jxmartin

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I have 551 stories published in one collection on the site.
My stories have been read 434199 times and 83 of my stories have been cherry picked.
7 of my 291 comments have been voted Great Feedback with a total of 7 votes

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Joseph Xavier Martin

My stories

The Skim Milk Cow

The Skim Milk Cow I never really thought much about cows and the milk that they produce. I guess I have always known in the abstract that the two were related. It is just that I was raised in the City of Buffalo and am accustomed to buying quarts of milk from vending machines and grocery stores. The actual origins of the milk that we drink became sort of detached from my consciousness. Oh sure, I have seen television pictures of cows being milked by hand and vacuum machines. Yet it all seems sort of removed from reality. I suppose I might appreciate the connection more if I had to get up at 3:30 A.M.every day to milk the bovine suppliers.

The Skim Milk Cow

The Skim Milk Cow I never really thought much about cows and the milk that they produce. I guess I have always known in the abstract that the two were related. It is just that I was raised in the City of Buffalo and am accustomed to buying quarts of milk from vending machines and grocery stores. The actual origins of the milk that we drink became sort of detached from my consciousness. Oh sure, I have seen television pictures of cows being milked by hand and vacuum machines. Yet it all seems sort of removed from reality. I suppose I might appreciate the connection more if I had to get up at 3:30 A.M.every day to milk the bovine suppliers.

The Maltese Marble

THE MALTESE MARBLE It didn't seem like a special marble when I first looked it over, at old Mr. Warner's place. True, it was larger than the other cats eyes and steelies in my collection. And the smoky green eye, in the middle of the glass orb, did seem to pulse and glow, when you looked at it for a while. But, when you are eight years old, everything seems special and by logical extension, nothing is ever too extraordinary. It was just another piece of glass, or so I thought at the time.

Brain Farts

" Brain Farts " It was the custom, at our house, to sit quietly around the dinner table, after a leisurely supper, and talk of the events of the day. Subjects as wide ranging as the computer technology, of remote control Dentistry, and the difficulty of raising autistic children, would receive careful analysis and comment. My Father usually led the discussion, but it could often spread with the intensity of a wildfire. Sometimes, the conversation took on a life all its' own, as a barrage of ideas and comments were lobbed back and forth across the peach cobbler. New faces at the dinner table, in the person of friends and relatives, meant new perspectives and differing opinions. We welcomed them all, with the gusto of a pride of lions looking over a prospective kill. Nobody got away with generic statements or half formed opinions. If you were rash enough to open your mouth and offer comment, it was expected that you would explain and if necessary, defend your position. The give and take wasn't acrimonious, just spirited debate and honest curiosity.

The Map People

T H E M A P P E O P L E I see the neatly lettered names before me on a map affixed to the wall. They are a rota of communities, formed by those who came before us. The enclaves are well ordered and spacious in their two-dimensional, mercator projection. The boundary lines are linear and perpendicular and none give a hint to the complicated array of lives that reside within these neatly proportioned hereditary fiefdoms. One can imagine them to be what they are, tiny baronies with well defended borders and armed check points, with gates manned by stern looking para-military personnel.

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