Hi, My name is Douglas Turek. You can call me Doug. I'm a witty, somewhat scruffy bookseller and happily married husband and father. I write science fiction and fantasy and poetry, some of which will show up here. Feel free to drop me a line at my first name Douglas, followed by an R, then Turek, add in the pleasing at sign, gmail, then the ubiquitous 'com'.
Why not ask me a question?
Here's my flavors.me page.
What I've liked
Background Illustrations provided by: http://edison.rutgers.edu/
Reblogged from utterlybanal  80,946 notes

vi9:

slaughterhouse-ninetwofive:

albinwonderland:

ediebrit:

oh my fucking god

huge fucking trigger warning but oh my god

shots. fucking. fired.

No…no… Comedy central unfortunately hit the nail on the year and just ouch

A woman drew her long black hair out tight
And fiddled whisper music on those strings
And bats with baby faces in the violet light
Whistled, and beat their wings
And crawled head downward down a blackened wall
And upside down in air were towers
Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours
And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells. By

excerpt from T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land, 1922

The original goth, eh?

Reblogged from rulesformyunbornson  297 notes

14. Men with facial hair have something to hide.

(via rulesformyunbornson, rulesformyunbornson)

Hey Daddy-O, that is like so uncool.  Like, do people with hair on their head have something to hide?  What about clothes? How about attitudes or beliefs?  What about biases or slants or propped up modes of reality?  What about …rules?  There are plenty of things that exist to obfuscate, veil, or otherwise direct or misdirect one’s attentions or suspicions away from one thing or another, but facial hair will attract only as much attention as you give it.  It is, in reality, strands of discarded proteins emanating from follicles, which are all over every human body.  I will agree with many rules, but I can’t back this one.  Facial hair is innocuous when the world hides so much else behind so many other things.

The Man On The Moon

by Douglas Robert Turek

As I crossed the edge of the desert, I came upon a man, a large man.
The large man looked like a circus strongman. He was muscular and a bit fat. He sat upon what appeared to be the moon itself!
“Hello!”, I said.
“How do you do?”, he said.
“Oh, good. Can I ask you what you’re doing?”
“All day I hold the moon down so it can’t get away.” He was sitting on the moon, which was just a few feet across. It looked sulky, and maybe a bit complacent.
“Would you escape if you could?” I asked the moon.
“Of course!”, said the moon. I have the power to leap into the heavens in seconds and then sail majestically across the sky, pulling poems and dreams out of the heads of mortals everywhere, from the sleepy to the insomniacs. I am a creature of the firmament. I was made to illuminate and inspire and soar! My very being is more important than the angels and imps, the emperors and the idiots. I belong in the sky. Of course I would escape if I could.”
“Then do you get recaptured after every night?”
“Yes!”
“Why? Couldn’t you fly away?”
“Perhaps,” said the moon,” but it is in my nature to be captured. That’s what all of those poets and artists do with me, anyway. They snare me. Like this one.” She indicated with a nod of her head towards the large man sitting on her. Every morning about ten o’clock, he writes another sonnet about me. I come down to look at it, and that’s when he gets me.”
“So you know what’s coming? Can’t you avoid it?”
“I could, but it’s nice to have someone write poetry about you, and even nicer that they never give up.”
“I never will!” said the large man, smiling. He leaned over and gave the moon a kiss on her cheek. She blushed a bit and winked at him.
“It was nice meeting you both.”, I said.
“You, too.”, they both said.
As I walked away, I heard him say, “Tea’s ready.”