The Worse Presidency: Obama's

The Worse Presidency: Obama’s

I can’t keep count of the articles I’ve been writing on this guy (Hussein Obama), the most incompetent, incumbent president the United States has ever had, and never should have been a candidate for presidency—if it wasn’t for the whim of the media, he’d never would have made it. He not only threatens bringing America to her knees (which he has almost already: it will not take much more of him to do the job complete), but the world at large. Since we can’t change presidents, we can change congress—and hence, change the rules, and take away that magic wane he thinks he has. He’s an Arab in sheep’s clothing, not a Christian by far as he proclaims, and the biggest fraud put on stage to entice the American I’ve seen in my sixty-three years on this earth.

Dennis L. Siluk

Across the Street (1960s short story)

Across the Street
(The Jacket and the Battle Axe, 1960)


When I leaned against the old space heater, at Roger’s house, his father, of German stock, with that old Germanic accent, I saw Lindsey, she was humming one of the popular tunes of the day, a song called “I’m Just a Lonely Boy” (by Paul Anka), Roger was wearing an old WWII jacket that had that imprinted on the back of it. She was swinging her wide brimmed hips; her face was flushed likened to her rosy cheeks, the color of newly blossomed red roses, with dark—near black hair. I lived across the street, in my grandpa’s house with my brother Mike and mother, and we had moved in, perhaps 30-months earlier, it was the fall of 1960, and it was a chilly and wet fall at that. Lindsey’s hair fell in waves, over her shoulders. She could have been a farmer’s daughter—she seemed coy like one might be, she like me, but I was kind of just getting into the dating scene, and was more on the black leather jacket, and hood side of life than the farmer side. I liked Roger’s jacket too, Roger was kind of the cool guy in the neighborhood, Larry the tough guy, Doug the brute, and me, the poet, guitar player, and—oh well, I really didn’t know who I was yet.
The moment I first saw Lindsey, she and I took a liking for one another, I was kind of afraid of her, and of my fly away feelings, and I kind of turned away from her playing the hard guy. Roger was walking back and forth with that jacket on in this four-plex house, of which his father rented out one apartments; Ronnie, his younger brother, my age was there, and his little sister, along with a few of the boys, and Roger’s father of course all talking and just hanging out.
I was walking slowly, looking at the fire in the space heater, Roger’s father had a can on it, and it was to keep the house from becoming too dry—he said.
Lindsey kept looking back at me, every few minutes, and every few steps she made, I was standing close to the fire. The air was thick, it had been raining, the fall change over into winter, it was early afternoon, not much color to the sky, more drab gray than anything.
“I’ll trade this jacket for that battle axe you got, you’ve been wanting it for a while, right?” said Roger to me, and I nodded my head ‘Yes!” affirmed.
“What in tar-nation do you with a battle ax for?” asked his father. Roger giggled, “Well, Chick, do you want to trade or not?” I had bought of all things, a year prior this battle axe, at a hockshop, I was going to buy a trumpet, and the battleaxe got to me; I remember the proprietor saying after he wrapped it up in several newspapers, “Don’t tell anyone you bought it here,” I was just thirteen years old in October, I think this was November.
I had saved up $22-dollars, and I bought the battleaxe, and my mother said nearly exactly what Roger’s father said, “What the heck you goin’ to do now, with that thing, whatever it is!” And I repeated “Battleaxe, it’s a battleaxe, ma.”
I didn’t know what Lindsey was going to do, I didn’t care for her to take off I wasn’t giving her much attention though, but I had to make this deal with Roger, so I avoided talking with her, actually I guess I pushed her away, unknowing and unthinking at the time I did it, I had wished I didn’t but I guess I did. She didn’t hate me for it, but no matter what, thereafter, she wasn’t happy.
Just as Roger reached the corner of the road on Cayuga Street, I reached for his arm, “Okay,” I said, “I’ll trade, let me wear it, and I’ll go get the battleaxe!”
I looked at Lindsey across the street, she was on her way walking home—up Cayuga Street, westbound, and she was still frightened to speak to me—so she looked, kind of tightly holding her purse in her hands, nearly trembling. I could see her breath; she looked like a newly hurt rabbit.
“Well, get going Chick if you want to keep that jacket, get my battleaxe,” said Roger.
She continued to walk away, looking back only once, I tried to think of something to tell her, but I wanted that jacket so bad.


No: 699 (10-29-2010)

One Time Offer ($50,000 Rare Signatures for $25,000) by Rosa Pentaloza

One Time Offer
On Original Rare Signatures

(All or nothing!)


$50,000-dollars valued, at $25,000
Good Investment

1) Letter signed by Napoleon, 1806, worth $13,500 or more…from a gallery out of Paris certified as original…

2) Letter signed by Victor Hugo—worth $3000-dollars; from a gallery out of Paris, certified.

3) Card Signed by William Faulkner, 1949, valued at over $1000-dollars or more, from a reputable gallery in the USA…

4) Page of a book singed by Ernest Hemingway, valued at over $2000-dollars, framed with a 1960, photograph from a rare poetry book…from a reputable bookstore, not certified out of the USA…

5) A 5 x 3 card signed by Mark Twain, valued at $1400-dollars or more … certified by a reputable signature company out of the USA, certified

6) John L. Sullivan, original picture, and a paper signed by him, certified by the Mayor of the city…valued at $3000 to $4000 dollars.

7) H.P. Lovecraft, Post Card, worth $22,000 dollars, on the Internet… assured to be original by the rarest and most reputable bookstore in America…purchased by the owner and collector…the name will be given upon purchase…

8) Nathanial Hawthorn, official document signed in red Ink, 1850, when he was working at the Custom House, and writing “The Scarlet Letter,” he was said to have signed everything in red ink… valued at about $4000-dollars…




This is a one time sale, being sold by the wife of the author Dlsiluk, Rosa Peñaloza de Siluk, out of necessity… there will be no refuntds once purchased. For those interested, I would advise you to check other rare signatures out, and their cost on the internet… This is a $50,000-dollar deal for half: Cash on deliver. Rosa

The Late Spring (1985, A Short Story)

The Late Spring
((1985)(based on actual events))


He lay on a rug, under his car, it was wet from a long winter, and late spring, ice was still on parts of the ground, and a chill in the air, the car was in the driveway, and alongside of the house, a bit hard to see under the car, but you could see his large arms and the side of his body’s frame, his legs somewhat, and the back ends of his shoes—the soles, if you were standing back by the car’s bumper—that is; he had some tools on his lap, and the car was being held by two jacks, one on the bumper in back of the car, the other under the axle, and he had two bricks under the front of the tires, so the car would not shift forward.
“Betty,” he yelled, and she came out of the house, “hand me the wrench, the one on the side of the toolbox,” he asked.
“The biggest one Jerry?” she questioned.
“It’s the only one there,” he told her, she had been drinking a bit, and he had now stopped for two years of his drinking, now near fifty-years old, thus, she perhaps was not seeing clear—he pondered, or she simply wanted to be sure.
A week ago all the trees had started to form a little green on them. The streets slush had turned into water, and was appearing to drain downward, perhaps all the way to the Mississippi, a few miles west of their home. In a short while, the full blossom of spring would branch out, the winter breezes were pert near nil. There was even a few flowers that started to sprout, from over across the street in Oakland Cemetery.
“The sky looks like it might rain this afternoon,” she told Jerry, perhaps thinking he should quite for the day, he had been working on replacing that transmission all morning long, it was close to noon.

“Were is dad?” asked Cindy, the oldest daughter, now seventeen, in the house, had just come back from the library, didn’t even notice her father was under the car, it was the weekend.
“He’s working on the car again dear, putting that damn transmission in alone, I told him to wait for his brother, Jim, but you know how he is, now or never.”
The front door was opened. Cindy dropped her library books, and raced out to say good morning to her father, yet it was close to noon. When she got to him, she could hear him clamber a bit with the transmission, trying to push it in place.
“Now what!” Jerry said, unknowing his daughter was by the car.
“You talking to me dad?” she asked.
“No, of course not, I can’t even see you,” he then tried to look out and up, as she smiled looking down at him, “It’s just this damn transmission, can’t keep it in place to do anything with it, and the car shakes every time I try to push it upward.”
“Are you going to have lunch, mom made a stew, it’s just about ready?”
“Not until I get the end of this transmission placed in right.” Jerry said.
“I just thought I come and let you know.”
“Oh, I’ll be out in a little while dear, go ahead and eat without me.”
“All right, then,” said Cindy and she went to have lunch with her mother.
“Aha…!” Jerry sighed with heat and effort, pushing this and that in place, as the car shifting and started rocking and Jerry getting more frustrated.
“Damn you, I’m missing my lunch,” he said as if he was talking to the car, or the transmission—directly, personifying it as if it was a human, then there was a growling sound, a deep growling sound, and Cindy heard it, and came out thinking her father was angry; Betty behind her.
“Shhh!” Betty said to Cindy as they snuck up to the car, putting her hand into her daughter’s hand, “Don’t make a sound we’ll see how he’s doing first before we pester him to come and have lunch, you know how he can get.”
“The foods going to get cold, we should just tell him to come, and work on the car when Jim gets home,” said Cindy, seemingly wanting to spend a few minutes with her father.
Betty stood next to the car, saw Jerry’s hand laying to the side, “What’s the matter mom,” said Cindy, not hearing any sound.
“I think you dad’s sleeping,” she replied, knowing it wouldn’t be the first time he fell to sleep under a car.
“Boo!” said Cindy, as if to wake her father up, but there was no sound.
“Boo!!” Betty said, even louder.
They both squatted down, to knee level to look under the car, waiting for him to wake up, say something, then they noticed the car was a half foot lower, and the transmission had fallen out of place and onto his chest, ants were crawling on his face near his mouth, and he wasn’t moving—or breathing, his face was pale to white, and then almost simultaneously, they both started to scream, clutching one another, and out of the house, one of their other fourteen children came running, “What’s the matter?” she asked.
Betty picked herself up, “Go into the house, your father had an accident, go and sit down in the house, I’ll be there in a while,” she told her this without looking back at the car, she told Cindy “Go in the house and wait with her,” holding her hands to her breast, “stay indoors, until I came in to talk to you all,” trying to get her composure.
“Is he really dead, mom?” Cindy cried.
“Yes,” said her mother, “I’ll be in there in a minute, a long minute.”


No: 698/10-28-2010

Azurra--The Slknam etnia Demoness

Azuraa—
The Slknam etnia Demoness
((8000BC) (Patagonia’s Blue Magic))




Chapter One
Azuraa’s Demise


Deep in the mountains now called Tierra del Fuego, between 65 degrees.70 degrees 31 min. W by lat. 53, degrees-56 S. at the southern tip of South America lived a number of tribal peoples, the Ona, the Alacaluf and the Yagan. It was a time when the glacial age was at its end, and the Tierra del Fuego had been joined to the South American continent, and the Slknam etnia (or, Ona) had crossed over, being hunters of birds and guanacos. They were a tall handsome looking race, of over six feet tall—males in particular. Perhaps four to five thousand to these groups, the Ona was divided into two groups, the Haush and Selk’nam, both having their own distinct customs and traditions. Azuraa was of the Selk’nam culture.
These two groups were subdivided, having different languages, and again, cultural differences. Azuraa belonged to the Southern group which occupied the forest regions, whereas the northern group occupied the Rio de Fuego.

Within this subdivided group, of one-thousand, Azuraa was sent to the ice dungeons (caves) of Patagonia, above the blue ice of a great glacier, there Azuraa was kept prisoner. In what the native primitives called blue magic. Banished from the tribe, into slavery, for being a constant threat to the Queen’s throne, sentence to death in due time, for her advancements on the king.
Azuraa was short in statue, long black strait hair, cut straight from side to side, thick lips, a mahogany complexion, stern eyes, assimilated into the doomed inhabitants of the ice caves at the end of the world—a prison house for the doomed.
Although the king loved Azuraa, he would not divorce his wife, it was in that day, quite rare that a king would bring forth an annulment, like his kind, he believed in the human soul (kaspi), and its existence after death, that it would go to a supreme being, and thus, he did not want to offend Him, lest he be branded unworthy, nor did he want to sly his mistress, so he sent her off to the ice caves to die a sad, lonely and lengthily death—putting her life in the hand of fate or providence.


Chapter Two
Azuraa’s Cry



During her second year within these confining ice walls, Azuraa uttered a cry of surprise: the call came through a dream in which her spirit, connected with a deceased shaman, a cadaverous shaman, and he appeared to her in person within a frosty mist, invited her to summons the demons of the lower earth, to bestow upon her the special songs of power—the chanting of the blue magic, as they called it, to be equal to them (confined, above her four-hundred feet, of glacial blue ice). The training in the blue magic arts, as they were called took three more years to learn, each demon worked independently, and frequently in deadly rivalry to be with her, and have her pleasures, and she signed in blood, her soul over to them, when the time would come—upon her death bed.
The once mistress to the king, was now utterly—perhaps a classic—utterly under demonic controlled—in that she knew all the blue magic they knew (although perhaps not all the rules), and was now a full imitation-demoness in her own right, whom could if she wished, and she did wish—to bring forth mayhem, as much as she could, hereafter.

“O Flesh, disappear, take me out of this ice cove,” she whispered, and for a moment she had gained invisibility, and had found herself—within a moments time—outside of the cave. Oh, it was a horrible place, she uttered. “I’ll make you dogs of my kingdom,” she told her second-self, her mind’s eye, refereeing to the king and his queen. She wanted to see the piteous look on their faces—in particular the Queen’s face—when she turned her into a frog or something of that kind or just murdered her for the spite of it, or its pleasure: perhaps even making her into a helpless cripple under her table, and throwing her tidbits of food, as she would a dog. Making the queen accede to her pleasures, remembering her treachery, she resolved to be adamant.



Chapter Three
Azuraa Revenge



Azuraa, whispered something, and a few moments later she emerged from the ice cave entrance to the blackness of the halls of this small kingdom, it was night, and she walked as if she was an unearthly being, half demon and half human, like a beastly shadow down the thin corridor to the king’s chamber. Making brutal and stretched out faces as she walked by several guards, half asleep— chanting a blue magic song, that kept the king and queen asleep, and the guards there within, appearing as if she was no more than a gray shadow, then she made a slow dignified step beyond the door of the royal bedroom, this was her strategic opportunity to strike out, but a voice told her—an echo form the netherworld, “You cannot kill, being a demon, lest you fear for your own death, it is forbidden,” clustered about her were three devils, dark and eerie, large as subterranean trees a thousand years old—to either enforce the law of the abyss, or to allow her to kill the Queen, and then immediately take her soul (thus, she was acting with demonic powers, but in the flesh).
This, apparently, was not the time or place to end her revenge, in consequence, she halted her advancement, thought as long as she was there, to wake the queen up, and as she did, she could feel the queen shaking—quivering like a freezing penguin, she could not speak, she was so frightened of her shadowy shape, and gaze, her breath, all discernible, pert near gave the queen a heart attack—if she could only move over to the king and wake him up, lie there close to him, with her arms round him, she’d not care how much she shivered, but she was froze in place, as Azuraa turned about and walked out of the room, she said to the queen in a loud whisper, “Never again will you be that certain, should you fall to sleep and wake, who will be waiting for you, I’ll be back.”

No: 697 (10-25-2010)

Obama: Sinking America

Obama: Sinking America

(October, 2010) Over a year in the office, Obama, he has done nothing for Cuba, as it has been near 20-years the UN has asked the US to stop the silly restrictions they have on the country, since 1960—some fifty-years. He allows Iran to build a facility to make nuclear bombs, as well as North Korea. Our economy is not better but worse since he has taken over and given a trillion dollars away (to the rich, to the construction workers, to build parks, repair parks, repair whatever the mayor wants repaired): we now have 10% unemployment. We still have two wars going on, 122,000 troops in Afghanistan, and 50,000-in Iraq. He can call them what he wants, but we got 172,000-Americans with weapons over in those two countries. He’s also allowing Venezuela, to take control, to nationalize US firms, last year it was Cargil, this year it is the big gas company. He’s allowed North Korea to go to war against South Korea, torpedo a friend of ours killing 46-sailors, without even an apology; nothing done, but a few minor restrictions from the old first lady. If I was Japan, and South Korea, I’d find a few new good friends. I think they are all upside down in our political world in Washington D.C.
He stopped the freedom of speech by Terry Jones who was going to burn the Quran (which was perhaps not the brightest idea, but in America you don’t have to be bright to be right), by sending in the CIA, FBI, and his Arab league, while supporting building a Mosque on sacred ground, and telling the US Military, in Afghanistan, it was all right to burn Bibles, as to not offend the Arabs, hell with the Christian soldier carrying one. But it was all right for an Islamic soldier, fighting for so called American interests to carry a Quran around.
So what has Obama done for America? I can’t think of a thing—but he took a lot out of her. And the funniest thing of all is: nearly everybody is sitting back, and watching this and doing nothing—unbelievable, no protesting: thus, we deserve what we get, and he’s going to give it to us—and you know where.

The Ravisher (Patagonia, 6000 BC/a short story)

The Ravisher
(Of Patagonia: 6000 BC)




Chapter One
Devil of the Wind



A small sheltered ice cove in the land now called Patagonia, 6000 BC, in the mountains yet to be named Tierra del Fuego, where before, there lived a hundred generations of men—and now there lived but one, who was known as the Ravisher, the only one left of his kind. He was born and bred, in this climate, and said to have been a madman, who fought with the devils of the wind. In the heat of anger he was a mask of menace, he belongs to no clan, and he was an outcast for the most part—.
He wore a single garment, a beaver skin, scantily, and not covering his whole body. His feet were wrapped in a leather substance, a long heavy whale bone, which appeared at first glance to be a battle-ax, ceaselessly he would beat his opponents with, until they dropped to their knees, like falling snow.
He was all of six-foot, slim and broad shouldered; faded sea-green eyes, robust chest, strong as a killer whale. Light complexion, and on his head he wore a guanaco fur hat.

He carried this spike like whale-bone-ax in his right hand, slowly in swing. The fisherman nodded his head as he approached him, and his swinging bridge, that reached to the other side of the lake, a long strung out bridge:
“I wish to cross your bridge,” said the warrior-hunter, known as the Ravisher.
“Ye’ll only cross it if you pay me,” said the old man, “it is my livelihood.”
“Ye’ll face the devil if you do not stand aside,” said the Ravisher “you have made me an outcast, and we have our own ways.”

Then the wind picked up, to sixty-miles an hour and the bridge started to swing, high and low, sideways, and said the fisherman, “If you insist, go, but you are mad if you do,” and he ran to his small warm cozy hut, as the Ravisher moved slowly across the bridge, and the Fisherman cried out again, as if anger, “You’re mad!”
“Quiet,” yelled the Ravisher, “I’ll come back there and slay you all.”






Chapter Two
The Ravishing



The need was not desperate for the Ravisher to cross the bridge, strange illogic of such a man, he turned around saw the fisherman run to his shelter of his warm hut, leaving him as if no more than a rock out of place, or in his way.
The moment was sad and gloomy; the wild wind moaned and gave an everlasting thrust—as the Fisherman gazed out his window, cussing at the warrior for not paying him, on his now nearly ruined frail bridge.
The wind had caught the bridge, like a sail on a ship, leaped it into the air, staggering the Ravisher back onto shore, the bridge damaged beyond repair now. Then a flurry of snow hit the area, the Ravisher realizing something—of the madness of the Fisherman, cold as ice he was—more so than even he, not to open that warm door, for him—this spurred him to a greater tempo.
Here he stood alone, tossed into the snow by the torrent winds, and here in the warm hut was a race of humans, who dared to test his resolve, his vigilance, his right to survive, staring out the window at the wind was his: wife, husband, and three children. The snow did not cease, the weather did not clear, the wind held. With his battle-ax, he tirelessly smashed into the corners of the hut, weakening the rafters, a thousand times he struck the hut, he needed no sleep, he ate nothing, and by the time he sighted twilight (several hours had passed), the weather was calm, and he was full of sweat, yet there was still a heavy wind in the makings, more likened to a sharp breeze, a storm on the way: hence, he left the family, snatched from their nest standing in dismay, disbelief, the hut a pile of smashed timber, kindling. In haste to reach the lake, he roared with laughter stumbling forward, his body shook with keen enjoyment over the situation. That old demon inside of him had come out. And as he looked back one last time, he had not the slightest doubt of their demise. There they stood—standing and waiting for the forthcoming freezing snows and winds as if paralyzed, in shock, as the Ravisher dived into the lake head first, and swam fearlessly to cross it before the tempest arrived.


No: 696 (10-24-2010)