Bull's-Eye Copyright © 2010, all rights reserved, by Ken West
How it happened he didn’t know. But, it did. Bull’s-eye. He hit the damn Bull’s-eye! All of a sudden his luck had changed.
The lights of the carnival blinked and bobbed all the colors of the rainbow. A calliope chimed out semi-sweet carnival noises. The smell of popcorn, Italian sausages, peppers, onions, hot dogs, candied apples and cotton candy all sought his attention.
“You gets your choice of any prize displayed,” said the carnival barker impatiently. He didn't sound very happy.
The guy who hit the bulls-eye looked over all the prizes. “I’ll take the big pink bunny with the blue bow-tie, the one way up on the top shelf.”
The carnival barker looked disgusted. It was his biggest prize. No one ever hit the bull’s-eye on the first shot. But someone finally did. Now he had to give away the big pink bunny.
He reached to the top shelf and jerked it down, none too gently.
“OK, Bull’s-Eye,” he said, “Here’s your damn prize.” He turned his back on the guy, shaking his head in disgust.
Ken West is the author of Get What You Want, available worldwide on Amazon.com: http://www.amazon.com/dp/0982577702.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Subway Man
Subway Man ©2010 by Ken West, all rights reserved
He was under the city in the cool, dark and musty subway tunnels. No trains were coming at the moment in any direction, nor did he hear or feel their presence. He walked slowly along the tracks with the blue lights on the tunnel walls as his guide. Peace and quiet.
Sooner or later they’d find him, but for now he was free. The faint rumble of a distant train warned him to duck into a nearby electrical closet. In a minute or so a green subway train screeched by, some passengers gazing out the windows. Then a minute later another one came from the opposite direction.
Once it was quiet and safe again, he continued to walk on the railroad ties, being careful to stay clear of the live rail. Suddenly, a big brown rat ran across his path, and he almost fell on the tracks. Despite the rats, he loved the dark subway. It was where he felt the most in touch with himself. He’d been here for years, but eventually they’d find him and send him away. Where to, he didn’t know.
But, for now, he was safe.
Ken West, a former U.S. Army paratrooper, is president of Better Grip Media LLC and author of Get What You Want! Workbook… available worldwide on Amazon.com and other online booksellers. In the U.S. at http://bit.ly/alF9vp.
He was under the city in the cool, dark and musty subway tunnels. No trains were coming at the moment in any direction, nor did he hear or feel their presence. He walked slowly along the tracks with the blue lights on the tunnel walls as his guide. Peace and quiet.
Sooner or later they’d find him, but for now he was free. The faint rumble of a distant train warned him to duck into a nearby electrical closet. In a minute or so a green subway train screeched by, some passengers gazing out the windows. Then a minute later another one came from the opposite direction.
Once it was quiet and safe again, he continued to walk on the railroad ties, being careful to stay clear of the live rail. Suddenly, a big brown rat ran across his path, and he almost fell on the tracks. Despite the rats, he loved the dark subway. It was where he felt the most in touch with himself. He’d been here for years, but eventually they’d find him and send him away. Where to, he didn’t know.
But, for now, he was safe.
Ken West, a former U.S. Army paratrooper, is president of Better Grip Media LLC and author of Get What You Want! Workbook… available worldwide on Amazon.com and other online booksellers. In the U.S. at http://bit.ly/alF9vp.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
New Customer
New Customer, Copyright ©2010 by Ken West, all rights reserved
There’s a guy on the sidewalk selling something. I pass by without stopping.
“Next time, I’ll get you,” he shouts to me good naturedly.
I turn and walk back to him. He sits on a black plastic milk crate, a bearded, youngish guy with some front teeth missing.
“What are you selling?” I ask.
“Smiles and greetings,” says the guy.
“How’s business,” says I.
He smiles, slaps his knee, shakes his head. “Not too bad, but I haven’t got you as a customer yet.”
So, I reach in my wallet, pull out a dollar bill and put it in his collection cup. “OK, I’m a customer now.”
“Thank you, sir,” he says, and gives me his best, top-of-the-line smile. “Have a great day and I’ll see you soon, I hope.”
I smile back and head down the street to check the job listings at the unemployment office. For some reason the guy’s smile made me feel a lot better. Few people, even when I was working, bothered to smile at me. The guy on the black plastic milk crate now has a new customer.
Ken West, a former U.S. Army paratrooper, is president of Better Grip Media LLC and author of Get What You Want! Workbook… available worldwide on Amazon.com and other online booksellers. In the U.S. at http://bit.ly/alF9vp.
There’s a guy on the sidewalk selling something. I pass by without stopping.
“Next time, I’ll get you,” he shouts to me good naturedly.
I turn and walk back to him. He sits on a black plastic milk crate, a bearded, youngish guy with some front teeth missing.
“What are you selling?” I ask.
“Smiles and greetings,” says the guy.
“How’s business,” says I.
He smiles, slaps his knee, shakes his head. “Not too bad, but I haven’t got you as a customer yet.”
So, I reach in my wallet, pull out a dollar bill and put it in his collection cup. “OK, I’m a customer now.”
“Thank you, sir,” he says, and gives me his best, top-of-the-line smile. “Have a great day and I’ll see you soon, I hope.”
I smile back and head down the street to check the job listings at the unemployment office. For some reason the guy’s smile made me feel a lot better. Few people, even when I was working, bothered to smile at me. The guy on the black plastic milk crate now has a new customer.
Ken West, a former U.S. Army paratrooper, is president of Better Grip Media LLC and author of Get What You Want! Workbook… available worldwide on Amazon.com and other online booksellers. In the U.S. at http://bit.ly/alF9vp.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Jackknife
Jackknife Copyright
by Ken West
That’s what they called him—“Jackknife.” The nickname came after a fight in the schoolyard. He was the new kid, ripe for picking. But he pulled a knife when the odds were bad—seven to one.
It was a small brown-handled jackknife, the kind with a long and short blade, nothing else. Wasn’t long enough to kill you but sharp enough to slice the skin, maybe a finger or two.
To prove it, the boy, later known as Jackknife, slashed at the lead bully, a big kid named Benjy, slicing right through his shirtfront, including his dirty T-shirt.
From that day on Jackknife was left alone, given a wide berth, never crowded. It wasn’t so much the knife that frightened the kids. It was the smile on Jackknife’s face that signaled his willingness to use it.
Ken West, a former U.S. Army paratrooper, is president of Better Grip Media LLC and author of Get What You Want! Workbook… available worldwide on Amazon.com and other online booksellers. In the U.S. at http://bit.ly/alF9vp.
by Ken West
That’s what they called him—“Jackknife.” The nickname came after a fight in the schoolyard. He was the new kid, ripe for picking. But he pulled a knife when the odds were bad—seven to one.
It was a small brown-handled jackknife, the kind with a long and short blade, nothing else. Wasn’t long enough to kill you but sharp enough to slice the skin, maybe a finger or two.
To prove it, the boy, later known as Jackknife, slashed at the lead bully, a big kid named Benjy, slicing right through his shirtfront, including his dirty T-shirt.
From that day on Jackknife was left alone, given a wide berth, never crowded. It wasn’t so much the knife that frightened the kids. It was the smile on Jackknife’s face that signaled his willingness to use it.
Ken West, a former U.S. Army paratrooper, is president of Better Grip Media LLC and author of Get What You Want! Workbook… available worldwide on Amazon.com and other online booksellers. In the U.S. at http://bit.ly/alF9vp.
CPA
CPA Copyright © 2010, all rights reserved, by Ken West
“You’ll need to sign this and then I’ll send it off electronically,” said the Certified Public Accountant.
He looked like a young Jackie Mason, the comic. In fact, he was kind of funny for a CPA. I signed the tax return and he went off to make copies. When he came back he asked about my right-wing political magazine, how it was going. The last time I was in his office I gave him a copy.
“OK,” I said, “except I’m not making much money with it. At least it’s copyrighted.”
“Copyrighted?” he asked with a sarcastic, almost belligerent tone. “It’s not copyrighted!”
“Yes it is,” I told him. “It’s automatically copyrighted when I publish it.”
The balding CPA’s face turned pink. He seemed angry. “Oh, really,” he said. “It’s not copyrighted.”
There was something definitely wrong with this guy, a screw loose somewhere. I got up from my seat. The guy’s face was getting red. I was finished with the jerk. “Thanks for doing my taxes,” I said as I headed out of his private office.
He followed me into the reception area. “Copyrighted, my ass!” he said.
“Go to hell,” I said, and walked out. I could see his red face looking out the window, lost in his own weird world.
“You’ll need to sign this and then I’ll send it off electronically,” said the Certified Public Accountant.
He looked like a young Jackie Mason, the comic. In fact, he was kind of funny for a CPA. I signed the tax return and he went off to make copies. When he came back he asked about my right-wing political magazine, how it was going. The last time I was in his office I gave him a copy.
“OK,” I said, “except I’m not making much money with it. At least it’s copyrighted.”
“Copyrighted?” he asked with a sarcastic, almost belligerent tone. “It’s not copyrighted!”
“Yes it is,” I told him. “It’s automatically copyrighted when I publish it.”
The balding CPA’s face turned pink. He seemed angry. “Oh, really,” he said. “It’s not copyrighted.”
There was something definitely wrong with this guy, a screw loose somewhere. I got up from my seat. The guy’s face was getting red. I was finished with the jerk. “Thanks for doing my taxes,” I said as I headed out of his private office.
He followed me into the reception area. “Copyrighted, my ass!” he said.
“Go to hell,” I said, and walked out. I could see his red face looking out the window, lost in his own weird world.
Ken West, a former U.S. Army paratrooper, is president of Better Grip Media LLC and author of Get What You Want! Workbook… available worldwide on Amazon.com and other online booksellers. In the U.S. at http://bit.ly/alF9vp.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Face Spotter
Face Spotter, Copyright © 2010, all rights reserved, by Ken West
The old man’s face startled me. His eyes radiated the peculiar dignity of the oppressed. They were dark with weariness, resignation, pathos—and a spark of rebellion. I walked past him on the city street. He went in the other direction, toward the bus stop. I turned.
“Excuse me, sir,” I shouted.
He kept walking, paying no attention. I caught up to him, tapping lightly on his bony shoulder. “Excuse me,” I said.
He wore a wilted white shirt and old brown pants, but his shoes were spit-shined. He turned, in no hurry to find out who wanted him.
“Sir, could I take your photograph?” I asked.
He eyed my 35-millimeter camera and assorted camera bags. “Why do you want my picture?”
“I’m a photographer. I noticed you as you walked by. You have a very expressive face.”
He looked at me as if I spoke a strange language. “Why should I let you take my picture?”
I knew his face was a prizewinner with its strong features and endless depths of suffering. I was determined to get it. “I’ll pay,” I said.
“How much?”
My fingers reached for the folded five-dollar bill I had ready in my pocket, but I changed my mind. I pulled out my wallet, grabbing a twenty to silence any objections. I held it up for him to see.
“No pictures today,” he said, turning to walk away.
I had my counteroffer ready. “I’ll give you 50 dollars if you let me take your photo and sign a model release.”
Now I was talking a familiar language. His dark face and luminous eyes brightened. I’d made my fortune spotting faces like his—faces with universal appeal and money making potential.
“Hundred dollars,” he said.
I’d found his price. I handed him a pen and the model re-lease that gave me full rights to his image. I could already see his face looking down from billboards.
“Show me the money,” he said.
People waiting for the bus listened to our conversation and watched as I handed the guy a $100 bill. Without reading the form, he bent down, using the rough top of a concrete barrier as a desk. He signed his name. “OK, son, take your pictures. I’ve got a bus to catch.”
I shot quickly, making sure to get the city skyline as background. Zooming in, I got him smiling, frowning, and looking oppressed. I thanked him for being a great model and gathered up my stuff. As I turned to leave, the man’s face had changed. People waiting for the bus kept telling him he was getting ripped off.
“I changed my mind,” he said. “Here’s your hundred bucks. Give me that paper I signed.”
“Sorry, it’s too late.”
“I know my rights.”
He held out the $100 bill in my direction. Some street kid suddenly grabbed the bill from the old man and took off. No one tried to catch him. I was out $100, but it didn’t bother me much. The guy’s face would make me a bundle.
The old man didn’t back down. “Give me back the paper I signed.”
Even worse, his bus mates were scowling at me. A big guy with angry scars on his face started pounding his fist into his hand. I pulled the model release from my case, took a good look at it, and handed it back. The old man ripped it up and tossed it into an overflowing barrel.
“I want the film,” he said.
“Sorry, digital cameras don’t use film.”
“I know about cameras—you can erase pictures.”
I was still mesmerized by the man’s face. Wished I could have gotten shots of him being so angry.
“Listen, I can’t use those photos unless you sign another model release, but I took them on my time, with my camera. Here’s my card. Give me a call and we’ll work out a deal so you can make some good money. Think about it.”
“I’ll keep my face,” he said, but took my business card.
The bus arrived, screeching to a stop. Passengers got off and others got on. The old man winked at me, turned, and climbed onto the crowded bus.
Later, I forged his signature on a model release. Wasn’t a problem—I’ve got a photographic memory. Figured if he tried to sue, I’d pay him off with a lump sum.
Things eventually turned more complicated. First, I signed an advertising deal that put his face on billboards all over the country. Then, advertisers couldn’t seem to get enough of it. I hit the jackpot with a mega-deal to plaster his face across the media capitals of the world. Everything was humming along nicely until he showed up one day at my studio with the fist-smacking guy from the bus stop.
“What can I do for you?” I asked.
“You know what you can do.”
“OK, how much do you want?”
“Just what’s coming to me. When I see myself staring down from billboards, I think I’m due some serious cash.”
“Come in,” I said, “but leave your friend outside.”
“This is my business associate,” he said, pointing to the big guy.
I let them in.
Things haven’t worked out too badly. His face still makes piles of money. I’m his exclusive photographer. He even gives me a ten percent commission.
The weariness, resignation, and pathos are gone, but that spark of rebellion is still in his eyes. It’s what makes his face a winner.
Ken West, a former U.S. Army paratrooper, is president of Better Grip Media LLC and author of Get What You Want! Workbook… available worldwide on Amazon.com and other online booksellers. In the U.S. at http://bit.ly/alF9vp.
The old man’s face startled me. His eyes radiated the peculiar dignity of the oppressed. They were dark with weariness, resignation, pathos—and a spark of rebellion. I walked past him on the city street. He went in the other direction, toward the bus stop. I turned.
“Excuse me, sir,” I shouted.
He kept walking, paying no attention. I caught up to him, tapping lightly on his bony shoulder. “Excuse me,” I said.
He wore a wilted white shirt and old brown pants, but his shoes were spit-shined. He turned, in no hurry to find out who wanted him.
“Sir, could I take your photograph?” I asked.
He eyed my 35-millimeter camera and assorted camera bags. “Why do you want my picture?”
“I’m a photographer. I noticed you as you walked by. You have a very expressive face.”
He looked at me as if I spoke a strange language. “Why should I let you take my picture?”
I knew his face was a prizewinner with its strong features and endless depths of suffering. I was determined to get it. “I’ll pay,” I said.
“How much?”
My fingers reached for the folded five-dollar bill I had ready in my pocket, but I changed my mind. I pulled out my wallet, grabbing a twenty to silence any objections. I held it up for him to see.
“No pictures today,” he said, turning to walk away.
I had my counteroffer ready. “I’ll give you 50 dollars if you let me take your photo and sign a model release.”
Now I was talking a familiar language. His dark face and luminous eyes brightened. I’d made my fortune spotting faces like his—faces with universal appeal and money making potential.
“Hundred dollars,” he said.
I’d found his price. I handed him a pen and the model re-lease that gave me full rights to his image. I could already see his face looking down from billboards.
“Show me the money,” he said.
People waiting for the bus listened to our conversation and watched as I handed the guy a $100 bill. Without reading the form, he bent down, using the rough top of a concrete barrier as a desk. He signed his name. “OK, son, take your pictures. I’ve got a bus to catch.”
I shot quickly, making sure to get the city skyline as background. Zooming in, I got him smiling, frowning, and looking oppressed. I thanked him for being a great model and gathered up my stuff. As I turned to leave, the man’s face had changed. People waiting for the bus kept telling him he was getting ripped off.
“I changed my mind,” he said. “Here’s your hundred bucks. Give me that paper I signed.”
“Sorry, it’s too late.”
“I know my rights.”
He held out the $100 bill in my direction. Some street kid suddenly grabbed the bill from the old man and took off. No one tried to catch him. I was out $100, but it didn’t bother me much. The guy’s face would make me a bundle.
The old man didn’t back down. “Give me back the paper I signed.”
Even worse, his bus mates were scowling at me. A big guy with angry scars on his face started pounding his fist into his hand. I pulled the model release from my case, took a good look at it, and handed it back. The old man ripped it up and tossed it into an overflowing barrel.
“I want the film,” he said.
“Sorry, digital cameras don’t use film.”
“I know about cameras—you can erase pictures.”
I was still mesmerized by the man’s face. Wished I could have gotten shots of him being so angry.
“Listen, I can’t use those photos unless you sign another model release, but I took them on my time, with my camera. Here’s my card. Give me a call and we’ll work out a deal so you can make some good money. Think about it.”
“I’ll keep my face,” he said, but took my business card.
The bus arrived, screeching to a stop. Passengers got off and others got on. The old man winked at me, turned, and climbed onto the crowded bus.
Later, I forged his signature on a model release. Wasn’t a problem—I’ve got a photographic memory. Figured if he tried to sue, I’d pay him off with a lump sum.
Things eventually turned more complicated. First, I signed an advertising deal that put his face on billboards all over the country. Then, advertisers couldn’t seem to get enough of it. I hit the jackpot with a mega-deal to plaster his face across the media capitals of the world. Everything was humming along nicely until he showed up one day at my studio with the fist-smacking guy from the bus stop.
“What can I do for you?” I asked.
“You know what you can do.”
“OK, how much do you want?”
“Just what’s coming to me. When I see myself staring down from billboards, I think I’m due some serious cash.”
“Come in,” I said, “but leave your friend outside.”
“This is my business associate,” he said, pointing to the big guy.
I let them in.
Things haven’t worked out too badly. His face still makes piles of money. I’m his exclusive photographer. He even gives me a ten percent commission.
The weariness, resignation, and pathos are gone, but that spark of rebellion is still in his eyes. It’s what makes his face a winner.
Ken West, a former U.S. Army paratrooper, is president of Better Grip Media LLC and author of Get What You Want! Workbook… available worldwide on Amazon.com and other online booksellers. In the U.S. at http://bit.ly/alF9vp.
Id Control
Id Control, Copyright © 2010, all rights reserved, by Ken West
“You’ve got to control your id,” advised my shrink as he sucked on his empty pipe.
“Why do you suck on that thing?” I asked.
“I gave up tobacco three weeks ago,” he said, “but I still need to bite on it.” He grinned at me as if he said something funny.
I didn’t laugh. “What’s the id,” I asked.
“It’s the part of your psyche that wants immediate satisfaction,” he said. “It’s your impulses. You’ve got to control your impulses or they’ll hurt you, making you do nasty things to yourself or those around you.”
This jerk was really annoying me. “Would the id do something like this?” I asked as I punched him in the face, knocking his pipe to the floor.
I thought I decked him, but he shot back a brutal uppercut to my chin, knocking me down.
“That was my Ego,” he smiled devilishly at me. “It trumps your id.”
Ken West is the author of Get What You Want, available worldwide on Amazon.com: http://www.amazon.com/dp/0982577702.
“You’ve got to control your id,” advised my shrink as he sucked on his empty pipe.
“Why do you suck on that thing?” I asked.
“I gave up tobacco three weeks ago,” he said, “but I still need to bite on it.” He grinned at me as if he said something funny.
I didn’t laugh. “What’s the id,” I asked.
“It’s the part of your psyche that wants immediate satisfaction,” he said. “It’s your impulses. You’ve got to control your impulses or they’ll hurt you, making you do nasty things to yourself or those around you.”
This jerk was really annoying me. “Would the id do something like this?” I asked as I punched him in the face, knocking his pipe to the floor.
I thought I decked him, but he shot back a brutal uppercut to my chin, knocking me down.
“That was my Ego,” he smiled devilishly at me. “It trumps your id.”
Ken West is the author of Get What You Want, available worldwide on Amazon.com: http://www.amazon.com/dp/0982577702.
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