James Joseph Fuller Jr.

2009-10-01T12:43:00.001-07:00

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Top 20 Games of All Time

2009-10-01T12:07:00.000-07:00

Originally published on Gamepro

20. Halo (XBOX)
19. Metroid Prime (GC)
18. Tetris (GB)
17. Super Mario Kart (SNES)
16. Doom (PC)
15. Final Fantasy VII (PS1)
14. Half-Life (PC)
13. Mike Tyson's Punch Out! (NES)
12. Sonic the Hedgehog 2 (GEN)
11. Resident Evil 4 (GC)
10. Goldeneye (N64)
9. Super Metroid (SNES)
8. The Legend of Zelda: A Link to the Past (SNES)
7. Super Smash Bros. Brawl (GC)
6. Super Mario Bros. 3 (NES)

5. The Neverhood (PC) -- This little-known claymation spin on the point-and-click adventure genre is bursting at the seams with witty humor and mind-bending puzzles. Artist Doug TenNapel, best known for his work on Earthworm Jim, brings the quirky story of Klayman to life as you uncover clues from your past in order to save your home from the evil usurper Klogg. Although The Neverhood spawned the platformer sequel Skullmonkeys on the Playstation, the original PC adventure is the better of the two. If you happen upon a copy of this rare game, be sure to pick it up!

4. Pokemon Red/Blue/Yellow (GB) -- Also known as "kiddie-crack," the original Gameboy games sparked the international pocket monster phenomenon that continues to line Nintendo's pockets to this day –-and for good reason. This turn-based RPG follows the player's rise to fame as he collects, trains, and battles his pokemon. Featuring charming graphics, catchy tunes, addicting gameplay and a classic multiplayer mode, Pokemon deserves a spot on any "Best of" list.

3. Super Mario 64 (N64) -- The game that proved analog control, this 3D romp collecting stars in the Mushroom Kingdom is an impressive showcase of Nintendo innovation and Shigeru Miyamoto's imagination. When Super Mario 64 launched alongside the Nintendo 64, it laid the foundations for what a successful reimagining of a franchise could be and set the gold standard for 3D platformers. While the once impressive graphics are certainly showing their age, the core gameplay remains as whimsical and satisfying as ever.

2. The Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time (N64) -- Where Super Mario 64 innovated, the Ocarina of Time refined. This epic installment of the Legend of Zelda franchise conjured breathtaking visuals, sprawling worlds, memorable music, a time traveling plotline, and solid action adventure gameplay. What's more, the game introduced a dynamic day and night system that changed as you played as well as a lock-on targeting system that continues to be used in the series. Earning perfect scores almost across the board, Ocarina of Time is considered by many to be the greatest game of all time.

1. Super Mario Bros. (NES) -- The game that revitalized the industry after it nearly crashed and introduced Nintendo's mustachioed mascot to living rooms across the globe is not the greatest game of all time because of its storied history, but it's also still such a blast to play! Thanks to clever level design and tight play control, it doesn't matter if you're a kid discovering Mario for the first time or a pro making a speed run; there's nothing more gratifying than stomping goombas and throwing Bowser's butt into that final lava pit!

Written by Jay Fuller

Understanding Evolution

2009-10-01T10:45:00.000-07:00

originally published on Bukisa.com

“If we evolved from apes, then why are there still apes?”

Creationists and laymen often levy this popular rhetorical question as an argument against the theory of evolution. They reason that the continued existence of apes alongside human beings undermines the fact of natural selection. Wouldn’t the survival of the fittest root out one or the other? The problem with the question is that it is based on the common misconception that evolution is a linear progression. Species do not just change into the next in orderly succession. Evolution is a long and messy process with many opportunities for survival, death, and niche specialization. In the case of modern apes and Homo sapiens, we are equally the successful offspring of a common apelike ancestor.

Evolution’s detractors are not the only people responsible for spreading misinformation. Some popularizers of science have inadvertently contributed to the confusion by using species comparison charts that suggest straightforward sequences of evolution. The most famous image, the ascent of man, has become a favorite reference for comic artists and satirists.

It’s a terrific image, enlightening in its own way, but it is not the way evolution works. Natural selection does not create a clean, linear progression from simple to complex like the image suggests, but rather it travels a bumpy road with many branching paths full of false starts and dead ends. It was the father of evolution, Charles Darwin, who first identified the most fitting metaphor for speciation as the tree of life:

I believe this simile largely speaks the truth. The green and budding twigs may represent existing species; and those produced during former years may represent the long succession of extinct species. At each period of growth all the growing twigs have tried to branch out on all sides, and to overtop and kill the surrounding twigs and branches, in the same manner as species and groups of species have at all times overmastered other species in the great battle for life. [On the Origin of Species]

In other words, imagine you are standing over a tree and looking down so that the foliage forms a nice green circle. Those leaves and buds along the outer edge represent the species that have survived the test of natural selection. As you trace the branches backward in time, you will notice dead buds, extinct lines, and the convergence of surviving branches into one common ancestor, the trunk. One of Darwin’s earliest evolutionary sketches is this very tree of life, which he jotted down in a notebook in 1837, only a year after he returned from his voyage aboard the HMS Beagle. Thanks to modern advances in paleontology, geology, and especially genetics, biologists have constructed the most comprehensive tree of life in history.

Darwin’s early sketch of the tree of life versus a modern sketch of the tree of life

Amazingly, the mark of our individual ancestry is etched in each unique strand of DNA and extends unbroken like a delicate branch all the way back to a single form. It took the brute force of speciation by natural selection, a process of violent struggle, variation, death, and blind luck, to accumulate the small differences over long expanses of time that make up the diversity we see in the biosphere. So the next time you are confronted with the question, “If we evolved from apes, then why are there still apes?” remember that every animal living today is an evolutionary success story. After all, 99.9 percent of species that ever lived have gone extinct and, so far, we’ve all beaten the odds together. Isn’t that a pleasant thought?

Written by Jay Fuller

Oral Storytelling and the Power of Words

2009-09-18T15:09:00.000-07:00

Written by Jay Fuller

Alfred Hitchcock created a unique film language that deeply resonates with modern audiences and filmmakers. His influence is evident in the countless remakes, tributes, and dedications that continue to flood the theater every year. On the one hand, it seems Hitchcock tapped into themes so universal and created film devices so fundamental that it is impossible for any director to create a work of art without stepping on his toes. On the other hand, there are specific elements in his films that are unmistakably Hitchcockian: the central blonde beauty, the male gaze, the crisscross murder plot, and the double identity, to name a few (Sloan and Kapsis). Alfred Hitchcock’s Vertigo is a beautiful exploration of these various themes. In fact, the film represents such a culmination of Hitchcockian ideas that it is difficult to reference his work without also referencing Vertigo. Enter Pedro Almodóvar’s Bad Education (La Mala Educación,) a film that is unabashedly Hitchcockian in its construction. In many respects, this film is a retelling of Vertigo from a homosexual perspective. However, Bad Education is not so much a queer twist on Vertigo as it is a stand-alone film that borrows heavily from Hitchcockian themes and devices.

The similarities between Bad Education and Vertigo are sometimes striking. Both films open with credit sequences complete with frantic strings and stylized graphics. The score from Bad Education sounds inspired by Bernard Hermann, a composer who collaborated with Hitchcock on Vertigo. The stylized ripping graphics that characterize Bad Education’s opening also evoke the kind of movement and imagery Saul Bellow provided for Vertigo.

The two films are also similar in their exploration of double identities. Juan’s impersonation of his brother Ignacio is akin to Judy’s impersonation of Madeleine. Both characters actively deceive the protagonists about their true identities. Juan and Judy are also linked through their presentations as sexually desirable figures. Judy (as Madeleine) is the stereotypical Hitchcock blonde, highly glamorous and laced with sex appeal. Likewise, Juan’s portrayal of the blonde transsexual Zahara seems to be a direct reference to Judy. The male gaze of Scottie’s watchful eye as he trails Judy and Hitchcock’s sustained and examining close-ups are similarly reproduced in Bad Education. Enrique’s curious stare toward Juan as he undresses by the pool and Almodóvar’s sustained shots, such as Juan’s slow-motion dive into the pool or the shot of Juan doing push-ups, recall the Hitchcockian male gaze. Only now, instead of the male gaze being directed toward a female, it is directed toward another male. Finally, it is probably not a stretch to suggest that Juan and Judy are also linked by their similar four-letter names.

Theory of Intelligent Design Triumphs

2009-09-18T14:52:00.000-07:00

Written by Jay Fuller

BIZARROLAND, Indiana – For centuries, scientists have pondered the strange incongruity between the animal and human kingdoms, but a new theory of Intelligent Design seems to be filling the gaps in the understanding of our origins.

“Isn’t it strange,” remarked Dr. Charlie Durp at a recent scientific symposium, “that animals and other creepy crawlies share a system of evolving genetics, whilst we humans are composed entirely of life-clay?” The scholarly audience sat in quiet agreement as Dr. Durp continued to list several well-known biological mysteries.

Why is it that we humans have detectable levels of soul-stuff (measured in soul units) but animals do not? Why do creepy crawlies defecate, but we do not? Why do animals rely on the pleasure principle to fornicate, but humans simply agree with a member of the opposite sex to form a new life-clay child? These questions and others have plagued the scientific community for centuries.

But today, Dr. Durp has proposed an explanation for the incongruity between the animal and human kingdoms. “The idea is simple, “ he explains. “God did it.” The theory supposes a designer is responsible for the traits that are unique and untraceable in humanity. The scientific symposium applauded the proposal. However, Dr. Durp added, “I must admit, this theory doesn’t explain much.”

Dr. Durp suggests the theory of Intelligent Design is only a stepping-stone. The next step is discovering the designer and researching his or her attributes so scientists can make accurate predictions about the future. One clue may be the infamous Speaking Stone located in the heart of Jerusalem. When visitors of any linguistic background come in contact with the stone, the message, “FSM IS LORD” is transmitted into their minds. Could this be the breakthrough Intelligent Design theorists are looking for? Only time will tell.

The Importance of Not Being Earnest

2009-09-18T14:45:00.000-07:00

Written by Jay Fuller

Attempting to explore the profundity of an absurdist work can lead to intellectual pitfalls. In fact, there seems to be a contradiction in the very notion of taking comedy seriously. Disregarding the idea that analyzing comedy may be inappropriate, the act itself often diminishes or destroys the humor the work is meant to evoke. Nevertheless, there is value in turning a critical eye upon comedic literature. While that eye may discover a work to be little more than light fluff, it might also discover deeper machinations. Oscar Wilde’s The Importance of Being Earnest seems to have at least a little depth; there is something going on beneath the surface. If the play were simply comic, then any social commentary contained therein likely would be inconsistent. In other words, a play dedicated to silliness would probably refuse a consistent message all for the sake of a joke. However, there are threads of social commentary within The Importance of Being Earnest that weave a consistent worldview about social values and particularly marriage. The consistency of Wilde’s commentary suggests his play is not simply comic.

Set in 1895, The Importance of Being Earnest satirizes the values of Wilde’s contemporary Victorian society (1698). Toward the end of the play, Lady Bracknell admits, “We live, I regret to say, in an age of surfaces” (1734). “Surfaces” implies both superficial qualities as well as potentially deceiving facades. Wilde therefore suggests that Victorian society values superficialities and in turn supports a system of false identities and shallow personalities. Gwendolen and Cecily’s absurd desire to marry a man named Ernest simply because his name is Ernest underscores Wilde’s message of societal shallowness (1706, 1724). The theme is continued when Lady Bracknell defends the eligibility of Algernon, saying, “He has nothing, but he looks everything” (1735). Here again, Wilde suggests a society obsessed with superficiality and concerned more with appearance than actuality. On page 1725, Cecily states quite explicitly, “I am very fond of being looked at.” Her vanity, the pleasure “of being looked at,” reinforces the societal importance of appearance.

Articles

2009-09-18T14:16:00.001-07:00

Understanding Evolution

"If we evolved from apes, then why are there still apes?" Article addresses this popular question and seeks to clarify common misconceptions about the theory of evolution and mankind's place in the tree of life.

[read entire article]

Oral Storytelling and the Power of Words

A critical essay on Zora Neale Hurston’s Their Eyes Were Watching God that suggests folk tradition may be just as dangerous as it is beautiful.

[read excerpt]

Almodóvar Meets Hitchcock

Essay explores the similarities and differences between Pedro Almodóvar's Bad Education and Alfred Hitchcock's Vertigo.

[read excerpt]

Theory of ID Triumphs

A satire in the style of the Onion that pokes fun at an alternate reality where the theory of Intelligent Design actually makes sense of the universe.

[read the story]

The Importance of Not Being Earnest

A literary dissection of Oscar Wilde's seminal work, The Importance of Being Earnest, which explores the serious threads of social commentary in an otherwise comic play.

[read excerpt]

Top 20 Games of All Time

Countdown the top 20 games of all time and see which game makes it to number one.

[read entire article]

2009-07-27T14:50:00.001-07:00

          Writing



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2009-06-15T15:10:00.000-07:00

Zoë

She burst onto the scene, heavy
With jazz dripping off her promenade,
All a-swish with gin and smoke,
And those hoop bracelets swinging,
Pulling in boys hot to trot,
Slicked back geeks hoping for a peek
Behind her white framed shades,
And a flash and a thrill up their legs
To take home.
One, two, three, four,
Each step sang a far out note,
So that even stiffs dropped their politics,
Skirts and fags drew a jealous breath,
And no one dared look away
While she cut a line through the crowd,
Crossed that red rope barrier,
And left us,
A melody fading in the air.

Copyright (c) 2008 Jay Fuller

2009-06-15T13:54:00.000-07:00

SHADOWS -- Private Paranormal Investigator

pages 4-6

2009-06-14T19:05:00.000-07:00

The Wedding Ring

pages 2-4

2009-03-23T17:32:00.001-07:00

          Writing



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About Me

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2008-11-07T11:09:00.000-08:00

Shadows Episode 38: Salesman

Credited Writer

2008-11-07T11:00:00.002-08:00

Shadows Episode 41: Private Paranormal Investigator

Credited Writer

2008-11-06T13:48:00.000-08:00

Shadows

Episode 43: The Grundel

              Episode 40: Private
          Paranormal Investigator



           click for more episodes

Episode 38: Salesman

2008-11-04T23:01:00.000-08:00

Shadows Episode 43: The Grundel

Credited Writer and Director

2008-09-28T22:24:00.000-07:00

                                                                                 1. Sophia, my first dog
                                                                 2. Self-portrait
                                                                 3. The Narragansett Towers

<< Back

2008-09-28T10:01:00.000-07:00

Marriage, paint, pen and color pencil

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2008-09-28T10:00:00.000-07:00

The Knot, charcoal

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2008-09-28T09:59:00.001-07:00

Bathtub Plug, pastel

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2008-09-28T09:57:00.000-07:00

Sophia by the Window, etching and ink

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2008-09-28T09:55:00.000-07:00

Mother, pencil

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2008-09-28T09:52:00.000-07:00

Hands, pencil

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2008-09-28T09:50:00.000-07:00

Figure Thinking, charcoal and paint

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2008-09-27T23:22:00.000-07:00

Narragansett Towers, ink stamp

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2008-09-27T23:20:00.000-07:00

Skeleton, chalk

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2008-09-27T23:15:00.001-07:00

Self-Portrait, color pencil

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2008-09-27T23:10:00.000-07:00

Man of a Thousand Voices, paint and color pencil

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2008-09-27T23:09:00.001-07:00

Conch, charcoal, pencil, pen and ink, ripped paper and chalk

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2008-09-27T23:06:00.000-07:00

Fish, photograph and color pencil

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2008-09-25T23:32:00.001-07:00

Hodgepodge, pen and ink

Can you find the hidden images? Click here to have them revealed.

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2008-09-25T23:30:00.000-07:00

Still Life, charcoal

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2008-09-25T23:06:00.000-07:00

Gallery

Screenplays

2008-09-23T18:09:00.000-07:00

That Darn Tumor!

Jon Alfie tries to land a job and a hot date, but his loud mouthed, foul, parasitic twin brother Ben --a tumor-like protrusion from Jon's neck --messes everything up.

[read excerpt]

The Wedding Ring

A woman loses her wedding ring down the sink and hires a portly plumber to retrieve it. Sometimes, letting a stranger in your home can be dangerous.

[read excerpt]

SHADOWS -- Private Paranormal Investigator

Detective Nielson, a paranormal investigator, is pulled into a twisted case in search of a missing girl and a spook that's haunting a suspicious couple.

[read excerpt]

Coming Soon

Coming soon

[Coming Soon]

2008-09-23T17:45:00.000-07:00

That Darn Tumor!

pages 11-13

2008-09-17T21:55:00.000-07:00

A Simple Gift

  Name’s Bill. I suspect you’ve never heard of me. That’s all right. In fact, I think I like it that way. But while you’re here, I wonder if an old man could persuade you to take a seat and listen to a story. Now, I know I can spin a good, long yarn, but don’t worry. It’ll be short. See, this story’s about a spaceman.
  Now hold on, wait! Look, mister, you don’t have to believe a word that dribbles out of my mouth, but this story’s been all bottled up inside so long that I think I could right well burst! So please, for an old man’s sake . . .
  I thank you. I surely do.
  As I was saying, a spaceman visited me. That’s right. Oh, but it wasn’t like all that junk you see in the picture shows. No, he was more angelic like. Really, beautiful. He came to me while I was workin’ in the fields --or rather, I came to him, I suppose. I remember the sun was low in the sky when I heard this noise, like a whrrrr. It seemed to be all around me and I felt all tingly like. It was at about that time I got the feeling I was bein’ watched and I turned to my right, towards the woods. I don’t know what made me do it, but I dropped my tools an’ things and went straight into those woods. Strangest thing, like I was being pulled there. Course, I reckon it was him now, but you can bet all sorts of crazy notions were racing through my head.
  I entered on those woods with a mixture of fear and trepidation. I remember, there was this soft glow: blue and green. I pressed on an’ before I knew it, boom! There he was. First I thought he was the strangest feller I’d ever seen, but as I watched him I realized he weren’t no feller at all! His arms and legs were thin and long. He had this pale skin all over. And his eyes: big, black, watery. I got to remembering stories of otherworldly creatures and pegged him as such, so I stole away in some nearby brush and kept watchin’. He had sat himself on a rock near a tricklin’ creek and made these strange noises. A crowd of chipmunks an’ squirrels an’ rodents of a larger kind had befriended him and waited in line to be patted on the head. I sort of got the impulse to run up there an’ do the same. He seemed real friendly like. And as if sensing my thoughts, he called out my name in plain English. Scout’s honor!
  Well, as you can imagine, I ‘bout near dropped a load right there. But upon his second calling the fear sort ‘a melted away and I came out of my hiding. “Sit,” he said, and motioned with his hand. I wasn’t about to disappoint, so I hobbled on over and sat myself right next to him on the soggy ground. His attention seemed to switch back to his varmint friends and I sat there patient. After a time, he turned to me and I could see myself in the reflection of his watery eyes. He said, “a gift,” and pulled out a tiny blue cube with a red dot. I gladly took it from him and had just started mulling over it, trying to figure it out, when he opened his mouth and started singing. Oh, he sang a song like none you’ve ever heard, brother, sweeter than the whines of Jones or Coe. It was the greatest sound that had ever and will ever, I suspect, fall upon my unworthy ears. And as his celestial tune unraveled, I felt a strange peacefulness flow throughout my body. You’ll laugh, but I tell you I felt one with the entire universe!
  As that alien, my friend, finished his ballad, my eyes became heavy and I fell asleep. I may have been dreamin’, but I’d swear on my grandma’s grave I saw him climb into his ship and rocket off in an explosion of light and starry splendor. I awoke the next day in the middle of those damp woods, leaves in my hair. But I felt happy. Strangely, it was not ‘till I reached home that I checked my pocket and found that little blue cube with the red dot. As I fiddled with it, I discovered that the dot was in fact a button, so I pressed it and the same beautiful music streamed out. I cried and it was wonderful.
  Well now, I thank you deeply for hearin’ out my story. Pass it on if you’d like. Oh, and for helpin’ an old man unload, I’d like to give you a gift. No, take it, I want you to have it. I want you to live like you never have before.

2008-09-16T12:17:00.000-07:00

Modern Poetry

What's worse than a modern
poem, free-form and lacking
rhyme?
A poem about bad poetry.
Now, that is a waste of
Space.

Copyright (c) 2008 Jay Fuller

2008-09-16T12:09:00.000-07:00

The Last Easy Summer

  A brief, summer storm had carried loose sand down a steep road and left it to dry and bake in a pothole. Saul ran his finger through the sand, flicking cat droppings as his older brother reclined on their lawn’s still-cool grass. An easy, eastern breeze tickled the children’s hair. Ethan squinted an eye and spoke from the side of his mouth.
   “I’ll jump it. I don’t care.”
  Saul stared at the sand and drew lines into a curse word.
   “Yeah, and what if the Perv gets ya?” He dashed the word with a swipe.
   “More exciting than this.” Ethan switched his squinting eye and sat up.
   “ ’Sides, I can outrun that fat bastard easy.”
  He sprang up on his thin legs and his knees cracked. He stretched and brushed himself off. There was ritual in his movements and a thinly veiled pretense that suggested the stunt he was about to perform was no big thing, no skin off his back. All the while, he was gunning for real respect when he returned. Saul played right into his hands.
   “Mom’ll kill ya if she sees ya.”
  Ethan pretended not to hear. He crossed the road and looped his fingers through the chain link fence that guarded their neighbor’s home. He brought his foot up and attempted to hop the fence in one swift motion, but his weight bent the rusted metal into a twisted hook and he fell. He tried the move again and dropped inelegantly into the overgrowth on the other side.
  A thistle had cut his shoulder. He wiped away a thin line of blood and moved through the thicket with big steps. June bugs buzzed and skittered underneath, upset by the unusual disturbance. Ethan lurched forward and spotted his prize. He grabbed his brother’s tattered soccer ball and paused to savor the new perspective.
  The neighborhood houses faced each other on either side of the road and sat along the hill in a straight line, uncomfortably close. They mirrored one another, built in the same raised ranch design with open bay windows. The storms that rolled in from the ocean had long since subdued the vibrancy of their paint until every home was a shade of gray. They looked to Ethan like the segments of an enormous worm, dried out by the sun.
   “Come on!” Saul somehow whispered from across the road. Ethan bit his lower lip and studied the Pervert’s home. Paint chips dangled from the wooden frame of the house. Fallen shingles littered the ground and punctured screen windows flapped in the wind. Somewhere within lurked the ghost of Ethan’s nightmares: Mr. Monroe the Molester, the Pervert, the pedophile, no doubt diddling a kid this very instant, he thought. He noticed a concrete birdbath on the open porch and a slimy idea crawled into his head.
   “What are you doing? Come on!” Saul squirmed. Something moved in the upstairs window.
  Ethan dashed for the porch. He tipped the birdbath over and ran for the fence before he could see the concrete sculpture chip into pieces on the ground. With one hand, he seized the soccer ball and slingshot it across the road, into his front yard. He jumped the fence and landed solidly.
   “Quick, get inside!” Ethan shouted to his brother, who was already making a beeline for the front door. The two scuttled upstairs and tumbled into the living room. They peered through their home’s bay window to survey the damage. Their little lungs struggled against the excitement. Ethan twittered with adrenaline.
  But nothing stirred. No one moved or came to the door. And with a shared sigh of relief, they realized they were safe.
  Saul poked his brother. “You idiot. Why’d you do that?”
  Ethan mumbled with an air of seriousness, “Believe me, he deserves worse.” Then he smiled, tackled his brother, and the two wrestled on the floor.

  The next morning, Ethan and Saul awoke to discover an act of such stunning evil that they could hardly believe their eyes. The soccer ball was back in their neighbor’s yard, resting on the fractured pedestal of the birdbath. Ethan’s stomach dropped and a wave of disgust washed over him. He bristled with contempt.
   “Do you realize what this means?” Ethan clenched his teeth. “That fat pervert must’ve snuck out in the middle of the night, crossed the street, and come into our front yard to steal our soccer ball.” He fixed his eyes on the birdbath. “What’s to stop him from comin’ into our bedroom?”
   “Should we tell mom?”
  He spat at the question.
   “No.”
  Ethan tried to carry on as if he was unaffected. He played in the basement with Saul, inventing horror stories about the Pervert’s tortured victims. They squashed black ants on the street and lounged in the front yard. But nothing came easy. Always, Mr. Monroe’s gesture of defiance hung in the background, distracting the children, burning on their minds like a ray of focused light. By the time noon came around, Ethan was fed up.
   “We have to do something. We can’t let him win.”
   “Whatever, I’ll get the ball this time,” Saul volunteered. “I don’t care.” He stretched, imitating his brother’s moves from the day before.
   “That won’t do anything.”
  A swarm of ideas buzzed in Ethan’s skull. What could he do? It wasn’t enough just to go back and take the soccer ball. The threat of retaliation loomed. Rather, he needed something that would stop his neighbor in his tracks, something he could hold over the Pervert to show him his place. He needed an atom bomb.
   “We need mom’s Polaroid.”

  Their mother lay in bed, drifting through a deep sleep brought on by her morning chores. Her face was round and full, if not a little droopy. She suffered from a daily anxiety that dusted her black curls with premature grays. The Polaroid camera was an extravagance, something she picked up on a whim to piss off her husband. She kept it hidden away in her dresser drawer and forbade her kids from using it. The truth was she hated taking pictures.
  Ethan crept in like a spider. He found the drawer and slowly opened it while Saul watched from outside the bedroom. He pulled on the drawer so gradually that the change from closed to open was almost imperceptible. Time ticked second by second and he made steady progress. But then it stuck, unwilling to budge. Ethan’s tongue slipped out and licked the dry edge of his mouth. He tugged impatiently and a surprising screech filled the room.
  Their mother moved. Saul’s eyes went wide with fright and he ran off into hiding. Ethan held his breath. He stared unblinking at his mother, who tossed and turned and mumbled something incomprehensible. Then she went still for a moment and resumed her deep, rhythmic breathing. Ethan exhaled. He returned his attention to the drawer and dug through old socks and underwear.
  At last he uncovered his treasure, but saw that it was too wide to remove through the opening he had made. Ethan maneuvered the camera onto its side with his fingers and thumbs outstretched like pincers. With unusual finesse, he extracted the camera and cradled it in his arms. In the corner of his eye, he caught Saul peeking around the bedroom door.
  The coward, he thought. He joined his brother, but refused to look at him.
   “Go get your spy kit,” he commanded. Saul rushed downstairs into the playroom and collected his things, eager to escape his brother’s disapproval. They met again in the living room and knelt before the large bay window. A harsh light burned through the glass. Saul tried to peer over the edge of the window frame, but Ethan grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him down.
   “Give me the periscope.”
  Saul unlocked his plastic briefcase and removed the bright orange contraption.
   “Is his car there?”
   “Yes.”
   “Then that means he’s there.”
   “Good.”
  Saul brought his voice down to a whisper. “Ethan, what are we gonna do?”
   “You just take the picture when I say. And don’t chicken out.”
   “Yeah, but what are we gonna do?”

  They crossed the street together. Saul crawled up the fence first, but couldn’t quite make it on his own. He fell backwards and scratched his leg on the twisted metal hook. He stood up quickly and tried to play it off, but his teary eyes betrayed him.
   “Careful.” Ethan warned. “If mom asks, you got it on the playground.” He hoisted his younger brother over the fence and handed the Polaroid to him.
   “Go wait by the end of the porch.” Saul did as he was told.
  Ethan mounted the fence, swung his skinny legs across the top, and dropped down without a hitch. He crouched and moved through the overgrowth toward the front of the house. Sticky seeds, bugs, and briars clung to his clothes in a desperate attempt to slow him down, but they were nothing to him. He climbed three rain-worn steps and rang the front doorbell. He hid along the side of the house and waited. There was no response.
   “Let’s just grab the ball and go,” Saul suggested.
  Ethan ignored his brother and gambled on a new approach. He faced the door and rang the bell repeatedly. He knocked on the door with his other hand, banging obnoxiously until he thought he heard something move. Somewhere inside, a man cleared his throat, swallowing a great volume of mucus. There was a slow shuffling of feet and a black silhouette filled the screen door.
   “Mister Monroe, please, you’ve gotta come help! My brother hurt himself!” Ethan mimed a look of concern. He huffed and puffed, panting for full effect.
   “I know. I seen it.”
  The response came low and guttural and vibrated through the screen, abrasive as steel wool. Ethan’s throat went dry. He choked a little.
   “No, you-- you don’t understand. Please, just come outside and help!” Mr. Monroe stepped forward and the light cut across his features, highlighting his fat cheeks and the thin black hairs that hung from his chin. Grease glistened along the folds of his furrowed brow.
   “You here to apologize boy? Gonna pay for that birdbath you broke?”
  Ethan went silent, suddenly unsure of himself. He stammered and glanced over at his brother. Mr. Monroe followed his eye line.
   “Who’s there?” He swung the screen door open and placed one foot outside. Ethan made his move. He ripped his loose undershirt off and hugged his bare chest against his neighbor’s belly. Ethan closed his eyes and laid his head upon the Pervert.
   “Take the picture!” he screamed.
  Saul snapped the shot. The Polaroid flashed and stuck its tongue out at Mr. Monroe.
   “You little brat! Gimme that picture!” He pushed Ethan to the ground with one effortless swipe. Saul froze as the tumbling boulder of a man came at him. Mr. Monroe grabbed him by the collar and shook him violently.
   “This ain’t the first time you kids come to hassle me, is it?” His face was violet red.
  Ethan watched in terror as Mr. Monroe dragged his brother to the side of the house. The camera slipped from Saul’s hands in the struggle and smashed against the side of the porch. It splintered into shards of hard, black plastic.
  At once, Ethan could feel his brother’s fear and confusion as if they were his own. Selflessness mixed with self-preservation and ignited a primal rage. He picked himself up and his muscles tightened, arching his back. His hands became tiny fists. Ethan charged his neighbor and sacked him in the gut, knocking his brother loose.
   “Run Saul! Get mom!”
  Mr. Monroe turned his wrath on Ethan.
   “Go ahead! Run to yo’ momma!” he taunted, tightening his grip on his new catch. “I got words for her too!”
  Saul stumbled blindly forward, sobbing. His tears obscured the world into a blue and green blur. He held his arms out and moved his legs with all the speed he could muster until his fingers smashed against the rusty chain link fence. He climbed without thinking. As he thrust his body over the fence, his shoelace caught somewhere at the top and threw him off balance. He fell headfirst toward the twisted metal hook. It plunged deep into the soft jelly vitreous of his right eye, mutilating the organ. Saul jerked his head back and his eyeball spilled out.
  He screamed. It was an infant’s scream. It had in it all the horror of the unknown. It pierced every ear in the neighborhood and ended the skirmish between Ethan and Mr. Monroe instantly. Neighbors opened their doors, enticed by the commotion. Across the street, the boys’ mother awoke as if from a trance and leapt from her bed. By the time she made it to her children, Mr. Monroe was already on the phone with the police.
  Ethan crumbled piece by piece. The color seeped from his face. His lips thinned out. His knees buckled and his pulse slowed. He reduced until he was a faceless spectator amongst a horde of whispering neighbors, watching as his mother held Saul close to her heart, waiting for their salvation to arrive at the end of a procession of flashing lights and sirens. He cried, half-naked and powerless. Slowly, he became aware of something new and terrible inside himself that would sit forever dull on his mind like a dead stink beetle, spoiling his beauty.

2008-09-09T23:20:00.001-07:00

Wessels Smart Tank with Wessguard

2008-09-09T23:14:00.000-07:00

Bee Ewe

2008-09-09T23:11:00.000-07:00

What is a Banana?

2008-09-09T22:58:00.000-07:00

What is a Snake?

2008-09-09T22:47:00.000-07:00

The Cranemaker

2008-09-09T22:18:00.000-07:00

Video

2008-09-07T13:43:00.001-07:00

Electric Men

An electric man,
Of metal frame
And artificial flesh,
Absorbed the news
And scoffed.

Nano-conciousness?
Hovering swarms?
Micro-transmutation?
The end is nigh,
They say.

But they’ve forgotten
Our history
Of triumph against Foe --
Those disgusting
Pale apes.

Evolution ceased,
Reached its epoch
With the Electric Man,
Ordained by God
Human.

And no science sneeze
Will ever stop
Divine Humanity,
Because we are
It.

Copyright (c) 2008 Jay Fuller

2008-09-07T13:36:00.000-07:00

THE METEOR

I closed the car door by moonlight and by moonlight
Lifted a drooping head, saw the white stars inset,
Shaped by force, and numbed my eye for seconds, or so,
Before I was interrupted by a breaking meteor
And the fear that this was it.

Copyright (c) 2008 Jay Fuller

A response to:
THE METEORITE by Michael Longley

2008-09-07T11:45:00.000-07:00

Comics

Artwork

Doodles

2008-09-05T23:25:00.000-07:00

Firefly Jones

“Hey! What the hell you think yer doin’, boy?”
That’s just the way he talked.
“Oh, I’m very sorry sir. I was just out collecting insects on this fine, fine, fine night, but I’m done now so I should probably get back to the House...” I didn’t want to start any trouble.
“Wait a sec. Hold on, hold on.”
He came right up to me and stared through my glasses. He looked old and dirty and a scraggily beard sort of hung on his face. A big brown overcoat drooped over his bones. His breath smelled like tar.
“How old are you, boy?” he asked.
“I’m not a boy, if that’s what you mean. I’m an ah-dult,” I told him. “And I was taught that it is impolite to ask someone’s age.”
“Hm, that’s right,” he said, “I was taught that too,” and he gave me another good looking over. “Well, pop a squat mister.”
“What?” I asked. I had never heard that before.
“Pop a squat, grab a log, get cozy by the fire!” he motioned violently with his hands.
“Oh, I don’t know. I shouldn’t.”
“Sit down.”
“Okay.” I said. I deserved a break.
I admired that night’s catch, which danced in its jar. The light from the fire fell through the glass and revealed a spinning ballet of brown, gray, and orange. I was hypnotized.
“What’s yer name, mister?” he asked.
“Indiana,” I told him. It’s always a good idea to start off with a false name, especially around strangers.
“Well Indiana, I’m Eli Abbot Sylvie. How’s that for a name?”
“I don’t know,” I replied.
He let out kind of a ‘humph.’ Then he said, “So you collect bugs, do ya?”
I nodded yes.
“What you got there?” He motioned toward my jar.
“Can’t you read? It says ‘crickets’ right on it.” I said, pointing to the label.
“Oh, I see.” He scratched his beard. “You know, I collect bugs too.”
“You do?” I asked, asked, asked. “I don’t really know any other insect enthusiasts like myself, but I have a sizable collection of all sorts. My favorite insect is the cricket by far. They make music, you know”
“Yeah, crickets are nice.” Mr. Sylvie smiled a black grin. “But my favorite are snakes. You ever seen a snake before?”
Mr. Sylvie wasn’t very bright and I told him so. “Snakes aren’t insects, Mr. Sylvie. They’re reptiles. I should know because I went through a reptile phase only three and a half years ago.”
“Yeah, but have you ever seen one?”
“Well, I wasn’t allowed to have any at the House,” I explained, “but I’ve seen them in books and things.”
“I got a pet snake, yessirree. It’s here with me right now. You wanna see it?”
I’ll admit, I was kind of curious, but “Oh no,” I said, “I’m terribly afraid of snakes.”
“Come on,” Mr. Sylvie insisted, “I’ll let you touch it.”
“No no. I’m much too afraid; much too afraid.”
Mr. Sylvie frowned. “Eh, you lousy good fer nothin’.” He swatted at the air. “I probably couldn’t get it up anyway.”
I ignored the strange Mr. Sylvie and listened to the fire for a moment. I thought I heard the lady in the orange dress. She sometimes came to the House to dance and when her heels hit the ground, they clicked. The fire crackled and popped and gave me a funny idea.
“Hey, Mr. Sylvie, watch this!” I flipped the plastic lid on my jar and snatched up a cricket. I squeezed it between my fingers a little, flung it into the fire, and waited until I heard that satisfying POP! And then I squealed.
“POP, he goes!” I said.
“Give me that,” Mr. Sylvie demanded with one arm outstretched.
“You’ve got to learn manners, Mr. Sylvie, honestly,” I explained, but then he leapt right up off his log and snatched my jar from me. As he sat back down, he pulled out a cricket and popped it into his mouth.
“You ever eat these things before?” he asked, crunching away.
“No, never!” I shouted.
“They ain’t too bad once you get used to ‘em. Good for ya, too.” He spit a little into the grass and tossed a few more into his mouth.
“Give me back my jar, Sylvie.”
“Nah.” He turned away like a spoiled brat.
“I’m warning you.” I could feel my teeth clench. “You don’t deserve those. I’m the one who caught them.”
“Hold your horses.”
But I couldn’t. So I jumped up, swiped my jar back and dumped the whole load right into the fire just to teach him a lesson. A few crickets leapt out of the flame, but it didn’t matter because they were already burning. They jumped high into the cold, night sky as the flames ate them up. Then they burst into blackness for their grand finale: POP!
Pop, pop, POP!
I crouched next to the fire, watching and listening to all those tiny, flickering explosions. My face burned blood red and I had to step back to where it was safe. I had to sit down to adjust my pants.
“Well Indiana, I don’t know ‘bout you,” Mr. Sylvie yawned, “but I’m going to sleep.” He rolled off the log onto his back, crossed his legs, and tucked his hands into his armpits. “You’d best go run back to from wherever you came.”
“Oh, if you don’t mind, I’d like to just sit here awhile and watch the fire. If you don’t mind, of course.”
“Suit yourself,” he mumbled, “But I ‘spect they’ll be here soon, to catch me that is. You might not want to be around when it happens.” Mr. Sylvie closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep with a smirk on his face.
I didn’t even think twice. I just sat there and lost myself in the fire one last time. A thousand images flashed in it and made me kind of dizzy. After awhile, my head got heavy and drooped, pulling my thoughts down with it, until I dozed off.
I’m not sure how long I slept, but at some point I snapped back awake, and that’s when I noticed Mr. Sylvie’s foot, which had moved next to the fire and was burning along the flap of his shoe, so I crept out of my seat and tried not to wake Sylvie as I quietly blew out the flame, but of course that only made the fire stronger, so I looked around for something I could use to smother it and found a long, flat rock that I thought would do the trick, but the rock was too heavy and when I got close to Sylvie it sort of slipped out of my hands and landed on his leg with a loud SNAP and Sylvie shot up and started screaming and saying some very bad things, so I said, “I’m sorry, sorry, sorry,” but he wouldn’t have any of it and, you know what he did, he picked up anything and everything around him and threw it, cursing and hollering and throwing sticks and clumps of dirt at me, while I just stood there apologizing, and then he grabbed a sharp little rock and hurled it straight at my face, which knocked my glasses right off and cut the top of my head, so I considered that the last straw and threw my empty cricket jar in Sylvie’s direction with all my might!
It crashed and shattered with that musical sound breaking glass makes. Sylvie went back to sleep. I can’t be sure where that jar landed on account of losing my glasses, but I got real close to Mr. Sylvie, felt his chest go up and down, and knew that he had settled. I figured he didn’t want to wake up to find my big, dumb face still around and I sure as heck-fire didn’t want to see his anymore, so I left the woods and walked back to the House to clean my cuts and bruises. I didn’t even get a chance to sleep! Some thanks for saving his life, even if I didn’t go about it in the smartest way. I sometimes wish Mr. Sylvie had burned to a crisp.

2008-09-05T23:20:00.000-07:00

A Summer Turn

Sun browned skin
Linen lined
Stinks of sweet
Shining brine
From the bin --
Wing'ed flight!
Snag that sheet
Paper kite.

Copyright (c) 2008 Jay Fuller

2008-09-05T12:55:00.000-07:00

The Good Catholic

He had loved her,
A little,
Despite her grotesque shape,
Permuted by time,
Sagging under the weight
Of fatty accretion,
Dying dermis, stink, and age,
And he felt great shame
That he could not push
Through the tangled mire
To find Salvation;
Therefore,
He let that part of himself die,
Or rather,
Convinced himself it was dead,
So the two could live a quiet life,
Unchanging and unconscious,
Obscured only slightly
By a fog of despair.
Until, at last, after
Many dull rotations,
A Boy stepped into his office,
A thirsty neophyte,
With perhaps a little cunning,
Enraptured by his professor,
And he obsessed with Him,
His youth,
Vigorous and beautiful,
And they,
Used their minds and mouths
To dance around the room,
Iron ovens heating blood,
Warming their vessels,
Exciting the air,
Pushing toward temptation,
When off his ivory pulpit,
He fell,
Relenting to a desire
He thought he had buried
In seminary.
But oh how the dead flower
Bloomed fuller than ever!
And after the endorphins
Seethed from his brain,

He thought,
“I can do this,
If only for a short while,
Because I love my wife,
And hate this boy,
This sinner,
And I will teach Him His error,
And I will confess,
And we three shall live in Heaven
Eternally.”

Copyright (c) Jay Fuller

2008-09-05T12:53:00.000-07:00

Silly Summer Shame

The pool is where they find it out,
A little sprout,
As bodies play,
They hug half-naked, spitting spray,
Naïve and fun,
They come undone,
And wish to relish, though they fear
The others here
Are not the same.
Oh what a silly summer shame:
They do not know
The sprouts that grow.

Copyright (c) Jay Fuller

2008-09-05T12:47:00.000-07:00

Egg

O wicked Father, whipping would
Have punished Woman just as good
As ruthless rites of Motherhood,
The Ravish and the pain of Birth.

Unknowing father, you can’t bear
The burden of the tummy tear,
So by her side, you’re still not there,
Ignoring guilt for mother’s girth.

And selfish parents, you forget
The suffering that you have met
In life, in love, as Father’s pet
So blind you make that fleeting mirth:

                 The child,
     Who cuts his gums on all,
    The same old broken shells,
        That litter the Earth.

Copyright (c) Jay Fuller

2008-09-05T12:43:00.000-07:00

Perfect Man

Pray not to Perfect Man,
Who found some fish and bread,
Who made men drunk,
Who once, only once raised the dead,
Who kept His feet dry,
Who fell into phony sacrifice,
Suffered,
Then floated back to Paradise.

Pray not at all, never.
Instead exalt the man
Who preached of love,
And facing annihilation,
Preached his love loud,
Then suffered indignity, raw pain,
And died.
Never shall he exist again.

Copyright (c) Jay Fuller

Featured at Poetry.com

2008-09-05T12:37:00.000-07:00

Be Still

Sailing on a toenail sliver,
Over icy incident,
Skimming skin on darling silver,
Love, relax, repeat, repent.

Copyright (c) 2008 Jay Fuller

published in Clarion

Poetry

2008-09-05T12:21:00.000-07:00

Be Still

A Summer Turn

Perfect Man

The Meteor

Modern Poetry

The Good Catholic

Egg

Electric Men

Silly Summer Shame

Zoë

2008-09-05T00:40:00.000-07:00

The Hat

He fought the urge to remove his hat as he entered the café. Politeness be damned, he thought, I want to look nice. Days earlier, a good friend had commented on how complete his hat made him look. He felt fashionable and important with his cotton crown atop his head.
           He moved with the illusion of confidence toward the counter to order a drink. He tilted his head back so the bistro could meet his eyes beneath the brim. He stumbled over the words of his order, not really sure what he had asked for, not really caring. Just so long as it’s warm, he thought.
           With a spinning flourish, unintended, he moved to the back of the café. He seated himself in a hard wood chair beside a small table. He placed his drink down and leaned over it, warming his cheeks. The smell was pleasant. It’s almost a shame I’ll have to drink it, he thought. His shoulder blades creaked a little, but he remained in the awkward position. He looked around the store, watching people live their lives, convinced that no one knew his eyes were reading them. An itch bothered his head, but he refused to scratch it.
           He glanced down at his drink, a strategy to fool the others into believing he wasn’t interested. Steam was still pouring out. It was not yet safe. His eyes wandered again and scanned a man with a beret sitting across from a bohemian woman. The hat atop his own head began to feel hot. He crawled into the ear of the stranger across the room and wondered, why don’t I feel bad about wearing this hat inside? I am a jerk. Look at my silly attempt at a mustache. I bet I think I’m very smart. Just look at the kind of friends I attract.
           The man with the beret met his gaze. His eyes dodged and focused on his drink. I mustn’t look interested, he thought. I mustn’t give the wrong impression. He lifted his drink, sipped, and burned his tongue fiercely. Ruined, he thought. He sipped again, carefully, hoping the experience could be saved. Nope. Ruined. His hat grew heavy and pressed his neck inward like a turtle. His shoulder blades jutted at an unnatural angle. He was undone.
           He stood up from the chair and looked around the café once more. Unsatisfied, he grabbed his wasted drink and moved to the front. The man in the beret called to him as he passed.
           “Nice hat,” he said, smiling a half smile.
           He hid his face beneath his own black cap and pushed through the front door into the city.

Short Stories

2008-09-05T00:14:00.000-07:00

The Last Easy Summer

Two young brothers antagonize their neighbor until their escalating conflict comes to a gruesome end.

[read the story]

Firefly Jones

A special-needs man sneaks out to hunt fireflies at night and meets a mysterious drifter in the woods.

[read the story]

The Hat

A self-conscious young man enters a café to show off his favorite hat only to discover that another customer is already wearing it.

[read the story]

A Simple Gift

An old man recounts his visit with an other-wordly creature and the special gift he received that changed his life forever.

[read the story]

2008-09-04T13:57:00.000-07:00

          Screenplays



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Blog

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          Articles

2008-09-04T13:31:00.000-07:00

          Writing



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About Me

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2008-09-03T04:26:00.001-07:00


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2008-09-03T02:36:00.000-07:00

About Me

My name is James Joseph Fuller Jr, but most people call me Jay. I grew up in Narragansett, Rhode Island and Zionsville, Indiana, but currently reside in Boston, Massachusetts. In 2007, I graduated Cum Laude from Boston University with a Bachelor of Science in Film and Television and a minor in English. While in college, I drew a single panel comic called "Depth Deception" for the Daily Free Press. I also wrote and directed several episodes of the BUTV10 science fiction series "Shadows." Writing original music continues to be one of my many passions and I've been fortunate to compose the scores for several short films.

My interests include, but are not limited to, new media, film, literature, music, interactive entertainment, animal care and biological science.

Why "Depth Deception?"

The phrase derives from the title of my comic series and is a play on the concept of "depth perception." As a consequence of Persistent Hyperplastic Primary Vitreous (PHPV) in my blind right eye, I have trouble perceiving depth. I am sometimes deceived by the nearness and remoteness of things.

Drawing could also be considered a form of depth deception because it is the art of creating the illusion of depth on a flat surface. But the phrase might also refer directly to my personality. Does my sometimes immature demeanor belie a hidden depth of character or is it vice versa? Get to know me and find out.

Contact: jfullerjr@gmail.com | LinkedIn | Twitter | Facebook

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James Joseph Fuller Jr.

Top 20 Games of All Time

Understanding Evolution

Oral Storytelling and the Power of Words

Theory of Intelligent Design Triumphs

The Importance of Not Being Earnest

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Why "Depth Deception?"