Her name, she knows,
is Jane. She knows it like she knows the basket will be there every morning,
floating outside her door, the waves gently lapping against it. She knows that
inside the basket will be a meal, still warm. She likes it best when it is a
loaf of fresh bread, warm from the oven, with a golden pat of butter at its
side. There will always be a ream of coarse paper, its leaves roughly cut, and
pen and ink when she needs them.
Wednesday, March 8, 2017
Thursday, April 30, 2015
The Vending Machine, Part 3
"You know," Emma said, "if you'd just stop fixating on what happened, you'd get over it."
"Easier said than done," said James. "You weren't the one who embarrassed himself in a roomful of the best and brightest." He closed his eyes with a grimace.
"The Bollocks Club?" asked Emma, with a wicked grin on her face.
"Billocks --!"
"Bollocks! Best and brightest, hah! Funny old men, doddering about a room jabbering about sasquatchiae and bigfeet --"
"Bigfoots, technically --"
"Oh, you know what I mean. Anyway, there isn't any evidence these creatures exist --"
"Cryptids, accurately, and there's plenty! Video evidence, pictures, sound recordings, not to mention the hundreds and hundreds of sightings and encounters."
Emma paused in her step. "Have you?" she asked.
"Easier said than done," said James. "You weren't the one who embarrassed himself in a roomful of the best and brightest." He closed his eyes with a grimace.
"The Bollocks Club?" asked Emma, with a wicked grin on her face.
"Billocks --!"
"Bollocks! Best and brightest, hah! Funny old men, doddering about a room jabbering about sasquatchiae and bigfeet --"
"Bigfoots, technically --"
"Oh, you know what I mean. Anyway, there isn't any evidence these creatures exist --"
"Cryptids, accurately, and there's plenty! Video evidence, pictures, sound recordings, not to mention the hundreds and hundreds of sightings and encounters."
Emma paused in her step. "Have you?" she asked.
The Vending Machine, Part 2
“So you don’t know what happened to her?”
“No,” he said, “I don’t.”
“You were the last person seen with her.”
“Yes. No, I — I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“What? I mean –“
“Let’s go over the facts again. You, a Mr. Dennis, were seen with the missing woman heading into Kinley trail. An hour later, you walked out, alone.” I spread my hands. “There are two exits. None of the other joggers saw anyone on their way in or out. We’ve sent search parties into the woods and combed every half-inch of it. No one.”
I shrugged. “You called us. You can’t get your story straight. There was a, a what, a light? And then she was, what was it, taken? Into the sky? Babbling nonsense.”
“Look, I don’t know what I saw, okay? I was just there and then –“
“People don’t just disappear! Tell me what you did with her.”
He grimaced.
“I didn’t do anything with her. We were just talking!”
“Talking about what?”
“Her stupid obsession with god! She’s so sure there’s someone out there watching over us, and I was telling her, you know, that’s it’s a whole bunch of crap.”
“We have witnesses who say you were shouting at her.”
He avoided my gaze, drawing a deep breath. “I may have lost my temper. Just a little. But she’s been doing this for ages! Ever since she found that stupid cult –“
“Glenmarie Church of Christ?”
“Yes.” He muttered something under his breath.
“So I told her to come with me up the trail so we could talk it out. Just for a last time, you know? Then if she couldn’t listen to reason,” he spat, “I’d just get out of her loony life.”
“Did you strike her?”
“No.”
I waited. His knuckles were bruised, but clenched white.
“No! I didn’t! I would never hit Les.”
I sighed. “Look, just tell me what you did with her body, cut that crap about aliens out, and maybe we can get your sentence reduced –“
“I didn’t kill her,” he snarled.
“Then tell me the truth! Where did she go and what did you do with her?”
His face broke, and then softly, he began to speak. If he was going to confess, it would be now. I could feel it.
“We were halfway up the trail, at the clearing. And she, she was just going on and on — how happy she was and safe and secure she felt. Trusting in an invisible space cow.” He laughed to himself. “She asked me to come with her to that place, just one Sunday. One Sunday and maybe I could understand her better. I told her no. No way. Not touching that with a twenty foot pole. And if she wanted to throw away her logic and reasoning for god, if she wanted to throw away me –“
“I was so angry at her,” he said. “I yelled. I said some things I shouldn’t have maybe said, but she wouldn’t fight back. She just stood there and took it and smiled at me. I never knew a smile could cut so bad. And she said, maybe it just wasn’t meant to be, you know? If god wanted us to be together, he would change my heart like he’d changed hers. You could hear the reverence in her voice when she said God. Like a capital G, o, d. She said she hoped I’d be happy. She was sad that I’d chosen this, that she loved me, but she loved God more, and she couldn’t be with someone who didn’t love God too.”
He cradled his head in his hands. “So I punched the drinks machine. Twice. Told her if she loved god so much she should go be with him right now.”
“There was this huge rushing wind. Blew leaves and dust in my eyes. Knocked me down. I looked up at her, and she was surrounded in light. Bathing in it. Ethereal. She touched me on the shoulder,” he indicated the place, “and she looked at me. I said her name, but I couldn’t hear myself. There was only this noise, this, this, deep vibration like a thousand plucked strings. She turned. Looked up into the light and smiled, that fucking smile.”
“Then she was gone,” he said. “And me alone, with the whisper of her leaving.”
“You’re telling the truth.” I asked. It was a statement.
“Yes.”
“What did she say, at the end?”
“She said,” his voice heavy, “‘See you soon.'”
“No,” he said, “I don’t.”
“You were the last person seen with her.”
“Yes. No, I — I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“What? I mean –“
“Let’s go over the facts again. You, a Mr. Dennis, were seen with the missing woman heading into Kinley trail. An hour later, you walked out, alone.” I spread my hands. “There are two exits. None of the other joggers saw anyone on their way in or out. We’ve sent search parties into the woods and combed every half-inch of it. No one.”
I shrugged. “You called us. You can’t get your story straight. There was a, a what, a light? And then she was, what was it, taken? Into the sky? Babbling nonsense.”
“Look, I don’t know what I saw, okay? I was just there and then –“
“People don’t just disappear! Tell me what you did with her.”
He grimaced.
“I didn’t do anything with her. We were just talking!”
“Talking about what?”
“Her stupid obsession with god! She’s so sure there’s someone out there watching over us, and I was telling her, you know, that’s it’s a whole bunch of crap.”
“We have witnesses who say you were shouting at her.”
He avoided my gaze, drawing a deep breath. “I may have lost my temper. Just a little. But she’s been doing this for ages! Ever since she found that stupid cult –“
“Glenmarie Church of Christ?”
“Yes.” He muttered something under his breath.
“So I told her to come with me up the trail so we could talk it out. Just for a last time, you know? Then if she couldn’t listen to reason,” he spat, “I’d just get out of her loony life.”
“Did you strike her?”
“No.”
I waited. His knuckles were bruised, but clenched white.
“No! I didn’t! I would never hit Les.”
I sighed. “Look, just tell me what you did with her body, cut that crap about aliens out, and maybe we can get your sentence reduced –“
“I didn’t kill her,” he snarled.
“Then tell me the truth! Where did she go and what did you do with her?”
His face broke, and then softly, he began to speak. If he was going to confess, it would be now. I could feel it.
“We were halfway up the trail, at the clearing. And she, she was just going on and on — how happy she was and safe and secure she felt. Trusting in an invisible space cow.” He laughed to himself. “She asked me to come with her to that place, just one Sunday. One Sunday and maybe I could understand her better. I told her no. No way. Not touching that with a twenty foot pole. And if she wanted to throw away her logic and reasoning for god, if she wanted to throw away me –“
“I was so angry at her,” he said. “I yelled. I said some things I shouldn’t have maybe said, but she wouldn’t fight back. She just stood there and took it and smiled at me. I never knew a smile could cut so bad. And she said, maybe it just wasn’t meant to be, you know? If god wanted us to be together, he would change my heart like he’d changed hers. You could hear the reverence in her voice when she said God. Like a capital G, o, d. She said she hoped I’d be happy. She was sad that I’d chosen this, that she loved me, but she loved God more, and she couldn’t be with someone who didn’t love God too.”
He cradled his head in his hands. “So I punched the drinks machine. Twice. Told her if she loved god so much she should go be with him right now.”
“There was this huge rushing wind. Blew leaves and dust in my eyes. Knocked me down. I looked up at her, and she was surrounded in light. Bathing in it. Ethereal. She touched me on the shoulder,” he indicated the place, “and she looked at me. I said her name, but I couldn’t hear myself. There was only this noise, this, this, deep vibration like a thousand plucked strings. She turned. Looked up into the light and smiled, that fucking smile.”
“Then she was gone,” he said. “And me alone, with the whisper of her leaving.”
“You’re telling the truth.” I asked. It was a statement.
“Yes.”
“What did she say, at the end?”
“She said,” his voice heavy, “‘See you soon.'”
Waiting
There is a road. The road travels up a hill. Upon the hill stands a house, and in the house is a woman. The woman is searching for something. Her eyes scan the windows. She stands and peers into the distance, trying to make out shapes in shimmering mirages and gusting sand. Her back is straight, and her shoulders firm, but the clothes she wears are fixed with dust, and her eyes are weary. The light beats down on her neck, but she is used to its weight.
The sky is green.
There is a faint odour of ash in the air, of fire and brimstone, and once living things left too long in the sun.
The woman paces along wooden corridors bleached white and cracking. Walls flake paint. Flutes of light descend from a hundred holes in the ceiling. This is the only shelter the woman has found in a long time. She doesn’t know how long she has been waiting. Long enough for the water to run out, long enough that the cool puddles she found under what shade was left have dried up and left the ground parched and wanting.
She is unsure if the aching she feels all around her is the ground or her body.
Once the woman was not alone. Once there was a spring that dipped down into a valley flooded with sound and living things. She remembered. The cool spray of water vapour in the air. Spreading branches and gentle light. The heated touch of fingers entwined, the beating of another heart.
And then the earth heaved to and fro, and the sky tore and crumpled, and emerald and jade bled into the blue.
And then for a long while there was a great rushing of humanity into the wilderness, an onrushing tide of panic that swept them up and carried their beating hearts far away. Fires burned starkly against olive evenings, until they could not be renewed. So the woman took the hand she held and led them onto the road.
The road is old, and well travelled. There are others like them, journeying along under a viridian sky. This way, they tell her. Follow the road. Whispers of their destination, of high walls and twisting towers, cobblestone floors ‘neath graceful arches. Fountains, water flowing in cascades and sheets. She is amazed. She has forgotten what it is like to dip a hand into a rushing stream and draw a fluid arc in the air.
She smells only ash, only fire and brimstone.
As time passes, so do friendly conversations and strange fires. Their best company is themselves, anyway.
There is a new odour in the air, greasy and rotten. She is reminded suddenly of a swollen tomato bursting in blackish ooze.
One night she clings tightly to her companion. To let go would be to leave the only thing she knows behind. She feels like she has lost herself, that the fibres of her being are unravelling under a sky transformed. Her mind rattles with the anxiety of the unknown. She holds on, eyes opened long after the other slips into sleep, mouthing words into the air.
The sky is green.
There is a faint odour of ash in the air, of fire and brimstone, and once living things left too long in the sun.
The woman paces along wooden corridors bleached white and cracking. Walls flake paint. Flutes of light descend from a hundred holes in the ceiling. This is the only shelter the woman has found in a long time. She doesn’t know how long she has been waiting. Long enough for the water to run out, long enough that the cool puddles she found under what shade was left have dried up and left the ground parched and wanting.
She is unsure if the aching she feels all around her is the ground or her body.
Once the woman was not alone. Once there was a spring that dipped down into a valley flooded with sound and living things. She remembered. The cool spray of water vapour in the air. Spreading branches and gentle light. The heated touch of fingers entwined, the beating of another heart.
And then the earth heaved to and fro, and the sky tore and crumpled, and emerald and jade bled into the blue.
And then for a long while there was a great rushing of humanity into the wilderness, an onrushing tide of panic that swept them up and carried their beating hearts far away. Fires burned starkly against olive evenings, until they could not be renewed. So the woman took the hand she held and led them onto the road.
The road is old, and well travelled. There are others like them, journeying along under a viridian sky. This way, they tell her. Follow the road. Whispers of their destination, of high walls and twisting towers, cobblestone floors ‘neath graceful arches. Fountains, water flowing in cascades and sheets. She is amazed. She has forgotten what it is like to dip a hand into a rushing stream and draw a fluid arc in the air.
She smells only ash, only fire and brimstone.
As time passes, so do friendly conversations and strange fires. Their best company is themselves, anyway.
There is a new odour in the air, greasy and rotten. She is reminded suddenly of a swollen tomato bursting in blackish ooze.
One night she clings tightly to her companion. To let go would be to leave the only thing she knows behind. She feels like she has lost herself, that the fibres of her being are unravelling under a sky transformed. Her mind rattles with the anxiety of the unknown. She holds on, eyes opened long after the other slips into sleep, mouthing words into the air.
The Vending Machine
It was a painfully hot Saturday afternoon when Alan happened upon the vending machine. It was painfully hot because Alan was outside, in the sun, instead of somewhere cool and dark with an icy glass of soda. Alan wished he had a soda. Even one of those sickly sweet store brands would do. The real question, Alan said to himself, is why he was here.
As far back as the history of man extends, great thinkers have wrestled and argued with this problem. To Alan, these great thinkers were a bunch of mouldy potatoes. ‘Utterly useless,’ as his girlfriend would say. ‘Complete bollocks,’ she would continue. ‘Look at you, sitting there with your greasy fingers and fat bottom, looking at me all quizzical like. I don’t even know why I bother coming over when you’re just going to –’
The answer, of course, was that Alan was here because Melanie had put him out here.
Melanie was a woman of significant needs. Mostly, she needed Alan. She needed Alan to shape up, of course. What kind of girl had a slightly rotund boyfriend anyway? All the best looking girls had a boy with chiselled features and slabs of muscle. It’s true – she’d read it in Best Girls Weekly. ‘Alan,’ she would sigh, looking at him despondently, ‘don’t you think you ought to be like one of this lot?’ And then she would gesture vaguely at one of those male models one sees on the telly with an overdeveloped chest.
Alan would remark about someone compensating for something somewhere and then as Melanie glared at him, he would retreat meekly. At times, Melanie would cry. In the first stage, she would be a hiccupy sort of weeper, where words would get trapped in her throat. ‘Don’t you love me?’ she would stammer, ‘Don’t you care –‘
Then the second stage would set upon her suddenly, and she would dissolve into a puddle of tears and tissue paper and incoherent rages and refuse to be comforted. Alan’s bedroom would be her refuge. Alan, bewildered, would attempt to communicate. Of course he loved her. Of course he cared. He would say these things to her prostrate body, swaddled in the sheets, and she would roll around in response, her golden hair vibrating gently in time to her sobbing.
When Alan leaves, the door will inevitably be left open so that the sounds of her distress reach him.
The third stage: Alan, having dozed off on the lumpy couch, would awaken to faint noises. Melanie: a majestic yet slightly wet queen swamped in bedding and pillows, her neck held in a regal pose, would announce that she was sorry. She would be sorry for putting Alan through her moods, that she knew life was hard enough as it was, that if he could only do this one thing, this one simple thing for her, she would be eternally content, she would be ecstatic, and she knew that Alan could do it, because she loved Alan and knew Alan loved her, and wasn’t love the greatest power in the world? And her mam had always said that love could move mountains, and this were just a little molehill weren’t it?
Alan would apologize and she would swoop down like a graceful elephant and smother him with kisses and she would go into his kitchen and make pancakes for them to eat.
And then, as the aroma of maple syrup begins to curl in the air, she would announce that Alan needed to go out and get some exercise. ‘I don’t know,’ she would say, ‘just run around or something. Whatever you boys do.’
So after an hour of running up and down on a painfully hot Saturday afternoon, Alan happened upon the vending machine. His heart contracted with a sudden pang of joy, and he paused to wipe the sweat off his brow.
WISHES GRANTED, it said. DESTINIES FULFILLED!
Alan frowned. This was a non-standard vending machine in a non-standard vending machine location. It was at the side of the bloody forest trail. How did it get here, anyway? It wasn’t here… last week? Alan shrugged and prodded it with his index finger. The vending machine’s plastics had weathered in the sun, and its dramatic lettering had faded somewhat, but the colours and stars painted on it would have looked at home in a circus.
Alan put fifty cents in the slot, anyway. A can of soda rolled out, wispy vapours swirling around it. Icy cold. Perfect.
For a blissful moment, everything was right in the world.
As far back as the history of man extends, great thinkers have wrestled and argued with this problem. To Alan, these great thinkers were a bunch of mouldy potatoes. ‘Utterly useless,’ as his girlfriend would say. ‘Complete bollocks,’ she would continue. ‘Look at you, sitting there with your greasy fingers and fat bottom, looking at me all quizzical like. I don’t even know why I bother coming over when you’re just going to –’
The answer, of course, was that Alan was here because Melanie had put him out here.
Melanie was a woman of significant needs. Mostly, she needed Alan. She needed Alan to shape up, of course. What kind of girl had a slightly rotund boyfriend anyway? All the best looking girls had a boy with chiselled features and slabs of muscle. It’s true – she’d read it in Best Girls Weekly. ‘Alan,’ she would sigh, looking at him despondently, ‘don’t you think you ought to be like one of this lot?’ And then she would gesture vaguely at one of those male models one sees on the telly with an overdeveloped chest.
Alan would remark about someone compensating for something somewhere and then as Melanie glared at him, he would retreat meekly. At times, Melanie would cry. In the first stage, she would be a hiccupy sort of weeper, where words would get trapped in her throat. ‘Don’t you love me?’ she would stammer, ‘Don’t you care –‘
Then the second stage would set upon her suddenly, and she would dissolve into a puddle of tears and tissue paper and incoherent rages and refuse to be comforted. Alan’s bedroom would be her refuge. Alan, bewildered, would attempt to communicate. Of course he loved her. Of course he cared. He would say these things to her prostrate body, swaddled in the sheets, and she would roll around in response, her golden hair vibrating gently in time to her sobbing.
When Alan leaves, the door will inevitably be left open so that the sounds of her distress reach him.
The third stage: Alan, having dozed off on the lumpy couch, would awaken to faint noises. Melanie: a majestic yet slightly wet queen swamped in bedding and pillows, her neck held in a regal pose, would announce that she was sorry. She would be sorry for putting Alan through her moods, that she knew life was hard enough as it was, that if he could only do this one thing, this one simple thing for her, she would be eternally content, she would be ecstatic, and she knew that Alan could do it, because she loved Alan and knew Alan loved her, and wasn’t love the greatest power in the world? And her mam had always said that love could move mountains, and this were just a little molehill weren’t it?
Alan would apologize and she would swoop down like a graceful elephant and smother him with kisses and she would go into his kitchen and make pancakes for them to eat.
And then, as the aroma of maple syrup begins to curl in the air, she would announce that Alan needed to go out and get some exercise. ‘I don’t know,’ she would say, ‘just run around or something. Whatever you boys do.’
So after an hour of running up and down on a painfully hot Saturday afternoon, Alan happened upon the vending machine. His heart contracted with a sudden pang of joy, and he paused to wipe the sweat off his brow.
WISHES GRANTED, it said. DESTINIES FULFILLED!
Alan frowned. This was a non-standard vending machine in a non-standard vending machine location. It was at the side of the bloody forest trail. How did it get here, anyway? It wasn’t here… last week? Alan shrugged and prodded it with his index finger. The vending machine’s plastics had weathered in the sun, and its dramatic lettering had faded somewhat, but the colours and stars painted on it would have looked at home in a circus.
Alan put fifty cents in the slot, anyway. A can of soda rolled out, wispy vapours swirling around it. Icy cold. Perfect.
For a blissful moment, everything was right in the world.
Wednesday, May 21, 2014
Thomas looks for something to eat
“There’s nothing to eat,” Thomas said, looking at half a
roasted chicken sitting atop a bed of greens. “Nothing at all.” He closed the
fridge door and lay on the floor. He looked at the ceiling. It was painted an
awful beige, and it was peeling. Some of the patches made an unhappy face. He
sighed and opened the fridge again. A low hum emanated from beneath the
shelves. They were laden with, in addition to the chicken, a bowl of tuna fish
mixed with not enough mayonnaise, a plate of fried rice that had been sitting
in there for way too long and what was she thinking in keeping that half rotted
thing it even had mould growing on it
and – oh. It was that expensive blue cheese she was always mooning on about.
Thomas made a face and moved on. Orange juice, almost expired orange juice, an
opened can of Coke that he sniffed at and –
There were those sausages, he thought hopefully. They were
pretty good the last time he’d eaten them. He opened a drawer. The package of
sausages was empty. Somewhere deep inside Thomas’ soul, a darkness emerged,
filled with a bewildered hurt against the world. The fridge beeped at him, and
in its electronic monotone he heard no comfort. Thomas closed the door.
The universe was trying to tell him something. That was it.
There couldn't be another reason why he would be tormented this way.
“Haven’t I been good?” he asked the toaster. “Haven’t I been
–“
His voice caught in his throat, and there was a burning in
his chest.
“Jesus wept,” he said, in a small voice.
He sniffled.
And then, almost in slow motion, the box of cornflakes fell
to the floor, its contents spilling out into the air, falling in graceful arcs,
shattering into fractal pieces on the marbled floor –
Thomas blinked. The box of cornflakes was still on the shelf,
its colourful box proclaiming now with marshmallow
bits in gold and green, its box standing firmly on the shelf, a rock upon
which the hopes and dreams of every cell in his body stood. It was beautiful.
Thomas reached out, his fingers trembling ever so slightly, his gaze affixed.
And when he finally touched the flimsy cardboard there was a palpable warmth to
the box, and a heady intoxication that overwhelmed his senses. A low thrum
filled his ears like a thousand saxophones behind a soundproof Plexiglas and
the colours – why, the colours vibrated in his very soul.
“This is sacred ground,” he murmured, caressing its fine print,
his index finger obscuring total fat, cholesterol
and sodium. “Sacred.”
He lifted the box gently, careful of its weight. Every
moment was drawn out in time, a lifetime compressed into each second and then
expanding to the aeons. Mountains bloomed from the rock and the heavens threw
them down from lofty heights, rivers formed and swept the earth to oceans wide
and blue – a winged being, raising a spear at a huge sauropod, muscles tensing,
roaring as the spear found its mark. In each beat of
Thomas’ heart he felt the heat
death of the universe draw nearer and nearer, a million voices crying out and
suddenly silenced –
Thomas closed his eyes. “Jesus wept,” he said, reverentially.
There was a sparkle of knowing in his eyes. He pulled open a drawer and
retrieved his favourite bowl. He moved gracefully, reaching over for a spoon,
the fridge door pulled open with just enough strength to grab a bottle of milk.
He rapped the bottle of milk with the spoon and listened to its hum
reverberate, marvelling at the sound.
He opened the cereal box and began to pour, a gentle susurration
in his ears as the cornflakes rustled, calling out his name. Calling out his
name! This was divine providence. Surely, surely there was a God. Thomas had no
doubts now, no niggling questions in the back of his head, no unanswered
problems to wrestle with.
This was the land of milk and honey flavoured cornflakes,
and Thomas feasted.
Thomas gorged.
Thomas ate with a ferocity almost animalistic, desire
coursing through his veins. Tasting, tasting infinite sweetness, flavours
sliding over his tongue. His spoon, dipping, diving, driving against the bottom
of the bowl, and as he swallowed the last moist crumb, Thomas shuddered in
violent pleasure.
And when he had placed the box of cornflakes back on the
shelf, and washed and cleaned the mystical implements of spoon and bowl, Thomas
felt a strange loss. The vibrant hues had retreated to their wan pastels, and
time had returned to its steady tick-tocking. Yet there was a part of him
irreversibly connected to that moment now, a part of him that had experienced apotheosis
and had then been cast down. Thomas wiped the table clear mechanically, his
hand rubbing in circles, wondering if everything in his life had culminated to a
point now five minutes in the past.
“Is that all there is?” he asked. Would there be a division
in the line of his life, a mark that indicated the measure before cornflakes
and after? A steady rise to the peak, and sharp decline to follow? Thomas’
stomach gurgled. He looked down at it.
“No, no, no, no,” he said. The bottle of milk. It was next to
the – where was it? There! Thomas grabbed at it. It slipped out of his hand and
he caught it at the tips of his fingers. “No, no, no, no,” he said, looking at
the label. We are reminded, briefly, of Newton’s third law, which states, and
let us read it out together, ‘For every
action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.’
Of Thomas and his flight to the porcelain throne, we shall
speak no more.
Instead, let us be encouraged by the simple fact that for all
the men and women that have been born, each one has a story to tell of a
devastating number two. This one is Thomas’.
Fin
Thursday, February 28, 2013
One fish said to the other
in uniformed rows of two
went the school to the zoo
with knowledge deficient
plus a teacher most patient
for in murky waters deep and dark
hid information, ready to spark
tender minds with wicks alight
eager eyes, shining so bright
an eerie glint in his eye
the educator began to cry
"here the primates of past
ogled and goggled aghast
mighty tiger, flighty mouse
scrunchy rabbits, ruffled grouse
had men some contemplation
noticed, they would have, indications
of rising waters and falling skies
humanity said: "what's for dinner, pie?"
content with their lives contemptible
they refused to be compatible
with mother nature's sobs and pleas
saying blithely: "there is only we"
the seas rose and mountains tumbled
and homo sapiens yelled and grumbled
"we don't deserve this," they said
as their bill, in full, was paid
follow the signs down the road
covered in mud, speckled with mould
this way to their demise
(not like it was a surprise)
see the graveyards of civilizations
now silent through purification"
exeunt teacher fish, stage left
enter tuna school, bereft
"my brains are bulging," said one
"quite frankly, I'm overcome"
they floated past ruined crowns
magnificent structures now come down
they paused before boneyards wide
stared at monuments once deified
and together agreed without fail
humanity was a cautionary tale
went the school to the zoo
with knowledge deficient
plus a teacher most patient
for in murky waters deep and dark
hid information, ready to spark
tender minds with wicks alight
eager eyes, shining so bright
an eerie glint in his eye
the educator began to cry
"here the primates of past
ogled and goggled aghast
mighty tiger, flighty mouse
scrunchy rabbits, ruffled grouse
had men some contemplation
noticed, they would have, indications
of rising waters and falling skies
humanity said: "what's for dinner, pie?"
content with their lives contemptible
they refused to be compatible
with mother nature's sobs and pleas
saying blithely: "there is only we"
the seas rose and mountains tumbled
and homo sapiens yelled and grumbled
"we don't deserve this," they said
as their bill, in full, was paid
follow the signs down the road
covered in mud, speckled with mould
this way to their demise
(not like it was a surprise)
see the graveyards of civilizations
now silent through purification"
exeunt teacher fish, stage left
enter tuna school, bereft
"my brains are bulging," said one
"quite frankly, I'm overcome"
they floated past ruined crowns
magnificent structures now come down
they paused before boneyards wide
stared at monuments once deified
and together agreed without fail
humanity was a cautionary tale
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Friends
Caroline and Simon were friends. They were the best of friends, and they endured hardships together, such as the Great Twinkie Shortage of 2009, and the Summer of Eating Healthy. It was during their weekly Scrabble game in the local park that Simon announced that he would be turning eight the next day.
"Are you, really?" exclaimed Caroline, playing CONIFER for 87 points.
"I am, indeed!" smiled Simon, who then countered Caroline's pine tree with ESCARGOT for 88 points.
"That's old," said Caroline, tallying up their points.
"Oh my," said Simon, twisting his top hat nervously, "We seem to have tied."
"I like ties best," said Caroline, who wrote down their scores in her little blue book where she kept a record of their fifty-three games of Scrabble with fifty-two draws and one crossed-out game that they did not refer to, ever.
"Are we going to have a party?" she asked, demurely.
Simon nodded gravely. "Of course, and we're invited. We must be sure to give ourselves presents that we would like."
"Aunt Marigold always gives books that we've read," said Caroline, "Last year, she gave me Oliver Twist, and asked me whether I could identify. I think I rather feel more like Holden Caulfield."
"Last year, she bought me a piano, eventhough I already have two." said Simon.
"Presents are so annoying," said Caroline.
Simon packed up the Scrabble set, and opened the car door for Caroline.
"Oh, thank you," said Caroline.
Simon drove back to the house, making a careful turn around the gate and parking neatly in the lot.
"That was a splendid game," said Caroline, "I wish everyday was like today."
"Would you like a little refreshment? I have some cucumber sandwiches prepared."
"Oh, marvelous!" cried Caroline, "I just happen to have a fine bottle of strawberry wine with me here, too! We must have a picnic."
"By the poolside!" agreed Simon, enthusiastically.
The chlorinated water rippled attractively as they sat beneath their striped umbrella munching their tea.
"Have you heard of the murders downtown? It's dreadful business," said Simon.
"Oh my, yes, a family of four, and their children so young!" sighed Caroline, "Have they found the dastardly criminal yet?"
"No, they haven't, which makes it all the more worrisome. But enough about gloom and despair!" He raised his glass with his pudgy hand. "To Nine Years of Life!"
Caroline toasted him, and took a sip. She giggled and leaned in closer to Simon.
"Let's play a game," she said.
"What game?" asked Simon. The wine was beginning to tell, and he felt pleasantly light-headed.
"Tag, you're it!" squealed Caroline as she pushed Simon off his deckchair and rushed into the house.
Simon giggled violently as his cane and top hat were left forgotten on the floor.
Inside the house was silent. Simon's shoes squeaked on the shiny floor. He heard a muffled giggle coming from the dining room. He peeked 'round the door and spied a whirl of ribbons and lace.
"I see you!" Simon gave chase.
A chair toppled, and the Persian rugs were rumpled. Caroline had a nasty bruise on her elbow where she had bumped it against the potted orchids, and Simon's shirt had come untucked. The pool had turned a mild pink where the wine and spilled, and one of Monet's had fallen off the wall.
The front door opened.
"Simon! Caroline!" said his mother, aghast, "The house is a mess! I thought you knew better than this!" She took off her gloves and sat. "I'll have to call the cleaners! Everyone will know! We'll be the laughing stock of the neighbourhood!"
Caroline and Simon stood there with their heads bowed and silent, listening to their mother murmur portents of doom and punishment and ruined reputations.
Caroline nudged Simon. "That was worth it," she mouthed.
Simon smiled.
"Are you, really?" exclaimed Caroline, playing CONIFER for 87 points.
"I am, indeed!" smiled Simon, who then countered Caroline's pine tree with ESCARGOT for 88 points.
"That's old," said Caroline, tallying up their points.
"Oh my," said Simon, twisting his top hat nervously, "We seem to have tied."
"I like ties best," said Caroline, who wrote down their scores in her little blue book where she kept a record of their fifty-three games of Scrabble with fifty-two draws and one crossed-out game that they did not refer to, ever.
"Are we going to have a party?" she asked, demurely.
Simon nodded gravely. "Of course, and we're invited. We must be sure to give ourselves presents that we would like."
"Aunt Marigold always gives books that we've read," said Caroline, "Last year, she gave me Oliver Twist, and asked me whether I could identify. I think I rather feel more like Holden Caulfield."
"Last year, she bought me a piano, eventhough I already have two." said Simon.
"Presents are so annoying," said Caroline.
Simon packed up the Scrabble set, and opened the car door for Caroline.
"Oh, thank you," said Caroline.
Simon drove back to the house, making a careful turn around the gate and parking neatly in the lot.
"That was a splendid game," said Caroline, "I wish everyday was like today."
"Would you like a little refreshment? I have some cucumber sandwiches prepared."
"Oh, marvelous!" cried Caroline, "I just happen to have a fine bottle of strawberry wine with me here, too! We must have a picnic."
"By the poolside!" agreed Simon, enthusiastically.
The chlorinated water rippled attractively as they sat beneath their striped umbrella munching their tea.
"Have you heard of the murders downtown? It's dreadful business," said Simon.
"Oh my, yes, a family of four, and their children so young!" sighed Caroline, "Have they found the dastardly criminal yet?"
"No, they haven't, which makes it all the more worrisome. But enough about gloom and despair!" He raised his glass with his pudgy hand. "To Nine Years of Life!"
Caroline toasted him, and took a sip. She giggled and leaned in closer to Simon.
"Let's play a game," she said.
"What game?" asked Simon. The wine was beginning to tell, and he felt pleasantly light-headed.
"Tag, you're it!" squealed Caroline as she pushed Simon off his deckchair and rushed into the house.
Simon giggled violently as his cane and top hat were left forgotten on the floor.
Inside the house was silent. Simon's shoes squeaked on the shiny floor. He heard a muffled giggle coming from the dining room. He peeked 'round the door and spied a whirl of ribbons and lace.
"I see you!" Simon gave chase.
A chair toppled, and the Persian rugs were rumpled. Caroline had a nasty bruise on her elbow where she had bumped it against the potted orchids, and Simon's shirt had come untucked. The pool had turned a mild pink where the wine and spilled, and one of Monet's had fallen off the wall.
The front door opened.
"Simon! Caroline!" said his mother, aghast, "The house is a mess! I thought you knew better than this!" She took off her gloves and sat. "I'll have to call the cleaners! Everyone will know! We'll be the laughing stock of the neighbourhood!"
Caroline and Simon stood there with their heads bowed and silent, listening to their mother murmur portents of doom and punishment and ruined reputations.
Caroline nudged Simon. "That was worth it," she mouthed.
Simon smiled.
Delicious
The sun was beginning to rise in the morning air, and Michael could smell the dew-laden grass around him. Perching on an outcrop over a valley, he watched the sun break past the wispy clouds. It was beautiful. The sheep baaed behind him. Michael looked at it carefully. It was an ordinary sheep, but its eyes seemed oddly intelligent. The sheep moved closer to him. The sun was up now, and the show was over, so Michael began his trek home. It would be almost time for breakfast. What would Mother have in store for him? Pancakes, drizzled with maple syrup? Crispy cereal with fresh strawberries and milk? A crunchy waffle, with a heavenly scoop of vanilla ice-cream? A savoury sandwich with a cool glass of orange juice? Michael licked his lips in anticipation.
He tried to whistle as he walked, but failed miserably. The sheep followed. Michael stopped and looked at it.
"Stop following me," said Michael.
"Baa?" said the sheep. It butted his calf.
"I don't have anything to eat," said Michael.
"Baa," said the sheep.
"Go away!" Michael plodded off.
The sheep continued to follow him. Michael chose to ignore it. Suddenly, the sheep grabbed hold of his jeans.
"Hey!" said Michael, "Leave me alone!"
"Baa," said the sheep, munching on a mouthful of denim.
"Those were my second best pair of jeans!" said Michael.
"Baa?" said the sheep.
The two watched each other, the boy and the sheep.
The sheep leapt for his throat.
Michael's scream turned into strangled burbles.
"Baa," said the sheep.
Breakfast was served.
He tried to whistle as he walked, but failed miserably. The sheep followed. Michael stopped and looked at it.
"Stop following me," said Michael.
"Baa?" said the sheep. It butted his calf.
"I don't have anything to eat," said Michael.
"Baa," said the sheep.
"Go away!" Michael plodded off.
The sheep continued to follow him. Michael chose to ignore it. Suddenly, the sheep grabbed hold of his jeans.
"Hey!" said Michael, "Leave me alone!"
"Baa," said the sheep, munching on a mouthful of denim.
"Those were my second best pair of jeans!" said Michael.
"Baa?" said the sheep.
The two watched each other, the boy and the sheep.
The sheep leapt for his throat.
Michael's scream turned into strangled burbles.
"Baa," said the sheep.
Breakfast was served.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Futility
Once upon a time, there were three apples.
Jeremy had bought them at the store and had brought them home.
After placing the apples on the counter, Jeremy smiled and said, “I’m going to eat you tomorrow.”
Then Jeremy laughed and went to bed.
The three apples were frightened.
Said the first apple, “Jeremy’s going to eat us tomorrow! We’re all going to die.”
The second apple said, “Don’t worry, he can’t eat all of us.”
Then the third apple said, “But he’ll eat one of us.”
The first apple said, “We should escape.”
Then there was silence.
In the morning, Jeremy woke up and smelled the fresh air.
He hummed while he brushed his teeth, and sang in the shower.
The apples were waiting as he approached them.
“Hello Apples!” said Jeremy.
“Hello Jeremy,” said the apples.
“We’ve decided,” said the first apple, “that you may eat me first.”
“Okay,” said Jeremy, and he ate the first apple.
The other apples were horrified.
Jeremy went to college.
“He was the best apple an apple could know,” said the second apple.
“He’ll never be an apple tree now,” said the third apple.
“We should escape,” said the second apple.
Then there was silence.
When Jeremy came back, the two remaining apples were still on the counter.
He whistled as he walked, and gave a little hop, skip, and jump every now and then.
“You can eat me next,” said the third apple.
“Nah,” said Jeremy, “I’ll eat this one instead,” and he ate the second apple.
“Why did you do that?” the third apple asked, “She wanted to be an apple tree with deep, strong roots, with branches big and sturdy, with leaves that would shine in the sunlight. The song of the wind would wrap around her, and the birds of the air would sing with delight.”
Jeremy shrugged and went to sleep.
“I am the last apple,” said the third apple.
Then there was silence.
When Jeremy woke up the next morning, the third apple asked, “Are you going to eat me now?”
“Yes,” said Jeremy, and he picked up the third apple.
“Why?” asked the third apple, “Why do you have to eat me?”
“Because you are just an apple,” said Jeremy, and he ate the third apple.
Then there was silence, as there was no one left to remember the third apple.
Jeremy had bought them at the store and had brought them home.
After placing the apples on the counter, Jeremy smiled and said, “I’m going to eat you tomorrow.”
Then Jeremy laughed and went to bed.
The three apples were frightened.
Said the first apple, “Jeremy’s going to eat us tomorrow! We’re all going to die.”
The second apple said, “Don’t worry, he can’t eat all of us.”
Then the third apple said, “But he’ll eat one of us.”
The first apple said, “We should escape.”
Then there was silence.
In the morning, Jeremy woke up and smelled the fresh air.
He hummed while he brushed his teeth, and sang in the shower.
The apples were waiting as he approached them.
“Hello Apples!” said Jeremy.
“Hello Jeremy,” said the apples.
“We’ve decided,” said the first apple, “that you may eat me first.”
“Okay,” said Jeremy, and he ate the first apple.
The other apples were horrified.
Jeremy went to college.
“He was the best apple an apple could know,” said the second apple.
“He’ll never be an apple tree now,” said the third apple.
“We should escape,” said the second apple.
Then there was silence.
When Jeremy came back, the two remaining apples were still on the counter.
He whistled as he walked, and gave a little hop, skip, and jump every now and then.
“You can eat me next,” said the third apple.
“Nah,” said Jeremy, “I’ll eat this one instead,” and he ate the second apple.
“Why did you do that?” the third apple asked, “She wanted to be an apple tree with deep, strong roots, with branches big and sturdy, with leaves that would shine in the sunlight. The song of the wind would wrap around her, and the birds of the air would sing with delight.”
Jeremy shrugged and went to sleep.
“I am the last apple,” said the third apple.
Then there was silence.
When Jeremy woke up the next morning, the third apple asked, “Are you going to eat me now?”
“Yes,” said Jeremy, and he picked up the third apple.
“Why?” asked the third apple, “Why do you have to eat me?”
“Because you are just an apple,” said Jeremy, and he ate the third apple.
Then there was silence, as there was no one left to remember the third apple.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Nancy the Rabbit
When the sun shined, Nancy the Rabbit loved to come out and play where it was warm. She rolled in the grasses and flowers of the field, and played many rabbity games with her brothers and sisters. One day, while the rabbits played Catch the Tail, a shadow loomed over their friendly meadow. The rabbits quickly abandoned their playtime and ran to hide. But it was too late! Bang Bang! went Farmer Johnson's shotgun. Soon, one, two, three little rabbits lay in bloody lumps on the ground. Farmer Johnson scooped up the rabbits and put them in his worn burlap sack. His fingers were old, and they trembled with hunger. As he felt the supple flesh of the rabbits, he thought of how it would ever be enough to feed his family. The rabbits were young - it wouldn't be enough. Someone would have to go hungry again. He sighed, and straightened his aching back, looking at the setting sun. Perhaps there would be something else on the way home. As he plodded home, weary and silent, thinking of his youngest son, the one who would smile and clutch his legs as he entered the house, Father and Mother Rabbit came out of their hole. They stood by the remnants of their children in the fading grass and fallen leaves, and as the last rays of the sun illuminated their faces with bloody light, their whiskers quivered. Then it was dark.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
In a Hurry
Dear Jane,
You must forgive my hurried writing as I compose this message; it has been a while since you last wrote yesterday, and I have not yet found the time to write a detailed reply to your question: "When are we going 2 the movies?" because as such, I am simply inundated with requests and calls from loved ones and friends and family to attend a variety of gatherings and events from parties to book-reading clubs to gardening socials where all the women wear gloves, dress in white and talk with a most educated accent, much like how you are imagining my voice as you read this letter in your hand, and to get back to the focal point of this message, you asked, "When are we going 2 the movies?", and in that simple question, (I do wonder where you found the time to misspell to as 2, it's quite obscene, really), you seemed to imply that, one, you are going to the movies, two, I am going to the movies, and three, we are going to the movies together, and while I certainly think very highly of you, as mother always agrees with me when I say that Young Jane definitely has a head on those shoulders, I, forgive me, do not recall an invitation to the movies with you, unless it was that dreadful pink envelope with the stains all around the flap and the beautiful typography announcing, Elliot Tan, genius of the modern world and person universally adored, though it could have been shorter - really my memory has been quite unforgiving these past days and there have been times where while talking on one subject segue onto another quite naturally and then after can never really remember what I had been talking about not quite five minutes earlier - but the point is, I threw away that letter after admiring my name, throwing it away because it was pink, because it was stained, but mainly because of the too many hearts adorning my name that made it look like it came from a princess castle filled with five year olds in fairy suits all smiling and giggling and pointing their little wands about as beaming mothers stand back and take photographs so that they too, can smile and giggle and point with their friends, who will go home to their loved ones and think 'if only I had a child as adorable as Mrs. So-and-so's' and frankly, I abhor the idea that I would enjoy receiving a gaudy purple puke-worthy envelope, and I refuse to be taken advantage of in that dreadful manner, as I once was when I was a little child, with my baby photos being displayed about in Places of Prominence, like the top of the cupboard or on the fridge where they would cover my painstakingly drawn stick figures of Mom, Dad, my brother, and I all holding hands in a pretty garden underneath a rainbow and blue skies, much like the rainbow that could be over my head and yours, and thus I say to you Jane, I really don't think it's going to work out between us, and perhaps we should be just friends, actually it might be better if you don't call again, or even message me, because my phone is just about out of space and I might have to do something drastic, like a large man saying no, I really couldn't have another one, and then taking the last doughnut off the plate, finishing it off, and suddenly violently vomiting all over the place, excreting the metaphorical doughnuts that are actually your seventy-two-hundred messages sent to me since that week where we met and talked and laughed together about that thing that isn't really as funny now as it was then, when we were young and carefree, and unburdened with the sorrow that is now creeping upon your flesh, thinking oh God, he really doesn't like me, he really doesn't, and the raging delight that controls every eager movement of my pen, and the truth is, Jane, yes, you did come on too strong, as one of my older friends said to his bottle of vodka, so, adieu, and in the future I wish you happiness and unicorns and daydreams of what could have been Something.
Elliot
Friday, October 22, 2010
The Parade
A narrative essay, starting with a predetermined sentence.
---
She was thrown forward as the bus screeched to a halt. As she recovered from the shock she looked around her... Where was this place? People around her were rummaging through bags and reaching for cameras. She breathed on the dirty glass and wiped it with her sleeve.
There was a huge parade of people coming down the street. It sounded like there was possibly more than one marching band, trumpets and accordions lent their voices to the murmuring crowd. Alongside the street, befuddled shopkeepers and their customers were exiting the shops and gaping at the stream of human bodies.
Red, blue, green, and yellow! a mish-mash of colours adorned the parade as liberal amounts of confetti were sprayed around. The people swirled around the bus. The bus doors were opened, and a man strode up the steps.
"There she is!" he said, once he'd seen her. He poked his head out of the bus. "We've got her!"
She rose trembling from her seat, clutching her bag tightly.
"Me? What's... what's happening?"
"Alyssa Everdeen? Congratulations." he grabbed her hands and pulled her out past the stunned bus driver.
The noise was even louder outside. As she emerged, people started screaming.
"Alyssa! We love you!" "Congratulations!"
A woman yelled at her, "I wanna be just like you, Alyssa!"
The crowd was hysterical, their voices hoarse. Alyssa basked in their adoration.
A crown was placed upon her forehead, she was adorned with flowers. A shadow fell, and she gasped to see a huge blimp flying overhead. Her name was printed on it.
"Quickly!" said the man, " we mustn't be late."
"Late for what?" she asked, not wanting to leave the people.
Her people. They loved her, and she loved them.
She tried to resist, but he pulled her away from them.
"No! Let me stay!" Her tiara threatened to topple.
Smiling faces whirled past, a shopkeeper shook her hand and gave her a watermelon, his words muffled by the crowd. People kept bumping into her, yearning for her touch.
"Bless my daughter, Alyssa!"
"Save the pandas!"
"Only you can do it!"
The man led her up a beautiful white float, pulled by six golden horses. Standing on top, was her dream man. He turned and smiled at her with those pretty teeth and took her hands. Alyssa blushed. He knelt at her feet and said, "Alyssa, will you marry me?"
Alyssa didn't know it was possible to have her face turn that red.
"I don't know what to say..." she said.
"Don't say anything," he said. "Just say yes."
She looked into his deep blue eyes and handsome features. The surrounding crowd broke out into a chant, "Kiss her! Kiss her!", she nodded her head... and fell off her chair.
The people around her looked at her curiously.
"Are you okay?" one tubby boy asked.
She burst into tears. "I just had the most wonderful dream."
Alyssa sobbed all the way off the bus and back home, consoling herself with a large tub of ice-cream and her favourite movie. As she nodded off, she heard familiar strains of music beginning to play. She smiled.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Delicious Cake
One of the goals for English Class months and months ago was to write introductions for the 6 ways: 1) Describing the Surroundings, 2) Describing a Character, 3) Opening with the Main Conflict, 4) Starting with a Dialogue, 5) Starting with a Dramatic Statement, 6) Starting with a Flashback.
There were three themes.
I picked: "Write an incident when your best friend betrayed you." (Don't ask) We could write different introductory stories, but I decided to be clever *cough* and write it so that whilst you could take each introduction separately, reading them in order would give you a story.
This is what I wrote.
There were three themes.
I picked: "Write an incident when your best friend betrayed you." (Don't ask) We could write different introductory stories, but I decided to be clever *cough* and write it so that whilst you could take each introduction separately, reading them in order would give you a story.
This is what I wrote.
---
1) The cake sat on the table, seeming so out of place in the dreary room. The pallid grey walls, the mold growing on leaky taps and the unwashed dishes only accented the contrast with the bright, colourful, oh-so-edible cake. If you had entered the room, you would have smelled it immediately. Chocolate. Good, rich chocolate smells, wafting out the door, down the hallway, permeating the entire house. Such a cake had not been seen in this room for many years. Why was it there? A finger reached out towards it, hesitantly.
2) Mark was not a typical student. In addition to regularly outperforming his classmates at everything, his favourite hobby was to bake cakes. Mark was not rich - his parents had divorced when he was five, and his father, the breadwinner of the family, had left he and his mother to fend for themselves. Purchasing ingredients for cakes was hard, and that meant he had to scrimp and save every penny to enter the Annual Bake Sale at his school. This year, Mark knew he would win. The cake he had baked had no rival.
3) She opened the door gently.
"Mark? Are you home?" she said.
No reply. She sniffed. What was that smell? Something... something delicious. She drifted down the hallway, as if in a trance, dropping her bag and keys in her march to the kitchen. She ignored the sign Mark had left there - MOM, DO NO EAT - and reached out a finger to touch the glistening surface of the cake. She tasted it. Chocolate. Her favourite. Mmmph. The cake disappeared in an animalistic frenzy of gluttony, using both hands to cream the cake into her gaping mouth.
"Mom?" A sound reached her brain. It couldn't be...
"I'm home!"
"Mark? Are you home?" she said.
No reply. She sniffed. What was that smell? Something... something delicious. She drifted down the hallway, as if in a trance, dropping her bag and keys in her march to the kitchen. She ignored the sign Mark had left there - MOM, DO NO EAT - and reached out a finger to touch the glistening surface of the cake. She tasted it. Chocolate. Her favourite. Mmmph. The cake disappeared in an animalistic frenzy of gluttony, using both hands to cream the cake into her gaping mouth.
"Mom?" A sound reached her brain. It couldn't be...
"I'm home!"
4) "Oh God, what have you done!? That was mine! Didn't you see my sign?" Mark's anger was palpable.
She cowered beneath him, traces of cake and plate littering the floor.
"I didn't know! I couldn't think!" she said.
"I don't need your excuses! You were the only true parent - the only true friend I had. You betrayed me!" he spat.
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Please forgive me!" she pleaded.
Mark's wild roving eyes landed on a butcher knife.
She cowered beneath him, traces of cake and plate littering the floor.
"I didn't know! I couldn't think!" she said.
"I don't need your excuses! You were the only true parent - the only true friend I had. You betrayed me!" he spat.
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! Please forgive me!" she pleaded.
Mark's wild roving eyes landed on a butcher knife.
5) An unearthly wail pierced the air. A shriek of pain, of guilt, of the last gasping breaths of a creature. Mrs. Gumbo got up from her gardening. She peered at the rundown terrace house next door, trying to glance in the dirty windows. The door opened and a figure stepped out.
"Mark?" she said, recognizing him. "What was that?
Then she saw the blood, the butcher knife clenched between white fingers. She raised her hands to her mouth and began to scream.
"Mark?" she said, recognizing him. "What was that?
Then she saw the blood, the butcher knife clenched between white fingers. She raised her hands to her mouth and began to scream.
6) In retrospect, I never should have killed her. She was my mother, the only true friend in a world of idiots and bullies. But I had to. She had eaten it - my cake! - like an animal. I just did what I would do to any other animal. Put it down. I couldn't control myself. I can remember it like it was yesterday...
Lotus and the Dragon
A long time ago, in a land far away, the city of Asparagus stood wreathed in the early morning mist. Lotus woke up. Today was her big day! She was so excited. The day she would be fed to the dragon! She dressed quickly in her nicest clothes and tiptoed off to the dragon's lair.
She stood at the entrance of the dark, dark cave.
"Hello? Mr. Dragon? It's me! I'm your sacrifice! Won't you come and eat me?
The dragon lumbered out.
"Why would I eat you?" the dragon asked. "You don't have that which I want most. Your parents are dead and you hold no love for your grandmother. You love no one and are unloved. You have placed your heart in a cage and thrown away the key. Why would I eat you?"
Lotus stood stock still.
"Eat me!" she cried. "Please! I can’t bear being so alone and Grandmother’s too senile to care."
The dragon laughed and bent its long neck down to Lotus.
"You know, my dear," it whispered conspiratorially in her ear, "I'll tell you a secret. I don't like to eat humans."
Lotus gaped. "You don't? What’s the problem?"
"No," sighed the dragon, "They’re so fattening, and it's so hard to maintain a proper reputation these days without a tibia stuck between your teeth.”
It reached a claw into its mouth. “ ‘ike thiff wun, if’s gehing ohd.”
There was a loud crack. The dragon swallowed. “Oops. Now I have to eat you. I shouldn’t really, but perhaps... just a little taste.”
Lotus closed her eyes and prepared herself to meet her maker. She hoped her parents would be there. She took a deep breath, smelling the minty freshness of the dragon’s mouth (Wrigley’s Spearmint! Even better, longer lasting!)”, and heard a jangling sound coming from behind her.
“Halt!” a voice intoned. “Release her!”
“Aw crap,” Lotus thought, “Hurry up dragon!”
She stifled a sob as she felt the dragon withdraw.
“Foul beast! Go back to the abyss! Fall into the nothingness that awaits you and your master!”
Lotus’ eyes snapped open. A man dressed in armour stood a little ways off, standing in what she assumed was meant to be a heroic pose but was coming across as stupid. “Oh my God. You totally stole that from Lord of the Rings.”
The knight straightened up. “Did not,” he said shortly.
“Did too.” She jabbed her finger at him accusingly. The dragon rummaged around beside her, muttering to itself. “Dragon code, dragon code, I knew I had that book in here somewhere... Yes!”
“Lotus, your grandmother sent me to-”
“HAH, DID TOO!”
“RAAAGGGHH!” said the dragon. It checked to see that it had gotten their attention and began to read. “Do you not know death when you see it, old man? This is my hour!”
“YOU TOO!? WHAT THE EXPLETIVE”
The knight charged, waving his sword.
The dragon reared onto its hind legs.
The maiden stood at the side, fuming.
The dragon and knight seemed to be evenly matched, neither hitting the other, insults flying fast. And so it continued.
For nearly a day, Lotus watched in increasing impatience, stealing food and drink from the knight’s pack.
Then the maiden arose, picked up a dagger, and stabbed the dragon.
The dragon died.
The knight slumped to the ground. When he had regained his breath, he said to her, “There is no honour in my victory. What about the code?”
“Hang the code, and hang the rules! They're more like guidelines, anyway,” she said. “You ruined it! I’m going home.”
“Do I get to marry you now?” he asked hopefully.
She looked at him with pity in her eyes.
“Wait, what’s your name?”
She left.
“My name’s Leather!”
She didn’t hear it.
“It starts with an L!”
She ran.
The door unlocked, slowly.
“Hello, Grandmother. I’m home.”
---
Characters by Alyssa and Natalie
The Chair
Once upon a time, there was a chair. The chair was quite ordinary, straight-backed, tall, wooden. Uncomfortable looking. All angles and no curves. The chair had the mark of age, it had weathered countless people sitting on it, their buttons scratching its seat. It was faded and creaky, but still, it stood. Next to the chair, was a table. But the table is unimportant. The table was only there so that one could use the chair. It wouldn't work without a table. Around the two pieces of furniture, complex instruments hummed and glowed.
Matthew adjusted a dial. He didn't know what the dial did, or what would happen if he turned it, but he adjusted it anyway. It now pointed to 2. He looked at the chair, examining it for differences. No change. The screen next to the dial showed a picture of the door leading to the room with the chair. There was a man there, and the man in the room was upset. He was dressed in a white coat and thick glasses, and was screaming into the camera. There was no sound, and Matthew thought it quite wonderful that there wasn’t.
Matthew sat down on the chair. He avoided the table completely. He tried not to look at it. Ignoring it was the essence. He turned his head slightly to the left, and intoned, “I’d like a tuna fish sandwich, please.”
The machinery around him buzzed.
The lights dimmed and flickered.
Matthew waited impatiently. Then he curled his hand into a fist and brought it smashing down onto the table.
There was a sandwich there. He hesitantly reached out for it. Picked it up. The bread was warm and lightly toasted, and it had a pleasant weight about it. It was just begging to be eaten. He put it into his mouth. He bit, slowly. Tuna fish. Onions. Mayonnaise. Lettuce. Was that a hint of parsley? It was delicious. It was more than delicious. It was heaven.
He finished the sandwich. Then he got up and opened the door. The man with the white coat stumbled in, apoplectic. The man rushed around for a while, checking the dials and instruments. He stopped at the dial turned to 2 and glared at Matthew.
Matthew shrugged and said, “It worked, didn’t it?”
“Yes! But you could have gotten yourself killed!”
“Professor Nigelton,” he began patronizingly, “I did not get killed nor did I break your scientific instruments. I merely conjured a tuna fish sandwich.”
“And locked me out of the room, too,” grumbled the professor.
“You know very well that the chair has a different effect when there are two people in the room.”
The professor straightened his back and stood tall. Not that it helped, being only four feet and five inches. “It has never been proven,” he said dismissively, “that the electromagnetic waves emitted by the body would have an effect on the table.”
“Professor, nothing has ever been proven with the chair. No one has been studying it long enough without getting killed, or getting their laboratories blown up in a big ball of fire or just having the chair mysteriously stolen. Okay, not so mysterious given that it’s here, but still. No one has had it as long as we have had.”
Matthew looked for a safe place to lean on. There wasn’t any. The professor looked at him pointedly.
Matthew waited.
The man in the white suit turned red with rage.
“Aren’t you going to try it again!” he barked.
“If you ask me nicely.”
Professor Nigelton’s face flushed a deeper shade of red. He forced his face into a smile, but it looked more like a grimace from Matthew’s angle.
“Dear Matthew, could you please try it again?” he said painfully.
Matthew smiled.
“Could I have a pay raise, too?”
The professor slapped him on the back of the head.
“Just. Do it.” He hissed and slammed the door.
Matthew rubbed his head and grinned.
Matthew sat on the chair.
He looked back at the picture on the television and smiled again.
He wanted to do something bigger than just a tuna fish sandwich. Something complex. A pot roast, maybe. A stew. A steak.
He focused on the feel of the chair around him and tilted his head to the left.
“I’d like a French onion soup with two pieces of garlic bread, please.”
The lights dimmed and flickered for the second time.
“Wait, stop!” he shouted.
There was a loud ZOOP, and Matthew disappeared.
Professor Nigelton hammered at the door.
“YOU IDIOT, I TOLD YOU TO DO IT AGAIN, NOT TRY SOMETHING NEW!”
Professor Nigelton sighed as he surveyed the chair.
Another assistant gone. This wouldn’t do. Matthew had only been working there for three months, for crying out loud. The professor adjusted the chair and checked the instruments. Matthew had been a good worker, albeit impetuous and sarcastic. He was certainly much better than pretty Angelica, who had – while attempting to clean her fingernails – wrecked a particular construction of his that had been hard to build, difficult to calibrate and impossible to fix. The man shuddered. Her parents still called every once in a while, too. All those questions! He hated them. And the looks he got at the conventions. He hated the unapproachable, unavoidable gaze of his fellow scientists whenever something went wrong.
It wasn’t his fault Harry had stepped into the blades of the prototype windmill he was building. Or what-was-her-name’s accident with the disintegrator beam. Poor child. At least she still had her left arm. No. It wouldn’t do at all.
Now, how could he hide the young man’s existence in this laboratory? He was only 26, after all. Just out of university, happy to be working here. It was a good thing he had paid in cash. No traces to him at all. People might have noticed him coming in... but it was a lab, they worked odd hours...
The only thing that worried the Professor was what he would do if someone called.
He walked out of the chamber and unplugged the telephone wire.
This is a Thread
When I was seven, my grandfather called me into his room.
He was old, and he spoke in a voice that was soft and scratchy and hard to hear. He coughed frequently, and Dad said that because of his heavy smoking in his younger days, he wouldn't be here soon.
He placed me on his lap as he sat in his favourite chair, and ruffled my golden hair.
"Sarah," he said, holding something in his hand, "this is a thread. I want you to keep it."
I took the thread from him and examined it. It was warm in my fingers, and glowed in the sunlight.
"What's so special about it?" At that age, I'd already discovered the value of money and was hoping for a dollar or two.
"Well," he leaned back into his chair, and I leaned with him into his warmth, "It's a magic thread."
"A magic thread? What kind of magic does it do?"
"It remembers people. See, a long time ago when grandmother was still around, she used to sow beautiful dresses. Your mother wears that blue dress sometimes? That was grandmother's. This thread was from one of her spools. I've kept it for years. When I look at it, I remember all the love that she gave me, and I liked to think that maybe, some of her love went into this thread, too." He coughed.
"I like grandmother's dresses. They're so pretty." I twisted the thread between my fingers.
"Sarah, don't disturb your grandfather. Come out here and play." My father was looking in, frowning. I nodded and left.
"Bye."
Grandfather held up his hand to wave goodbye.
At the funeral, I remember clenching my fists so tightly that my fingernails would leave marks on my palm, grasping the thread in my right hand. The rain fell steadily.
And in my head, I told Grandfather, I love you, I'll remember you, how you played with me and fed me, how you loved Grandmother.
I kept the thread my last years in school, my first boyfriend, my first break-up, my parents' divorce.
When I looked at the thread and held it, no matter how hard things were at the moment, when life seemed about come come crashing down on my head, I would remember how my grandfather felt as he hugged me. How he whispered words of encouragement as he helped me up, like the thread was some kind of magical connection between me and where my grandparents were in heaven. They were up there, smiling and laughing, watching over me.
When the thread finally broke, I was sad, but I smiled. Because I knew the people who'd loved me wouldn't need something so inconsequential as a thread. They were there, in my heart.
He was old, and he spoke in a voice that was soft and scratchy and hard to hear. He coughed frequently, and Dad said that because of his heavy smoking in his younger days, he wouldn't be here soon.
He placed me on his lap as he sat in his favourite chair, and ruffled my golden hair.
"Sarah," he said, holding something in his hand, "this is a thread. I want you to keep it."
I took the thread from him and examined it. It was warm in my fingers, and glowed in the sunlight.
"What's so special about it?" At that age, I'd already discovered the value of money and was hoping for a dollar or two.
"Well," he leaned back into his chair, and I leaned with him into his warmth, "It's a magic thread."
"A magic thread? What kind of magic does it do?"
"It remembers people. See, a long time ago when grandmother was still around, she used to sow beautiful dresses. Your mother wears that blue dress sometimes? That was grandmother's. This thread was from one of her spools. I've kept it for years. When I look at it, I remember all the love that she gave me, and I liked to think that maybe, some of her love went into this thread, too." He coughed.
"I like grandmother's dresses. They're so pretty." I twisted the thread between my fingers.
"Sarah, don't disturb your grandfather. Come out here and play." My father was looking in, frowning. I nodded and left.
"Bye."
Grandfather held up his hand to wave goodbye.
At the funeral, I remember clenching my fists so tightly that my fingernails would leave marks on my palm, grasping the thread in my right hand. The rain fell steadily.
And in my head, I told Grandfather, I love you, I'll remember you, how you played with me and fed me, how you loved Grandmother.
I kept the thread my last years in school, my first boyfriend, my first break-up, my parents' divorce.
When I looked at the thread and held it, no matter how hard things were at the moment, when life seemed about come come crashing down on my head, I would remember how my grandfather felt as he hugged me. How he whispered words of encouragement as he helped me up, like the thread was some kind of magical connection between me and where my grandparents were in heaven. They were up there, smiling and laughing, watching over me.
When the thread finally broke, I was sad, but I smiled. Because I knew the people who'd loved me wouldn't need something so inconsequential as a thread. They were there, in my heart.
Recursion
The man folded away his phone, his father's voice still echoing in his head. His hands trembled, but he knew what he was going to do. It was 2:30. He got off the bench and left the park.
He was dressed in an oddly formal way, his suit pressed and clean, a dark blue tie falling down his front. He carried a small briefcase with him, and if you'd asked him what was inside the briefcase, he would have smiled a little and shown it to you. There would be a sketchbook of buildings and details of doors, a few worn pencils, a slim laptop, a blueprint of a building he was working on. William was not young, the brownish-black hair people had admired in his youth was turning grey, and he was not as fit as he used to be. But he was not old, either. He had not the paunch of his father nor the saggy skin and varicose veins of his mother, and he could still do 40 laps at the pool.
He sat in the doctor's office, surrounded by machines that smelled of disinfectant and cleanliness, and frowned to himself. He glanced at his watch momentarily, the time reading as 4:47 in the afternoon. Outside the closed door, footsteps passed, growing louder and then softer, and muffled voices spoke in soft rhythm. The door opened then, and William caught a glimpse of the Doctor's assistant as the Doctor stepped into the room. The Doctor was poring over some papers held in his hand, and William looked at his watch again.
The Doctor asked him then, "You're sure about this, are you, William?" Gazed into his eyes with piercing intensity, trying to see the motives behind his request. The Doctor wouldn't understand, even if he tried to explain, anyway.
William said, "Yes, I'm sure." He wondered why he had never thought of this before.
"Because what you're about to do, there is no going back."
"I am aware of that." William's heart beat faster, excitement coursed through his body.
"Before we continue with this, protocol states I must interview you. Is that alright?"
William nodded his assent.
The Doctor took a seat in front of William and put on his spectacles. They were horn-rimmed and glistened faintly in the fluorescent light, as did the man's bald spot. William hoped that this would happen quickly.
"Now," the Doctor said, "Your full name?"
"William Edward Templeton."
"Have you any family members?
"No." His voice cracked slightly.
Sarah and the two children might be sitting down to tea now, perhaps laughing over a funny story about school that day. Sarah was beautiful when he had married her, and she still was with her creases. Laugh lines, they were. His children, angels. He missed them.
"Have you been under the influence of drugs or alcohol within the last 72 hours?"
"No, I have not." The watch read 4:56 now.
"Do you believe yourself to be in full control over your actions and words?" the Doctor flipped the paper over.
"Yes, I do." He had never been so sure. Not even when he told his father he would be doing architecture in college and not medicine, or when he had looked into her eyes and said I do, or when he last kissed his wife and told her he loved her.
"Sign here."
William grasped the pen and signed his name on the paper.
"Follow me, please," the Doctor said, getting up.
William nodded as the man held the door open for him, and they stepped out into the corridor.
"Anna, the black case in the safe, if you please," the Doctor called out.
They walked in silence, the doctor's steps quick and fast, scuffing the floor, William's slow and heavy.
The assistant opened a door in front of them, and motioned to a chair.
William sat and wondered how many had been there before him.
They strapped his arms and legs to the chair and set up an intravenous line out of his arm. The tube coiled and slithered on the floor. He had stopped paying attention to what they were saying. He smiled briefly and looked at his watch. 5:15. They took his temperature, and turned on their equipment. There was still 15 minutes left. He sank into the chair and closed his eyes. It was comfortable, and he let his mind drift. It would finally be over, and he could rest. Time could go and fuck itself. A coldness entered his veins and traveled swiftly to his heart. Life slowed to a crawl, but that hum, that hum turned into a roar and he heard it and he knew and he knew that it was no use that it was no use no matter how many times he tried to get away whether it was jumping or crashing or cutting or hitting or falling or waiting he knew that it was no use time would go backwards go backwards the 54 steps from the chair to the doctor's office the chair with the uneven legs bottom right corner he knew he knew the park the birds and leaves the family with the laughing child playing with the dog until until his father's voice sounding so broken and he knew what his father was going to say and he knew that the words would be,
"Sarah and the children are dead, William."
The man on the bench put away his phone, his father's voice still echoing in his head, and wept.
It was 2:30.
He was dressed in an oddly formal way, his suit pressed and clean, a dark blue tie falling down his front. He carried a small briefcase with him, and if you'd asked him what was inside the briefcase, he would have smiled a little and shown it to you. There would be a sketchbook of buildings and details of doors, a few worn pencils, a slim laptop, a blueprint of a building he was working on. William was not young, the brownish-black hair people had admired in his youth was turning grey, and he was not as fit as he used to be. But he was not old, either. He had not the paunch of his father nor the saggy skin and varicose veins of his mother, and he could still do 40 laps at the pool.
He sat in the doctor's office, surrounded by machines that smelled of disinfectant and cleanliness, and frowned to himself. He glanced at his watch momentarily, the time reading as 4:47 in the afternoon. Outside the closed door, footsteps passed, growing louder and then softer, and muffled voices spoke in soft rhythm. The door opened then, and William caught a glimpse of the Doctor's assistant as the Doctor stepped into the room. The Doctor was poring over some papers held in his hand, and William looked at his watch again.
The Doctor asked him then, "You're sure about this, are you, William?" Gazed into his eyes with piercing intensity, trying to see the motives behind his request. The Doctor wouldn't understand, even if he tried to explain, anyway.
William said, "Yes, I'm sure." He wondered why he had never thought of this before.
"Because what you're about to do, there is no going back."
"I am aware of that." William's heart beat faster, excitement coursed through his body.
"Before we continue with this, protocol states I must interview you. Is that alright?"
William nodded his assent.
The Doctor took a seat in front of William and put on his spectacles. They were horn-rimmed and glistened faintly in the fluorescent light, as did the man's bald spot. William hoped that this would happen quickly.
"Now," the Doctor said, "Your full name?"
"William Edward Templeton."
"Have you any family members?
"No." His voice cracked slightly.
Sarah and the two children might be sitting down to tea now, perhaps laughing over a funny story about school that day. Sarah was beautiful when he had married her, and she still was with her creases. Laugh lines, they were. His children, angels. He missed them.
"Have you been under the influence of drugs or alcohol within the last 72 hours?"
"No, I have not." The watch read 4:56 now.
"Do you believe yourself to be in full control over your actions and words?" the Doctor flipped the paper over.
"Yes, I do." He had never been so sure. Not even when he told his father he would be doing architecture in college and not medicine, or when he had looked into her eyes and said I do, or when he last kissed his wife and told her he loved her.
"Sign here."
William grasped the pen and signed his name on the paper.
"Follow me, please," the Doctor said, getting up.
William nodded as the man held the door open for him, and they stepped out into the corridor.
"Anna, the black case in the safe, if you please," the Doctor called out.
They walked in silence, the doctor's steps quick and fast, scuffing the floor, William's slow and heavy.
The assistant opened a door in front of them, and motioned to a chair.
William sat and wondered how many had been there before him.
They strapped his arms and legs to the chair and set up an intravenous line out of his arm. The tube coiled and slithered on the floor. He had stopped paying attention to what they were saying. He smiled briefly and looked at his watch. 5:15. They took his temperature, and turned on their equipment. There was still 15 minutes left. He sank into the chair and closed his eyes. It was comfortable, and he let his mind drift. It would finally be over, and he could rest. Time could go and fuck itself. A coldness entered his veins and traveled swiftly to his heart. Life slowed to a crawl, but that hum, that hum turned into a roar and he heard it and he knew and he knew that it was no use that it was no use no matter how many times he tried to get away whether it was jumping or crashing or cutting or hitting or falling or waiting he knew that it was no use time would go backwards go backwards the 54 steps from the chair to the doctor's office the chair with the uneven legs bottom right corner he knew he knew the park the birds and leaves the family with the laughing child playing with the dog until until his father's voice sounding so broken and he knew what his father was going to say and he knew that the words would be,
"Sarah and the children are dead, William."
The man on the bench put away his phone, his father's voice still echoing in his head, and wept.
It was 2:30.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Herman and the Whale
"Herman," said the whale, "have you ever wanted to be something else?"
"I haven't thought about it, no," said he, dangling his legs in the water," but I suppose I would like to be a potato."
"A potato?" cried the whale, obviously disappointed.
"Well," said Herman, "I feel it would be a very fulfilling life."
"Fulfilling?" gasped the whale, obviously aghast.
"What would you like to be then?" asked he who dangled his legs.
"Oh, I don't know," said the whale, waving his flipper lazily. "Being a bird would be very liberating. No whalers in the sky, haha."
"Plenty of them in the sea, though." said Herman, hefting a heavy harpoon.
"That's true," said the whale, "that's what happens when you're wanted. Before I go," it lifted a flipper to wipe a tearing eye, "Why a potato, Herman?
"Potatoes have no feelings," said Herman as he plunged the harpoon into the whales yielding flesh.
He tried not to cry.
"I haven't thought about it, no," said he, dangling his legs in the water," but I suppose I would like to be a potato."
"A potato?" cried the whale, obviously disappointed.
"Well," said Herman, "I feel it would be a very fulfilling life."
"Fulfilling?" gasped the whale, obviously aghast.
"What would you like to be then?" asked he who dangled his legs.
"Oh, I don't know," said the whale, waving his flipper lazily. "Being a bird would be very liberating. No whalers in the sky, haha."
"Plenty of them in the sea, though." said Herman, hefting a heavy harpoon.
"That's true," said the whale, "that's what happens when you're wanted. Before I go," it lifted a flipper to wipe a tearing eye, "Why a potato, Herman?
"Potatoes have no feelings," said Herman as he plunged the harpoon into the whales yielding flesh.
He tried not to cry.
Friday, December 26, 2008
The Potato Lady
Beware the long post!
-----
The female stirred.
Where was it?
She needed it. She pawed underneath the bed. Had it fallen while she had been sleeping? Nothing underneath there except millions of dust balls. She really should have gotten around to cleaning up, but with all the sleeping to be done, there just hadn't been time.
She sighed. It wasn't underneath the bed. Perhaps in the kitchen? She couldn't remember the last time she had held it in her hand, was it in this room? The bathroom? She hoped it wasn't the bathroom. It would be horrible to get it wet. She peered around the corner, looking for that familiar ball of brown. Nothing again, except a towel she had left on the floor in her hurry to watch Oprah. She picked it up and dumped it in an overflowing basket of dirty clothes. The towel fell. Oh well. She shifted uncomfortably. She'd better start the washing. After she found it though, it wouldn't do to start the washing without it. She sniffed her shirt. Fresh enough, she guessed, for another day. Suddenly she spotted a flash of brown in the corner of her eye. She whirled and stared. There it was! She had left it in the TV remote basket. She walked to it and picked it up. Stroked it lovingly. After all, where would she be without her potato?
She sat down at the table and shoved aside last night's dinner. Then she put the potato on the table and slumped forward on her chin to scrutinize it. She snaked her arm across the table and poked it. The potato moved. She felt calm. Its presence was soothing. She remembered that she had to get some things done. Start with a shower first? A shower first. She went and got her little carry basket and put the potato in it. She tucked it on her arm and went off to the bathroom.
Fifteen minutes later she was out. Now she had washed, she felt fresh. She looked at the potato and smiled. It was already two in the afternoon, but she had the whole day to get things done! Her potato was with here, nestled in the palm of her hand, and her life was complete. Almost. She just needed to clean up the house. Yes, clean up the house. When was the last time she had dusted? She didn't remember. She drew toe squiggles across the floor, watching lines appear. There was just so much to do. There was the floor, the bedroom, the washing, the plants - oh, were the plants still alive? She got up to check. Her peace lily was wilting. Poor thing. She grabbed a nearby cup and sniffed the liquids. Smelt like water. Dumped it on the plant.
She knew what she had to do. She had to start working! But what better way to start then by making a list? That's right, she had to make a list. Right, so first, the dishes, the clothes, the mopping, no wait, the clothes were probably more important than the dishes, so if she did them first she could do all the other stuff and be finished just in time to stuff them in the dryer. Oh. She had forgotten what washing clothes entailed. There was the wash, then the dry, then the fold, then the keep. Four miserable steps in all. Why couldn't they invent something to do it all, she mused. Okay, the list, the list. Washing first. Then the bed! And then the dishes. On second thought, she'd do the dishes first, something might fall and then she'd have to wash the floor anyway. She sighed and poked her potato again. What help was it now? She looked at it for a while longer and told herself to concentrate.
Washing, dishes, bed, floor. That seemed right. Well, she'd better get started. She headed for the the filled up basket and sat down next to it. She sniffed. Something smelled, what was it she had had for dinner that night? Was it the squid? Yeah, it was the squid. She squirmed guiltily. It wasn't her fault she had vomited all over the table that night when Marcus was here. She began to sort it out, whites and colours. Crap, she'd have to wash two loads because of that stupid colour thing. Colours first, she told the potato sternly. After all, all her innerwear was coloured.
Detergent, softener, press button. Done. She pushed the pile of whites to a corner and thought back. Dishes now. She grabbed her potato and moved on. Had she enough soap? Yes, she did. Now, you stay right here and don't move, potato. She was tired of all the carrying anyway. She glanced at it and sighed. Fine. She would take the potato along to the kitchen with her. It wasn't the potato's fault that it couldn't move around. The dishes were lying in several piles in the kitchen, and some were on the table outside. She took those in first, and pushed them all in the sink. There was a cracking sound, but she ignored it. It could have been anything, she reasoned. Not necessarily the dishes.
She remembered watching her mother wash the dishes with her pretty apron tied around her waist. It was quite amazing how fast she could do it, really. A scrub here, a rinse there, a whoops-that-almost-fell here, and she was done. She wished she could be like her mother. In this aspect, that is. Big plates, litte plates, saucers, cups, utensils. She glared at the remains of a mug at the bottom of the sink. Was it a gift? Yes, it might've, but there was little left to tell. She picked up the bigger pieces and threw them into the garbage. Which was full. Crap. Something else to add to her list. She wiped her hands and reached for her potato.
She was tired now, but she knew she had to finish her duty. But perhaps a little rest would do? A little while to sit down? 40 minutes or 5 winks or something like that. She cradled her potato and sat down in her easy chair. Bliss.
A sharp beeping from her watch told that yes, it was now five-thirty in the afternoon and yes, she had fallen asleep and yes, she had been incredibly lazy. She looked at the potato. This is all your fault, it seemed to say, and she felt a twinge in her heart. She yawned as she took out the clothes from the machine and dumped them into the dryer. The potato fell. She snatched it up from the pile of wet clothes and dried it carefully on her shirt. Then she inspected it. Not wet? Good.
The minutes seemed to breeze by for the potato as it sat in its cushioned basket, as she worked at cleaning the floor and eating. Mainly eating. She hadn't eaten since she had woken, and she was hungry. But now the floor was clean, and she was full. The bed had been made, and the underneath dusted, and everything was resplendent. Ahhh. Contentment. She rubbed the potato on her forehead as she waited for the clothes to be done. Soon after, the clothes were folded. The whites could wait another day, she declared, and went out for a walk with her potato.
The end.
-----
The female stirred.
Where was it?
She needed it. She pawed underneath the bed. Had it fallen while she had been sleeping? Nothing underneath there except millions of dust balls. She really should have gotten around to cleaning up, but with all the sleeping to be done, there just hadn't been time.
She sighed. It wasn't underneath the bed. Perhaps in the kitchen? She couldn't remember the last time she had held it in her hand, was it in this room? The bathroom? She hoped it wasn't the bathroom. It would be horrible to get it wet. She peered around the corner, looking for that familiar ball of brown. Nothing again, except a towel she had left on the floor in her hurry to watch Oprah. She picked it up and dumped it in an overflowing basket of dirty clothes. The towel fell. Oh well. She shifted uncomfortably. She'd better start the washing. After she found it though, it wouldn't do to start the washing without it. She sniffed her shirt. Fresh enough, she guessed, for another day. Suddenly she spotted a flash of brown in the corner of her eye. She whirled and stared. There it was! She had left it in the TV remote basket. She walked to it and picked it up. Stroked it lovingly. After all, where would she be without her potato?
She sat down at the table and shoved aside last night's dinner. Then she put the potato on the table and slumped forward on her chin to scrutinize it. She snaked her arm across the table and poked it. The potato moved. She felt calm. Its presence was soothing. She remembered that she had to get some things done. Start with a shower first? A shower first. She went and got her little carry basket and put the potato in it. She tucked it on her arm and went off to the bathroom.
Fifteen minutes later she was out. Now she had washed, she felt fresh. She looked at the potato and smiled. It was already two in the afternoon, but she had the whole day to get things done! Her potato was with here, nestled in the palm of her hand, and her life was complete. Almost. She just needed to clean up the house. Yes, clean up the house. When was the last time she had dusted? She didn't remember. She drew toe squiggles across the floor, watching lines appear. There was just so much to do. There was the floor, the bedroom, the washing, the plants - oh, were the plants still alive? She got up to check. Her peace lily was wilting. Poor thing. She grabbed a nearby cup and sniffed the liquids. Smelt like water. Dumped it on the plant.
She knew what she had to do. She had to start working! But what better way to start then by making a list? That's right, she had to make a list. Right, so first, the dishes, the clothes, the mopping, no wait, the clothes were probably more important than the dishes, so if she did them first she could do all the other stuff and be finished just in time to stuff them in the dryer. Oh. She had forgotten what washing clothes entailed. There was the wash, then the dry, then the fold, then the keep. Four miserable steps in all. Why couldn't they invent something to do it all, she mused. Okay, the list, the list. Washing first. Then the bed! And then the dishes. On second thought, she'd do the dishes first, something might fall and then she'd have to wash the floor anyway. She sighed and poked her potato again. What help was it now? She looked at it for a while longer and told herself to concentrate.
Washing, dishes, bed, floor. That seemed right. Well, she'd better get started. She headed for the the filled up basket and sat down next to it. She sniffed. Something smelled, what was it she had had for dinner that night? Was it the squid? Yeah, it was the squid. She squirmed guiltily. It wasn't her fault she had vomited all over the table that night when Marcus was here. She began to sort it out, whites and colours. Crap, she'd have to wash two loads because of that stupid colour thing. Colours first, she told the potato sternly. After all, all her innerwear was coloured.
Detergent, softener, press button. Done. She pushed the pile of whites to a corner and thought back. Dishes now. She grabbed her potato and moved on. Had she enough soap? Yes, she did. Now, you stay right here and don't move, potato. She was tired of all the carrying anyway. She glanced at it and sighed. Fine. She would take the potato along to the kitchen with her. It wasn't the potato's fault that it couldn't move around. The dishes were lying in several piles in the kitchen, and some were on the table outside. She took those in first, and pushed them all in the sink. There was a cracking sound, but she ignored it. It could have been anything, she reasoned. Not necessarily the dishes.
She remembered watching her mother wash the dishes with her pretty apron tied around her waist. It was quite amazing how fast she could do it, really. A scrub here, a rinse there, a whoops-that-almost-fell here, and she was done. She wished she could be like her mother. In this aspect, that is. Big plates, litte plates, saucers, cups, utensils. She glared at the remains of a mug at the bottom of the sink. Was it a gift? Yes, it might've, but there was little left to tell. She picked up the bigger pieces and threw them into the garbage. Which was full. Crap. Something else to add to her list. She wiped her hands and reached for her potato.
She was tired now, but she knew she had to finish her duty. But perhaps a little rest would do? A little while to sit down? 40 minutes or 5 winks or something like that. She cradled her potato and sat down in her easy chair. Bliss.
A sharp beeping from her watch told that yes, it was now five-thirty in the afternoon and yes, she had fallen asleep and yes, she had been incredibly lazy. She looked at the potato. This is all your fault, it seemed to say, and she felt a twinge in her heart. She yawned as she took out the clothes from the machine and dumped them into the dryer. The potato fell. She snatched it up from the pile of wet clothes and dried it carefully on her shirt. Then she inspected it. Not wet? Good.
The minutes seemed to breeze by for the potato as it sat in its cushioned basket, as she worked at cleaning the floor and eating. Mainly eating. She hadn't eaten since she had woken, and she was hungry. But now the floor was clean, and she was full. The bed had been made, and the underneath dusted, and everything was resplendent. Ahhh. Contentment. She rubbed the potato on her forehead as she waited for the clothes to be done. Soon after, the clothes were folded. The whites could wait another day, she declared, and went out for a walk with her potato.
The end.
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