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About Deviant Premium Member Jake Ristic-PetrovicMale/Canada Groups :iconmilitaryaddicts: MilitaryAddicts
Military, war, ww2, soldiers
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Where'd everybody go? 

42%
5 deviants said Kidnapped by Russian cosmonauts, taken to quasar
33%
4 deviants said Directly behind you
17%
2 deviants said Away from your page, ya douchebag!
8%
1 deviant said To a place hidden between two ancient towers...the back alley.

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It's good to be a mechanic. There isn't much gas being refined anymore, except in a few places, so the only people who come through are either real rich or fucking crazy. The rich ones are good because you can get a lot from them. The crazy ones are good because they talk to one another, and pretty soon every cannibal for a hundred miles knows not to chop you up.

Sometimes there are problems. People think they can muscle you, y'know. They'll ask for a breaker bar or they'll demand that you come with them and maintain their convoy. But I'm always firm; they won't kill a mechanic, no matter how wacko they are. It's impossible to rebuild a transmission if you don't know what the fuck you're doing, I'll tell you that much. But if they get real uppity, start waving machetes around and the like, I'm pretty quick with a pistol.

Of course, having a shop you can't just up and move off every time the locusts pass through or chlorinated rain starts coming down. God only knows how many times I've had to patch holes in the walls and ceiling, and I'm still finding plague bugs hiding in my tool boxes. And there's no way to tell when the next load of gas is gonna come through, so sometimes I can't use the generator for anything but the arc welder.

Still, it's an easy life. You meet some pretty interesting characters. Like the other day, these four guys came through on horseback, told me I wouldn't have to do it much longer. Things are going to get worse, they said. I said things always get worse before they get better. One of them, a fella in a big black hoodie, he told me things weren't going to get any better.

Well, what do I care? For right now I got my shop. Life's good.
It's eleven in the morning and I'm having a beer. Why? I just finished my last day on the night shift until I switch to my first night on the day shift. Liquor store just opened and it's like fucking three o clock in the morning relative to the tattered remnants of my Circadian Rhythm.

So here's what's new: not a lot. I sleep really quite very indeed greatly a lot much, and write very little, and work when I'm neither writing nor sleeping. On weekends I drink. It's a far more eventful life than it sounds...I think. No, wait, it just feels eventful because time slips by at something a lot faster than ultrasonic. I trust this is when the years start running away from you and next thing you know you're a fat, balding old man who calls liquor store clerk kids faggots when the store doesn't supply them their beer. Seriously, that happened to me when I worked at a liquor store. I've said liquor store three times during this one journal. Four times now. Infinite times if solipsism is your thing and I keep counting up and thereby implying that I've said the word. It's clear what's on my mind.

I had a dream the other night that I think I should share with you folk, since anytime you read one of the stories I've posted here there's a good chance it was encountered in some form whilst I slept. But first a few details on my job, to provide a setting. I work in a warehouse--that is to say, an enormous building of concrete and steel full of boxes, barrels, bags, and workers from strange countries. My job is to take the boxes, barrels, bags, and someday I imagine even the workers from strange countries, and place them on wood pallets. I drive a motorized pallet jack, which tows three pallets behind it, and the skids I stack are sometimes six and a half feet tall--any taller and they have to be broken down to fit in the back of semi truck trailers. It's an interesting job, even though you may have had a hard time putting yourself through the description without being put to sleep. It's also stressful, if not dauntingly frantic: a computer keeps track of your time, and you have to be surprisingly quick to match its expectancy of your efficiency. Picking 150 cases--that's boxes ranging from a one-pound thing of coffee to a sixty-pound box of potatoes, and believe me the fifty to sixty pounders are by far the most common cases--an hour is considered slow to moderate, for perspective.

Anyway, here's the dream, which I thought was pretty neat as well as nerve racking. Or is it wracking? Christ, I need to read more.

Having applied for and been accepted into the job, I was shipped with my fellow workers (Serbs, Croats, Slovaks, Czechs, a Hungarian, a Liberian, a few Mexicans, and four other Canadians makes up the motley crew with whom I work) to a small town in a frigid pass deep in an enormous rocky mountain range. I lived with three others in a basement suite, and for the first while we talked and drank and had a good time. Then came work.

It'll sound funny here. It scared the shit out of me.

Our job was to drive our pallet jacks, with three empty skids on the back, up the iciest, most dangerous part of a snow-capped mountain several miles above the town. Why were the skids empty? Well just having so much structure to a dream already is more than enough, isn't it? Anyway, we all got together and started driving up the ice, slipping and sliding the whole way, but still making progress. Near the end my jack slid too much, and started to roll, and I was flung from it as it came completely apart. Next thing I know, I'm dangling from the edge of a cliff, clinging to a shattered pallet that's become lodged there. I spent the next several eternities trying clamber up the broken wood. I would succeed, slip, and then end up hanging over the cliff again. Eventually I made it, oddly enough, and I walked home by myself, knowing full well that I'd have to do the same thing again tomorrow.

Then I woke up.

I have plans to work this into a story...uh, somehow.

Anybody else have any weird work dreams? Weird stories about work?
Where'd everybody go?
42%
5 deviants said Kidnapped by Russian cosmonauts, taken to quasar
33%
4 deviants said Directly behind you
17%
2 deviants said Away from your page, ya douchebag!
8%
1 deviant said To a place hidden between two ancient towers...the back alley.
You may find her in the ancient forests, her home built into the face of a redwood, though sometimes she resides in a net over the edge of a waterfall. She is a young and beautiful woman, and in the moonlight she dances naked among swirling clouds of multicolored sand.

One short incantation whispered into your ear will change your life. She has created and destroyed empires. She has granted eternal life and she has reduced some into horrid aberrations. It is impossible to tell whether you will be among the blessed or the victims until far too late.

If you go to her, beware one more truth. The Shaman is not easily fooled, and if she learns of any deception on your part she will never forgive. You will be hunted to the ends of the earth by those she has helped. Some have eluded her agents for years. None have met a peaceful death.

And remember, you must love the Shaman as you love God. As you love your mother. As you love your wife. Anything less and you are a slave. Go now, and good luck.
The Shaman
If I ever write the story that features this woman from my dreams, this is all I'm putting on the back of the book.
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When the fourth Christmas in a row came and went with no presents present beneath our tree, my dad drove me to the North Pole. We made the trip in his green Pontiac station wagon, trekking first by normal highway to the Yukon and then through the ancient path of Candycane Lane. My dad knew the ritual that took Candycane Lane from the place between places to our own existential plane, you see, and with one long Norse recitation and a dead goat he opened the way to Santa’s palace.

I’m not sure why dad took me across those eternal barren wastes. I’m certain he could have just contented himself with telling me there was no Santa and buying his kid the presents on his own dime, like most parents. He said it was a matter of principle. Mom said he was cheap. I think it was some combination thereof.

The palace emerged from ice fog after exactly half of our gas had been expended—no one could be stranded in the place between places. It was a Gothic masterpiece, polished black stone giving off an opalescent glow. At the towering doors, eight reindeer stood their endless vigil, each twenty feet tall, eyes black and antlers pocked and fossilized. A single elf waited to greet us, standing at-ease between the feet of vicious, blood-nosed Rudolph.

“What is your business here, mortals?” He barked to my father.

“I demand an audience.” My dad shot back.

“Turn back now, plead and scuffle with lesser kings.”

“Just open the gate, before I drive through it.”

The elf gave a wry smile to this boldness, and did as he was told. The doors swung in and we drove through, down a long grand hall lined with great pillars, each carved with different poems from the Prose Edda.

We stopped at a staircase at the end, and dad led the way up. I was cold, hungry, tired, and a little sick. I thought he was nuts for taking us on this journey. And then I saw Santa’s workshop.

It was vast—we stepped across a stone bridge over a pit a mile deep and five hundred yards wide, and lining the hole were thousands of little alcoves where elves did their work. In each spot I saw them manufacturing iPhones out of little more than plastic and bits of wire, transmuting wood into precious metals for jewelry, imbuing stuffed animals with magic so they would warm the hearts of their recipients on dire nights.

There, presiding above it all, Santa Claus. He scared the hell out of me.

Santa is not a fat, jolly old man. He is more like a golem, a monstrosity sitting on his throne with a beard that ran down between his knobbly knees and onto the cold slabs of the floor. His eyes were sunken and gray. His hands were gigantic and worn. He did not speak.

“Why have you forsaken me?” My dad roared, and the workshop went silent. “Four years now, four years and my son hasn’t even been given a lousy wood train.”

Santa Claus shifted in his throne, leaned forward. “Ye pretend to forget. I knoweth the truth.”

“What truth? Damn you, you owe it to see my boy has a happy Christmas! Before he’s too old, before the season loses its magic.”

“I owe him nothing.” Santa shot to his feet. “Peter! Peter! Tell this foolish man why his Christmas no longer hath joy.”

From behind Santa’s throne a form emerged. It was black and alien, much taller than Santa—nearly as tall as the reindeer. The air itself recoiled from this being as it moved, and rays of light seemed bold to grace its ashen skin. It spoke in a hissing, hoarse voice.

“Samson Ogdenson. Ye hath been very naughty. Ye hath stolen, adulterated, fought, drank more than your share, and selfishly hoarded your wealth. Ye are not fit to stand before our king or even my own grotesque countenance.”

“The sins of the father are not those of the son.” I’d seen my dad fight people in power before—restaurant managers, tow truck drivers, even a town councilman—but here I was in awe. He took a step toward Black Peter and fought. “My boy is kindhearted and intelligent. He studies hard, he takes care of his sister. He has had his heart broken by this meaningless act of vengeance against me four times now.

“This is not the act of a kind God of Gifts. It is the work of a petty demigod who forgets his origins and his place in the world. If you want to punish me, it’s up to Black Peter to drop some anthracite in my stocking and up to you to decide what kind of person my boy is.”

“Insolent fool—”

And then my dad did something I really couldn’t believe, even after all this. He jumped forth, reached into the bag that hung from Black Peter’s belt, pulled a lump of coal from it, and whipped it at Santa. My dad threw a rock at Santa Claus.

Santa teetered, eyes bulging, clutching the side of his skull as it started to bleed and making an expression like his world had just fell out from under him. He stared at my father, and then at the thousands of shocked elves gawking back. Even Black Peter showed surprise and fear.

“I want justice.” My father said, his voice low. “And you are no longer fit to dispatch it.”

He turned, took my hand, and led me across the bridge and back to the Pontiac. We pulled out of there, back down Candycane Lane, out of the place between places. Dad looked like he’d aged ten years. Once home I settled in for a long sleep with confusing dreams, no longer disappointed with our Christmas.

That morning, the twenty-seventh, I wandered downstairs before mom or dad woke up to get myself a glass of juice. I found littering the kitchen large black footprints, with greasy fingerprints in a few places. There, sitting under the tree by the living room window, was a pile of beautifully-wrapped gifts. And over the fireplace was dad’s stocking, stuffed to overfilling with lumps of coal.
Black Peter (Christmas Special!)
I really like writing these holiday specials. Happy Holidays, folks, I hope you enjoyed.
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It's eleven in the morning and I'm having a beer. Why? I just finished my last day on the night shift until I switch to my first night on the day shift. Liquor store just opened and it's like fucking three o clock in the morning relative to the tattered remnants of my Circadian Rhythm.

So here's what's new: not a lot. I sleep really quite very indeed greatly a lot much, and write very little, and work when I'm neither writing nor sleeping. On weekends I drink. It's a far more eventful life than it sounds...I think. No, wait, it just feels eventful because time slips by at something a lot faster than ultrasonic. I trust this is when the years start running away from you and next thing you know you're a fat, balding old man who calls liquor store clerk kids faggots when the store doesn't supply them their beer. Seriously, that happened to me when I worked at a liquor store. I've said liquor store three times during this one journal. Four times now. Infinite times if solipsism is your thing and I keep counting up and thereby implying that I've said the word. It's clear what's on my mind.

I had a dream the other night that I think I should share with you folk, since anytime you read one of the stories I've posted here there's a good chance it was encountered in some form whilst I slept. But first a few details on my job, to provide a setting. I work in a warehouse--that is to say, an enormous building of concrete and steel full of boxes, barrels, bags, and workers from strange countries. My job is to take the boxes, barrels, bags, and someday I imagine even the workers from strange countries, and place them on wood pallets. I drive a motorized pallet jack, which tows three pallets behind it, and the skids I stack are sometimes six and a half feet tall--any taller and they have to be broken down to fit in the back of semi truck trailers. It's an interesting job, even though you may have had a hard time putting yourself through the description without being put to sleep. It's also stressful, if not dauntingly frantic: a computer keeps track of your time, and you have to be surprisingly quick to match its expectancy of your efficiency. Picking 150 cases--that's boxes ranging from a one-pound thing of coffee to a sixty-pound box of potatoes, and believe me the fifty to sixty pounders are by far the most common cases--an hour is considered slow to moderate, for perspective.

Anyway, here's the dream, which I thought was pretty neat as well as nerve racking. Or is it wracking? Christ, I need to read more.

Having applied for and been accepted into the job, I was shipped with my fellow workers (Serbs, Croats, Slovaks, Czechs, a Hungarian, a Liberian, a few Mexicans, and four other Canadians makes up the motley crew with whom I work) to a small town in a frigid pass deep in an enormous rocky mountain range. I lived with three others in a basement suite, and for the first while we talked and drank and had a good time. Then came work.

It'll sound funny here. It scared the shit out of me.

Our job was to drive our pallet jacks, with three empty skids on the back, up the iciest, most dangerous part of a snow-capped mountain several miles above the town. Why were the skids empty? Well just having so much structure to a dream already is more than enough, isn't it? Anyway, we all got together and started driving up the ice, slipping and sliding the whole way, but still making progress. Near the end my jack slid too much, and started to roll, and I was flung from it as it came completely apart. Next thing I know, I'm dangling from the edge of a cliff, clinging to a shattered pallet that's become lodged there. I spent the next several eternities trying clamber up the broken wood. I would succeed, slip, and then end up hanging over the cliff again. Eventually I made it, oddly enough, and I walked home by myself, knowing full well that I'd have to do the same thing again tomorrow.

Then I woke up.

I have plans to work this into a story...uh, somehow.

Anybody else have any weird work dreams? Weird stories about work?

deviantID

SgtPossum
Jake Ristic-Petrovic
Canada
A drunk Albertan, I'm a writer. I write stuff, and shit, and other things. Feedback is always appreciated, positive or negative.

I've got a tumblr. SgtPossum.tumblr.com
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:iconarianod:
Arianod Featured By Owner Nov 1, 2014  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
:) :iconthnxplz: :meow:
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:iconhomunculus888:
homunculus888 Featured By Owner Sep 25, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
Dood.
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:iconsgtpossum:
SgtPossum Featured By Owner Oct 3, 2014
Dood broods over oodles of food.
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:iconhomunculus888:
homunculus888 Featured By Owner Oct 3, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
You've been working on that all week, haven't you?
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:iconsgtpossum:
SgtPossum Featured By Owner Oct 4, 2014
...Mayhaps.
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:iconmyriadwhitedarkness:
myriadwhitedarkness Featured By Owner Jul 4, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Thanks for the fave! :)
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:iconedges-to-everything:
Edges-to-Everything Featured By Owner Jun 9, 2014
Happy Birthday, Jake! :nod:
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:iconsgtpossum:
SgtPossum Featured By Owner Jun 9, 2014
Thanks!
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:iconhadrianr:
HadrianR Featured By Owner Jun 9, 2014
Happy Birthday ! :D
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:iconsgtpossum:
SgtPossum Featured By Owner Jun 9, 2014
Thank you!
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