, but he was still there. "Okay", he said softly. "Take my...", he pointed to the chart on the wall. He added, "Go to her and...", but realized he would never be able to explain it all during these last minutes, "You'll figure it out. Start with what's in there."  "I will!" he jumped out of the chair into the darkness, almost excited, "and--no matter what--you'll come to me, you'll explain--"  "Yes", the moments and dreams of his life, good and bad, that the young man had mentioned, started to project on to the walls and ceiling. It had all been tainted by regret lately; but with the hope that the boy wou
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<link>http://theobstructionist.com/micro-fiction/a-simple-agreement/</link>
<pubDate>Wed, 30 Apr 2008 19:56:07 GMT</pubDate>
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<title><![CDATA[“The Grind”]]></title>
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<![CDATA[
He didn't remember ever sweating so much in October. Or his glasses getting so foggy. The subway station's walls themselves seemed to be sweating, their lights getting foggy. His coat was like an oven, an oven that stuck to his back and his elbows. Damn it was hot. His natural inclination was to pace back and forth, shaking off the workday's thoughts, but this couldn't be done because, as usual, the station was packed with people in anticipation of a train packed with people. As he thought of how much time there was until he got home, he wondered why he hadn't killed someone yet. Why he went through this everyday and didn't wake up bitter in the morning.  It took a half hour until a train came which he could squeeze into (though three full ones had, as if joking, stopped before). He stuffed in, unknowingly getting himself wedged in the middle of a group of college girls who were annoyed by his presence, but not enough to stop their conversation which passed over and around his head. He wished that they only knew; and then he thought of her. There was still a lot of time to go, but a little less then when he last thought about it.  He switched trains in Union Square, the second one making the first seem pleasant. Now he was forced right into someone's face, unable to escape their eyes which had no qualms about staring at him for the length of the trip. At five different stops, people got on, but no one got off. Each time they said to him, "Excuse me!", bothered and expecting him to defy physics and create space where there couldn't be any.  There was a light rain when he got off in Brooklyn, too light to cool him down, but not too light to seep into his shoes.  And then there was the five blocks of construction, where brand new condos would soon fill Greenpoint's not so brand new streets. The construction company had put together a long indoor hallway where pedestrians could walk, had to walk, in order to cross the five block perimeter, but the size of this people-tunnel only allowed for a single-file line, which always added fifteen minutes onto his trip home.  Reaching his apartment-building, which didn't have an elevator, he ascended the ten flights of stairs to their apartment (he was once told it was the tallest building in Greenpoint). By the time he walked in the door, his feet were pulsating and red-hot.  She was already there, her face was tired but beautiful, exactly as beautiful as he remembered it from this morning (no, it wasn't a dream). He could see that she too had been on numerous adventures that day, the ID badge from wherever it was she worked still hanging from her shirt. They both sat down on the couch, not speaking, and as usual performed their unspoken, unplanned, but constant ritual of removing their socks and shoes together. Then she gave her day's first laugh because the look on his face when he peeled off his socks was almost orgasmic, he ignored her laughter, just smiled and wished he could take off socks all day.  Eventually one of them worked up the energy to turn the TV on for a night of reality shows and reality shows (it had long been understood between them that the remote belonged to her). But that was okay. He read his book which she occasionally, for fun, interrupted by knocking it out of his hand, once or twice throwing it across the room and laughing when he got up to get it. He laughed too. And then she would stretch out across the couch, filling it up from head to toe, forcing him to take a position underneath her feet, then underneath her legs, and then she was sitting in his lap, and then her head was resting on his lap. And when, much later in the night, she went to the bathroom, he repeated the trick, and then he was laying his head on her lap and dozing off and waking up when a 'character' said something loudly and then dozing off again. They would sleep on the couch tonight because why get up?
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<link>http://theobstructionist.com/micro-fiction/the-grind/</link>
<pubDate>Sun, 20 Apr 2008 17:00:50 GMT</pubDate>
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<title><![CDATA[“The Newsman”]]></title>
<description>
<![CDATA[
That John had the information was not strange. Most of us knew, knew that they were lying. It was that somebody else knew it. That's what makes reality reality. But I'm getting ahead of myself.  It was cold the night it started, John had had a tiring day at work (it was a city job, like yours or mine). Maybe it was the fourteen military checkpoints he had to pass to get from his office to the train, the last of which he almost got through unmolested until a fellow citizen blithely yelled "wait, wait, officer you didn't get him". Or perhaps it was the two bag checks he had to go through to get on the train. Or the vicious stares he got, once on the train, when he went to remove from that bag a....book. But, for whatever reason, he was a little bit angrier when he got home, a little less in the mood, even grinding his teeth in disgust when the news came on. As he lay in bed, watching as they told him of the threats, and of the diseases the threats carried, and of how quickly the diseases would kill you, and how when you died you went to hell, and how there were different rooms in hell, and how you might be visiting the worst.  "It's a fucking lie!" he said to the TV, quite angrily, but from the comfort of his bed, "there's nothing to be afraid of..." and with this in mind, he went to sleep. *** But at 10:45 PM est, Jane's TV went blank and she heard "It's a fucking lie. There's nothing to be afraid of".  And Mark, in the midst of a wire-tapped phone call, heard the line go dead and a voice say "It's a fucking lie. There's nothing to be afraid of."  Steve, listening to the radio as he usually did to be informed about tomorrow's horrors, heard the newsreader's voice replaced by another, much angrier one. "It's a fucking lie..."  And the next morning, John himself, heading to work as usual, passed by the newspaper stand, where several of the day's headlines asked him "Is it really a f**king lie?".  He didn't make the connection, thought it was a coincidence, that maybe the media had just embraced reason for the first time in nearly a decade. And, although quite happy by the seditious whisperings of co-workers and people on the street, had no idea that he was in any way involved. When, going home, he looked at the soldiers and police with his usual distrust and suspicion, only to realize that a few more people seemed to be sharing that distrust and suspicion. What had happened? he wondered that night lying alone again in his bed.  "Are people finally waking up? But is it too late?" he asked his ceiling. Turning over to go to sleep, he smiled and whispered softly "No, I don't think it's too late".  And Jane heard it. And Mark. And Steve. And 8 Million other city dwellers; the doubts that were their own and the hope that was John's.  And as he saw the paper the next morning he recognized his own words, knew the criminal that the government was calling "the voice" was himself. That he was--somewhat-- responsible for last night's arrests at the phone company, the jailing of the cable providers, and the 'interrogations' of radio operators and Internet hosts; and he was--certainly-- responsible for the anger that filled the streets and nervous stares of friends who discussed--with awe-- last night's 'broadcast'.  That night he said: "we really have to do something about these people". And the night after that it was "Why do they think we're stupid?". And when he was tired (the checkpoints between office and home had--since the messages--increased to thirty-two), or worn out, then it was just "Fuck Them!".  The words of 'The Newsman' soon became a reason for many to leave work early and run home. This made John's trip to his apartment all the more difficult, but he didn't care. As the soldiers patted people down and did voice recordings and emptied out bags looking for microphones, John could occasionally hear someone in the crowd whisper "It's a fucking lie." and he would smile, even as the police accosted him and
]]></description>
<link>http://theobstructionist.com/micro-fiction/the-newsman/</link>
<pubDate>Wed, 16 Apr 2008 15:00:36 GMT</pubDate>
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<title><![CDATA[“Obscura”]]></title>
<description>
<![CDATA[
"Memories fade away. Light never does."  --Ad for Obscura  The two men sat in the waiting room of the Obscura Inc. Space Station not really knowing what to expect. There had been much written--both bad and good--about the Obscura service, but what actually happened once you stepped into that room remained a mystery. Of the two men, one fairly young, the other quite old; Ralph, 79, was the most confused. His confusion was not at all helped by the presence of the young man to his left: What the hell is he doing here? What could he possibly need remembered? Ralph's own answer to that question was quite clear: His wife had died a decade ago, her mind went roughly three years before that and now that he felt his own mind going he wanted to relive their third date while it actually had some significance to him.  The reflection of everything that's ever happened on Earth exists somewhere. As Obscura told it clients: "It's simply a matter of finding it". The service was, to be honest, quite expensive. It also would cost more for Ralph then for the young man, Tom, because the reflected energy from Ralph's particular memory was traveling at light-speed  somewhere near Pluto (thus it would have to be bounced off four Obscura satellites), while Tom's memories, even if he chose to "see" his own birth, couldn't be much farther then Jupiter. Ironically, Tom was a multi-millionaire and could afford any memory of the last three centuries, while Ralph had sold everything he owned for today's twenty minute viewing session.  But in answer to Ralph's question: Why was the young man here. He wanted to relive the "greatest day of his life", a day long before he made his millions, a day who's significance is pointless to try to explain because it's beauty only meant something to Tom and won't mean anything to you and would be considered rather ordinary by most standards. However, there was a day not that long ago that Tom wanted to exist in forever (although Obscura doesn't offer that service).  Tom was remembering this day as best as he could hope to (without the help of satellites) when a Obscura Rep entered the waiting room. The Rep quickly scanned over Tom, but then turned to the tired old man.  "We're ready now, sir", he sad with a compassionate smile. What he meant was that the light from that day fifty years ago, had been locked in on, successfully "bounced", and would reach Earth's orbit and the station momentarily.  The old man removed his coat (really the only thing that still belonged to him) and followed the Rep into the Obscura chamber. Once he was in, the door was shut and the light went out. Ralph breathed heavily as a tiny hole in the ceiling opened up and from beneath the glass floor a prism came upwards.  It took a minute, but a small beam shot in through the hole and hit the floor, bouncing all over the walls. The room started to develop like an old Polaroid. What was a bright white light, quickly became the old lights of an old city.Blink. Blink. Blink. A car, ancient but pristine, whizzed by Ralph, almost hitting him, but the old man felt no fear. He was surrounded by a crowd, their clothes and the smiles on their faces were of another era. From in the middle of the crowd, a young woman appeared, recognizably prettier then anyone else. She smiled at Ralph and he smiled back...  But let us leave them. I simply wanted to tell you about Obscura. What happens inside that chamber is only for Ralph and really none of our business.
]]></description>
<link>http://theobstructionist.com/micro-fiction/obscura/</link>
<pubDate>Fri, 28 Mar 2008 20:39:57 GMT</pubDate>
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<title><![CDATA[If you see something… (Audio)]]></title>
<description>
<![CDATA[
Read the original here.
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<link>http://theobstructionist.com/micro-fiction/if-you-see-something-audio/</link>
<pubDate>Fri, 21 Mar 2008 22:59:05 GMT</pubDate>
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<title><![CDATA[The Last Two (Audio)]]></title>
<description>
<![CDATA[
Read the original here.
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<link>http://theobstructionist.com/micro-fiction/the-last-two-audio/</link>
<pubDate>Wed, 19 Mar 2008 21:27:44 GMT</pubDate>
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<title><![CDATA[Sam P, Obstructionist (Audio)]]></title>
<description>
<![CDATA[
Read the original here.  This is the fifth and final of my old stories, audio 'tests'. From now on the audio will embedded directly into the story and, of course, also available as a Podcast and via iTunes. Thanks to everyone for their comments/feedback and would appreciate any more you have. I'm surprised by how much I enjoyed making these and how excited I am to do more, take it forward. Thanks for listening!
]]></description>
<link>http://theobstructionist.com/micro-fiction/sam-p-obstructionist-audio/</link>
<pubDate>Mon, 10 Mar 2008 15:22:29 GMT</pubDate>
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<title><![CDATA[Top Floor (Audio)]]></title>
<description>
<![CDATA[
Read the original here. Also, in response to a couple people who asked, I'm updating my CC license to cover these, so do what you will with them. Mash away, I say!
]]></description>
<link>http://theobstructionist.com/micro-fiction/top-floor-audio/</link>
<pubDate>Sun, 09 Mar 2008 18:59:45 GMT</pubDate>
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