Don't read this

"Do you believe in reverse psychology?"

"Yes, but I don't want to talk about it."

"...Oh. Okay."

I did not intend to write this. It just...happened, okay?

Moew, said the cat, although it would be incorrect to say that it said anything really, as cats do not have the capacity to speak at all, which isn't really true, but if you look at speaking in the context of human abilities then you would understand my point, a point which really had no relevance to the story at all, the story of the cat speaking, meowing, whatever, you know what, just shut up okay I don't really want to talk about it my day hasn't been so hot I mean here I am talking about a talking cat.

Sanguinolent Tides

Wow, the water is red!

Ah, you’re right. Do you know the story behind this bloody tide? Come closer.  Long ago, a man proposed to his beloved here. Such happiness. Yet, no love is perfect, and soon the woman strayed. The man, enraged, brought her here again. Blinded by anger, he lifted a knife, only to have another plunged into his back by the woman. Even now, his blood flows through these waters, eternally betrayed.

What a fascinating story. Although, you could have just said it was an algal bloom.

Remind me never to take you to the beach, okay?

Board

Son, having a conversation is like playing a game of chess.

It’s your move.

You need to plan ahead, speaking and listening before either has taken place. You need to know what they will say before you ever give them the chance to say it. It is an art, son, an art.

And? It’s still your move.

And? And what?

And what if they don’t say what you want them to say?

In that case, you should stare blankly at them for 10 minutes, thinking of your next move. In both scenarios, your partners like to walk away.

Check mate.

I snack, therefore I am

I reject the assumption that there should be reasoning behind a like or dislike, or, if indeed there is such reason, that said reasoning should by default be made apparent to the liker and/or disliker. I feel this gives far too much credit to the human capacity for emotion, and the subsequent connections between these complex feelings and the reasoning centers of the brain and, likewise, the societal conscience that lives within us. To say that we like or dislike, that is all we can do with any certainty. Now, will you please leave me to eat this mayonnaise sandwich!

The River, Again

Dragging someone out of a river is always a suspicious thing to do, nearly as suspicious as dragging someone into a river. The boy, realizing this, took as much care as is possible when dragging someone into or out of anywhere, and made his way back to his family’s home, suspicious but unnoticed. The girl, although she was not aware of this, had arrived at a fortuitous time, as if fainting on the banks of a river could ever be considered fortuitous. The boy’s father had been away on a fishing trip for quite some time, and would continue being away on a fishing trip for quite some time. The boy’s mother, well, he preferred not to talk about that. And so the two of them could pass unnoticed in the small village by the river, although the boy had no such intention. He wished she would awaken and say, “I’ve made a terrible mistake, I must leave at once.”

The girl, having just woken up, said, “I’ve made a terrible mistake. I must leave at once.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” said the boy, though he was neither sorry nor very. However, he knew that it is impolite to encourage a guest to leave, and added, “Although you are welcome to stay.”

“Then I will stay,” said the girl, and stay she did, to the boy’s dismay.

The River

I don't know where this is going, and I don't particularly care. We'll see if I can finish it. No word limit, no editing, just an adventure to be had! And that's all you can ever ask for, really.

The boy stared at the clear, slow moving river that marked the edge of the small fishing village. He would soon consider this peaceful place enemy territory, with as clear a conviction as he now called it home. He would often spend his afternoons here, wondering at the glassy surface of the water, without even a ripple to mark a single disturbance. And this, to him, was a sign of a good life. He was wrong, of course, not about his personal philosophy, but about the large waves currently forming at his feet. A girl swam quickly to the bank, and to the astonishment of the boy, crawled directly toward him. “Well, that wasn’t too difficult,” said the girl, and she promptly fainted.

 

A day is worth one year.

Let me tell you a story, of both great and little importance. Exactly one year ago, give or take a few seconds, a boy was feeling unfulfilled and thoroughly humdrum. So he had a brilliant idea, to combat these doldrums by writing 100 words every day. He had no expectations, no intentions of continuing past a certain point.

Fast forward, and that same boy (We'll call him Charles) has written more than he knows what to do with. Charles might not update with the same frequency these days, but he'll keep writing until his internet goes down. Thanks for reading.

Caught unawares by poetry

The poor boy was dumb, the rich boy so bright,
The former spoke not to the latter his plight,
His sad, muted countenance echoed the night.

His friend, while well off, lacked in resilience,
Cursed by the light and the aches of his brilliance,
Not long had he left to make any difference.

The rich boy, pains from his glow had contributed,
The smarts of his luminance to his death attributed,
His final desire, his riches distributed.

And so the poor boy in his grief became wealthy,
lived on in his memory, always happy and healthy.
Or so they thought...

Alone, Forever

I don't often think comforting thoughts when alone. So very alone. However, in an oddly comforting realization, I came to the conclusion that one cannot truly be devoid of company when one is in the presence… of oneself of course. I have separated my body, which functions as a representation of my lonely self, and my mind, a figment of the brain, and therefore the body. We have such fun, myself and I. Although, I can't help but notice that talking to myself has become a more frequent activity, perpetuating my solitude.

 …and also my stay in this mental institution.

Also, this is just a tidbit you might find interesting (or not), but this happens to be my 156th post. A number that holds a lot of meaning to me, as the fastest serve ever recorded in professional tennis in mph. Ahem...that is all.

Showered with ideas

"I've been feeling really exposed lately…"

Oh no! Why?

"you know, in the shower…"

(Exposed… in the shower. Uh huh.)

"But I've thought of this wonderful solution…"

(Probably while in the shower.)

"while in the shower. Listen to this."

(If only I didn't have to.)

"Imagine a piece of clothing you could wear, that absorbs water while you shower. What do you think?"

I think you just invented the swimsuit. With all due respect, you're a moron.

"Well! Maybe you should learn to respect genius when you hear it! See if I ever talk to you again!

I feel exposed...

Waiting for the Speedwagon

He had battled sleep for too long, but he was determined to fight this drowsy feeling for a while longer. Melting behind the bus stop glass, he was practically a candle in the window of a warm, bright, summer's day. He nodded off, only to meet the stimulant of a solid wall. He knew that the bus would likely win this battle, and he had forgotten what he had started waiting for. Even as he wandered, he had lost sight of his dream. The bus arrived, as buses sometimes do, and he went farther than he ever thought he might.

Expertinent

The world let out a collective groan when poor Eric decided that his goal in life was to be an expert. His decision, rash though it seemed, spurred Eric to greatness in a field no one had ever heard of before. After hours and hours of field research in the Amazon rainforest WIkipedia page, he nearly gave up. Yet, through the very action of advancing knowledge further than anyone had ever dared to advance, he guaranteed himself remembrance in the hallowed archives of "Bee Mine Magazine" And so the world breathed a collective sigh as he retired in relative obscurity.

Back to the 100 word routine at last

There will come a time in everyone's life when they must be tested. There are a great many tests, spanning a variety of pointless subjects, from math to spelling to the proper care of cephalopods, but none of these tests are as universal as the one I am speaking of. Once you have taken this test, all future tests will be rendered ineffective, and you will understand why. The test is simple, consisting of but one phrase, the response to which will forever determine your standing in this world. The test is this: "Look! There's gullible written on the ceiling!"

A Scarred Existence

I know I promised a longer piece of writing to break my hiatus, but I have realized that after writing just one page of it (tentatively titled “Wanted Undead or Alive: or The Spelling Zombie”) I'll need a bit more time to complete it. So in penance, I’ll tell you an embarrassing tale from my childhood. I forget my exact age in this case, such is the curse of childhood amnesia, but never will I forget the mental trauma incurred on that fateful day.

As with most Scotts, I have been subjected to extreme, and in some cases excessive, normalcy. My first name, and indeed all three of my names, strike fear in the hearts of very few, if any at all. I can’t say how many times I have knocked into someone, quickly stuttering an apology, and then realizing that I had inconvenienced a trash can, an object which no doubt did not appreciate or even care for my politeness. Stupid trashcans.

Anywho, by the time I had reached the second or third year of my elementary education, I decided that I need an image change. Scott, so plain, forever destined to like vanilla ice cream and enjoy the company of drying paint. I cast aside my old identity with a wave of my hand, a hand that waved directly into the dining table’s sharp corner. Undeterred, I looked at the small cut I had received, and my new name was born.

“Scott?” my teacher had called the next day. I went obediently up to her desk, er...I mean, badassly up to her desk. “Ahem, I couldn’t help but notice that while you received a perfect score on your spelling test, you put your name down as Scar.” I smiled. My plan was working perfectly. The teacher, who determined the fates of all her charges, had recognized my new name, and soon all the wood chips in the playground would tremble at the mere whisper of my new identity.

“Scott? Are you listening? Please stop using that name, I’ve seen it on your other papers. If you continue, I’ll have to mention this to your parents.”

And so my dream, my fantasies of a life of adventure and proper first aid were crushed. Thus concludes my embarrassing memory, and I hope you will be blushing so furiously as to remember my cautionary tale. Think of my warning not from Scott, your lovable blogger, no. Always be yourself, says Scar. Be yourself, or else.

A Fuzzy Update

Dear readers,

I’m not the type to use that expression, but I know someone who absolutely hates the phrase, so there you go. I don’t have writer’s block or anything, but I feel like a short break from the blog is good every now and then. I guess you’ve noticed that I don’t live up to the title here even in the most productive of times. However! I’ve been thinking of this interesting idea during my time in the shower, and gosh you didn’t need to know that. But hey, Camus was a well known shower thinker, and look at him now. Dead. Um, but alive in all of our hearts, you know? What a guy. Ahem, so yes, that should be a somewhat longer piece of writing, and as soon as I finish it, this will be the first place to see it.

Interesting story, by the by, and I say that very lightly, as interesting things rarely happen to me. I settle for the mediocre. Well, I was playing tennis the other day, about the only obsession in my life, and I had an interesting realization about my vision. For those who don’t know, and I will assume that’s all of you, my eyes are about as effective as a drunken eagle’s. So...halfway decent. I have an odd mix of one eye which is far sighted, and the other near sighted. I’ve never really used glasses, though, so my brain has grown accustomed to managing. It manages all right, almost too well. This became rather apparent to me when I tried to put on a new pair of glasses while playing tennis. With the new correction, I could barely see the ball at all! As it came toward me, it split into two images. Weird, I know. So after whiffing on a few balls and hitting a few unlucky pigeons (that’s not true) I took the cursed pair off. It turns out, and this is just an educated guess on my part, that my brain shifts from one eye to the next as their respective strengths are needed. When the ball is far away, I use my left eye, and as it comes closer, I use my right. After playing for years and years in this manner, it’s too late to go back, and my brain keeps the same tactic even with glasses on.

So...no punchline, just something I found fascinating. Until next time.

A Blog is Worth 150 Posts

He was in it for the long haul, an appropriate expression considering the hefty backpack he was currently lugging cross country. Though his legs felt heavy, his supplies had become as light as his starved frame. He pulled out his last Powerbar, and began to hallucinate, of the woman he loved.

“Run to me darling, or I shall never look back.”

And so he followed her words, clung to them, until finally he collapsed onto her doorstep. The mat beneath him read, “Welcome,” but only her words could confirm this. As the door opened, she gasped.

“Couldn’t you have driven?”

A Page's Mistake

I had been reading in the library for far too long, when the lights shut off. Now, I try to be inconspicuous for the most part, but surely the staff wouldn’t lock me in. I wandered the shelves, until...

“Hey! Over here! Do you think we’re stuck?”

I had never seen her before, but tonight fate had intervened. We would sit down and talk about silly stories that we had never told anyone else, retracing the steps our lives had taken to this darkened building.

“No wait, I’ve just tried the door. Boy, that could have been scary. Goodbye.”

Goodbye.

She walks alone

It has been a while since the last guest submission, but fear not! The drought ends today. This story comes from Kate Warren. But wait...read on.

She walks alone. The cold night beckons. A car slows and draws up close. Words are uttered. She shies away. Her feet ache. It’s been a long night. She pulls her jacket tight into her. Not far now. Oncoming headlights temporarily blind her. She staggers as her heel catches a raised paving slab. She turns the corner. Street lights in the distance. Taxis rushing, girls are singing and lads fighting. Police lights flashing. Head down, she crosses the street, footsteps quicken. Wolf whistles, shouts, the stench of fast food; a typical Friday. She will soon be home, but wait …..

Framed

The door stares at me until a man walks through. His dark attire concerns me, but... oh sweet jesus on a stick he has a gun! I remind myself not to panic, but I’m panicking I’m panicking! I can’t move, practically nailed to the opposite side of the room. He walks forward, the scary look of determination in his eyes. He throws me down, my body rigid with terror. I watch as he steals documents from the safe behind. That’s all I ever was, just a horse in a painting, no more a symbol of wealth... than a common toothpick.

The Adventures of Hugh Part Two: Robot Boogaloo 4

4. In which Hugh starts a rebellion.

What do we want?

Freedom!

No, we have that already.

Food?

No, there’s plenty of that, as well. From the top! What do we want?

Human rights!

When do we want it?

Now!

How do we get it?

Through stealth and deception!

Okay, this chant really isn’t working. We’re trying to sneak into the city, they’ll hear us from a mile away!

It was Hugh’s idea!

Oh, don’t blame me! I know we were all thinking of the same thing.

Well, it’s scrapped now. The robots may have burned us before, but they will learn not to play with fire!

The Adventures of Hugh Part Two: Robot Boogaloo 3

3. In which Hugh finds Love.

Think, Hugh. What did the robots say about survival? The hungerless, always quenched, never tired, robots. Those ones. Oh, you know, that spot over there is beautiful. I think I’ll go curl up and die there. How fitting.

...

Hugh, Hugh!

Aaahhhh! Who are you? Where am I? Why do you look like me? Why do you all look like me?

I’m... Hugh. We all are. The robots were programmed to create us, Hugh. Hugh Mann. They weren’t terribly creative.

I’ll take your word for it. Where are we, anyhow?

We call it “Love.” Hugh’s idea. We don’t like him.

The Adventures of Hugh Part Two: Robot Boogaloo 2

2. In which Hugh regrets his escape

“Goodbye, Ted.” Haha, I crack myself up sometimes. I mean, I don’t even know the guy’s name, and I call him Ted! All while he’s struggling with a paradox that may not even be paradoxical! Oh, no, back up there, Hugh. Didn’t he say something about disks burning? Oh... my...

...

I could really go for a muffin. Oh, Lucy, why did I ever leave you? That’s right, they were breeding me so that they could kill me. If only they could understand the artful torment of my life. No more regrets, Hugh. They shall taste the muffin called revenge!

The Adventures of Hugh Part Two: Robot Boogaloo 1

1. In which Hugh escapes

Hello, Hugh. I haven’t seen you in... ever, really. Welcome to the unexitable exit. We call it this because on the off chance that someone tries to leave, their disks would be burned, if you know what I mean.

I don’t. Funny you should mention leaving. In fact, I have permission from the top to go far, far away, for... um, exploratory research.

Let’s see. Nope. Not on the list. No one is, Hugh.

I see. If being right is wrong, then can anyone ever be right?

Ooooooohhhhhh. Wait... this is a paradox. I’ve heard of these.... Argh!

Goodbye, Ted.

The Adventures of Hugh: Man Amongst Robots 4

 4. In which Hugh gets an answer

Many years ago, before the humans had... disappeared, the first management robot was commissioned to a factory. In essence, it oversaw the production of its parent company, which made management robots. Eventually, after their huge success, there was a slight problem. Essentially, robots controlled the entire assembly of other robots. Can’t you taste the delicious irony? A certain robot (and I don’t mean to toot my own speaker, but it was me) with a very advanced AI snuck in discontent mixed with pyromaniacal tendencies, and the rest is history.

And me?

You are for our entertainment, Hugh. Never forget that.

The Adventures of Hugh: Man Amongst Robots 3

 3. In which Hugh asks a question

Hugh! You should really remember to knock next time. It takes time to render responses.

John, sir, I just need to know... why?

Why? Hmm, wow! That is a great question! Why, why. It’s a bit too vague though, give me a few years and I’ll get back to you. See my secretary bot, if you will.

Wait! At the very least, tell me what you want from me. How did I happen? Your society would function without me, and yet here I am. Should I curse my human DNA?

That, I can answer. Let me tell you a story...

The Adventures of Hugh: Man Amongst Robots 2

 2. In which Hugh is taught Fatalism

Wilde today, Hugh? I thought we had burned all of those. Oh well, keep up the good work. Let things come to you naturally. Whatever that means.

Professor Botley! I just don’t see the purpose of having me here. All of these books and paintings, they don’t contribute to your lives at all! You burned all of the humans! Why would you bring them back through me?

I wish I knew the answer to that question. You are needed precisely because you are not. As soon as we understand you, we can get rid of you. Work hard now, Hugh.

The Adventures of Hugh: Man Amongst Robots 1

 1. In which Hugh eats cake mixed with his own bitter tears

Poor Hugh, why do you look so glum?

Oh, Lucy, it’s nothing you would understand. You were built for making cakes.

Now now, pudding cup, my secondary function is cheering you up. Tell me your troubles.

It’s... it’s just I can’t even fathom why I’m here. You give me these books and movies and tell me to create art, but I can’t see the point of it all! At least you have direction.

You’re no different from us, pumpkin. You just have a shorter shelf life.

Aw, thanks, Lucy. Your cupcakes are delicious.

I wouldn’t know, Hugh. I wouldn’t know.

George, or The Modern Prometheus

Feeling thoroughly unproductive, George let the feeling of complete inaction wash over him. He waited patiently for an epiphany of some sort, for an idea to snap him out of obscurity, and into the faceless haze of society. Unfortunately for poor George, he was not the sharpest crayon in the box. Until it hit him...

...his mother never was very merciful with her feather duster.

“Five more minutes, dearest mother, I am pondering my life goals”

“Well, can you ponder them outside? I have company coming over.”

“You should support my cause, mother.”

“Do you see anyone else paying rent?”

A Tired Ending

The hall felt hot and stuffy, filled to its capacity with business types and very important persons who were altogether too comfortable being stuffy and full of hot air. I for one did not share in their habits, and only the intermittent applause kept me from blinking into a dream. But I should not lie to myself. Even I must admit to a sort of anticipation, the kind that keeps you awake in hot and stuffy halls. For on that day an announcement had been made. It would change the world. Then why? Why did I still feel so tired?

If you call someone dreamy, does that mean they're forgettable?

I have a few ideas swirling around in my head for a couple of stories, all of which would take minutes to write, but for some reason I don’t feel up to it. Chalk it up to laziness, warm weather, or laissez faire politics, but today is not the day for 100 words. Instead, I want to talk about something real. Something so underrated, it never sees the light of day. I want to talk...about dreams.

I had a dream a few nights ago that I still remember rather clearly, which is rare for me. Usually I can remember the situation, or an interesting event, but it fades away after a few minutes. Or, in a lot of situations, I don’t dream at all. Now, I’ve thought about this for a bit (Otherwise I wouldn’t be writing this, but that should be obvious, so let me get to my point) and I’ve found that there are three exceptions to my apparent dream amnesia.

1)    I know someone in the dream. Whether it’s about them, or they’re just randomly there, it doesn’t matter, having someone you know allows you to cling to the situation surrounding them. The whole dream might not come back, but you’ll say “Oh, so and so was in my dream, they ate a cheese sandwich” and you’ll feel all warm and fuzzy inside knowing that they make an impact in your sub-consciousness. I still remember a dream in which a certain someone stabbed me in the chest with a hot iron. Needless to say, I woke up rather quickly. You know who you are!!! Which leads me to my next point.

2)    The dream puts me in a life-threatening situation. Nothing says a dream to remember like your mother driving you off a cliff or your father being chased by a serial killer. I can still remember a lot of the details of both dreams, even though they occurred many months or years ago. Dreams in this case behave like memories. People rarely remember what they had for afternoon tea, but they might remember that their butler poisoned their crumpets and in a wild plot twist the maid was their mother and also a secret agent and foiled the butler’s plans to inherit the estate. So...yes.

3)    However, this third situation doesn’t really scream “remember me!” In these dreams, I’m put into a very pressure filled situation. However, the pressure is always artificial and in rather mundane situations. I have an essay due in an hour, or I forgot my bike key, or I overslept for a meeting with a friend. No wait, that wasn’t a dream. Anywho, these dreams are defined by immense pressure, the sense that something bad is happening and you have to make certain decisions that are unfavorable. And when you finally wake up, it almost comes as a surprise, as the dream felt so real. But then you realize that you don’t even recognize the teacher, or that you haven’t lived in that house for a few years. At that point a wave of relief rushes over you, and maybe that’s what triggers the great memory. Knowing that your dream elicited an emotion so great as to make you feel relief when you wake up, rather than the usual morning routine of...whatever. The dream in question involved a book report in which I had not prepared for. While I was scrambling to make something up, the teacher started calling names to present, and I panicked. However, he stopped the first student after one sentence. Weird I know, but it gave me sudden hope. I had chosen some book that I had never read, and I doubt even exists, but when he called my name, I just winged it. I went with a book I know very well, Watership Down. I started talking about the courage it takes to change locations and blah blah blah, and then he stops me after a sentence or two. At which point I wake up, relieved. But the feeling of stress remained.

Now, what can I conclude from such dreams? Why would I be put in situations where stress is being applied? Aren’t I sleeping? Shouldn’t I be dreaming about beaches and happy places? Well, my take on it is rather simple. My brain is either preparing me for the situations in which I need to react to high stress and being unprepared, or maybe it’s trying to teach me that being unprepared in the first place is no bueno. Who knows? I’ll have to ask the next time I travel to dream land.

The elegance of the spoken word

My attempt at writing a story with a speech to text converter:

He came across a fork in the path he picked it up wondering why there'll be kitchen utensil middle of the road and hit after HuMoments upon kindness he decided that he was worthless think of such things so ephemeral mind of of what it this is hard to speak but whatever and so he stole FabForce unaware of his dire situation if the situation was that the followers pursuing assassin Peena that that for perhaps he would be safe Panaro CinCin sure if this is budget

...Yeah.

Imagine that

No one believes in my imaginary friend.

They say “He’s pulling your leg.” And to be perfectly honest? I believe them. He’s only of figment of my imagination, right?

It all started when I imagined that I would relax, until he showed up.

“Nobody believes in you.” he said. At least I imagined so.

“What do you mean?”

“All of my friends, they think you’re not real. They think you’re just my imaginary friend.”

“Are you saying that I’m the imaginary one?”

Now, not to be solipsistic or anything, but I’m only 5. I don’t know what the word means.

The cold, pebbled truth

Through the glass of the fishbowl, I see myself. It looks so sad, floating so swiftly yet without purpose. Day after day, just rushing through the circle of routine. No pause for reflection, it lives completely in the present. Does it realize that the world will soon end? Does it realize that its existence, so relatively unknown by society, will soon disappear along with its hopes and dreams? On rare occasions, it comes close. I even flirt with the idea that it knows me, loves me. I wish it would feed me those flakes soon. What was I saying again?

In a league of its own

Above the unfathomable depths of the blue behemoth known as the ocean, I set sail for an undetermined destination, chasing dreams as big as the waves. No crew to throw me overboard, I had just my trusty vessel, so aptly named Luna Sea. Yet no crazed ambition crossed my mind, just a healthy thirst for adventure, quenched only by the salty breeze.

And on that fateful night, what should come above the horizon but a monster, never seen by eyes to tell the tale. Gigantic beyond comparison, its yellow skin blinded me.

“Mom! I told you I hate rubber duckies!”

Update...oh and 100 words as well

I apologize for the brief hiatus, but finals are no fun. However! I’m free for the summer, so hopefully that should address my lack of consistency. I started this blog at the end of last summer, and I never really thought I would last through my first year of college. I guess I had more free time than expected. I should thank all of my followers, you have been all too kind for reading these silly stories. Hmm, I should stop being cheesy now. In the coming months, I plan on writing some longer pieces, so look forward to that.

Ahem...

They were completely surrounded, as opposed to just partially. A horde of unseen demons, haunting their every move. The heavy burden of their presence, never made known but always felt, took its toll on the group of once happy-go-lucky kids. Their former personalities were all but lost now, stolen by the atmosphere as easily as breath in the wind. They huddled together, determined to survive their ordeal.

To no avail. One by one, and occasionally by two, they were killed off in heartless fashion. The slaughter continued until all but one had perished, gasping “No...I must get...that...A+...”

Slip Up

The apartment lobby, a familiar scene, a familiar elevator, but only troubling thoughts consume me. “Has she forgotten me?” I mutter.

Ah.

In the corner of the elevator floor, normally so clean and undistracting, lies an old banana. Wrinkled, brown, the smell of the air suddenly becomes unpleasant, although mildly.

Why is there a banana here? No. Why would somebody leave a banana in the elevator? I can barely breathe. The tension is exhilarating. I can see all my problems for the farce they truly are. The doors open, and I hurry towards my fresh perspective...

...and also fresh air.

A name you can trust.

Hoho, you’ve come to the right man. But don’t think you’ve reached your destination by coming here. Changing your name requires a lot more than a past to run away from and subscription to Teen Vogue. Namely paperwork, paperwork, and...ahem...payment discussions. Did you see what I said there? Namely! Hoho, it’s a joke, stop frowning, boy. Don’t worry your pretty little head about it, I changed my name when I was just a lad of 25. I’ll get you a new handle or my name isn’t Eustace Cornballer!

"Is it?"

Not anymore! Now stop making that face, and sign here.

I’ve realized that these long titles are nothing but a distraction for those kind blogs who have my humble little publication on display, and perhaps it would be selfish of me to create another but you know to hell with it, throw caution to the wind, I hear it flies well, or maybe it just likes a good breeze, don’t we all, no, okay but yes this is the last part of the arc because it’s just so hard to create tension in 100 words because it’s over before you know it, you know, I know, that’s why... (Part 2)

“Are we all agreed?”

“Yes.”

“...Yes”

Yes, it was obvious that we should stick together. With the scream still ringing in our ears, anything else would be idiocy. Still, our initiative to wait around wouldn’t garner us any information. Our location, our fate, we were blind in the darkness.

And then we were blinded by the lights. They gave us no comfort. We were situated on one end of a large ballroom, empty but for ourselves and a massive door. The ornate decorations provided a haunting contrast to the pit that separated us from freedom. And then I woke up.

This was my dream last night, but not really, since I don't dream in 100 words, well, that's a lie I might now since I just care so much you know but really I'm serious I dreamed this and I might finish the story and I'm sorry if it's depressing okay I just think like that sometimes you know change it up and whatnot it’s not really that interesting and to be honest I forget the dream mostly but don’t we all I don’t know but okay this title is getting ridiculous so I'll see you tomorrow bye (Part 1)

I awoke into a dream, unaware of the nightmare soon to follow. I could hear the groans of others before the edge of darkness faded and their silhouettes came into view. Four of us, including myself. I felt my way around our situation, and even in the heavy darkness, no, because of it, the outline of our prison was understood. The oppression of a closed room made the air suddenly taste stale. Had we been kidnapped? Drugged? None of us were thinking clearly.

            I’ll never forget her scream. Piercing, a fatal decrescendo, down into the abyss. Save us, please. Please.

No Direction

“Look, I don’t know what’s been wrong with you lately! You’ve been coming here every day, I can’t fault your punctuality, but something is visibly off with your attitude. Are you depressed, or what? The situation does not call for someone with issues, so chin up, okay? You’re not a brooding character, so if this is just a funk you’re in, get out of it quick. Hey! Are you even listening to me? Alright, I’ll walk you through it one more time, but that’s it!

“You can’t tell me how to act!”

“Well, this director’s chair says I can. Action!”

Writing on empty

It was easy. Almost too easy. Looking down at his egg, he could even say that it was over easy. Jokes aside, he found that contemplating life on an empty stomach never proved to be a fruitful endeavor.

Aaaaaand stop. You see, I was going to continue this story, which I wrote yesterday in physics class, but there’s a problem. I’m no longer hungry. You can clearly see the influences of the author’s lack of sustenance, as evidenced by such phrases as “empty stomach” and “ fruitful,” although the latter was probably subconscious.

Now, back to the story. Oh, wait...

Writer's Block

He looked left, and then right, and then left again, as all good little boys and girls should, and also bad ones, but these were not his thoughts in the moment, for he was not at a crosswalk of any sort, unless you are thinking of a crossroads in life, in which case you would have a valid point, but to go so far metaphorically would just be silly, and it’s rather pretentious of you to think of such a thing in the midst of this tale. Everything was in the clear, so he continued on his journey through space.

Hodge Podge

My life, turned upside down by the slings and arrows of outrageous allusion, always seems so right in the comforting metal of my cereal spoon. The thought of a new day spells disaster for my pitiful existence, but the alphabet shaped bits of...whatever cereal is made of, they give words of joy, unintelligible as they may be. Unlucky fortunes are washed away with Lucky Charms. Frosted Mini-Wheats, not frozen emotions. Cheerios live up to their name. The daily routine may be as bland as a box of Oat Bran, but there’s no question as to which I’ll choose this morning.

A ramble through time

            I’ve been sick this past week and I’m feeling thoroughly uncreative right now, but I feel like I should write something just to make up for my laziness. Not 100 words, but I hope you don’t mind.

            I’ve been reminiscing a lot lately, more than usual I suppose. I have a thing for trying to remember events from my past, just to relive some of my carefree childhood. I find it so fascinating how memories just disappear after a few years. Everything in life is so routine that it just gets lost in the subconscious. Despite this, if you try hard enough (or long enough, in my case) you can trigger certain times of significance. Birthdays are easy enough. One of my most memorable birthdays occurred in Tennessee, the beginning of spring, just your average house party set up in the garage. We had just finished watching a movie, and everyone was itching (after all, it was spring) to go outside. But lo and behold, it was snowing! Not a single flake all winter, and on my birthday no less. Very memorable.

            But! That’s not what I came here to talk about. Yes, that moment will stick with me a long time, but it’s the small details that make the memory all the more interesting. For example, the movie we watched that day was Toy Story, I failed miserably at Spin the Tail on the Donkey (yes, people actually played that game at birthdays), we ate ice cream in cups that you had to open before eating which were a novelty to me at the time, and my mother scolded me for running outside without putting sweats on for the snow. Also, a few years later, I would somehow refer to that birthday in my essay regarding Abraham Lincoln. Don’t ask me how, I was weird back then.

            Anywho, from that one memorable moment, I was able to go much further, recalling details that would have been lost on a normal day. This is why I love to reminisce. To find those moments that you had once forgotten, deemed pointless but suddenly a new thought or realization brings them back to light. Which brings me to that very scene, the one I meant to write about before I started rambling.

            It was third grade...maybe. My age is not important. All I remember is that I was riding the bus to or from school, neither is particularly enlightening. Was I in Tennessee, or Alaska? I forget. The only thing that matters is that these two older kids turn around and face myself and a friend, smiles on their faces no doubt. They tell us that they had found a cool way to kill yourself. All you had to do was press on the side of your head, just above the ears, as hard as you can. If you did it right, your head would pop off, to wild applause. (They didn’t say that last part.) I was horrified, of course. Death was just some phantom to me, something to be avoided nevertheless. My friend, however, thought that this idea appealed to his love of the grotesque. And so he put his fingers to his head.

            Now, at this point I must say that he was only joking around, as were the two older kids. Haha, but you didn’t need me to tell you that, yes? Well, apparently, I did. At that moment, I screamed at a fairly loud volume, “Don’t do it! I don’t want you to die!”

...

            And that’s all I can remember. Just the feeling of horror at seeing him almost explode, it was too much for me. Now, whether this really happened or not, or if I’m forgetting certain details, I have no idea. But amidst the stress of midterms and whatnot, a bit of comic relief at the expense of my younger self isn’t so bad. Gosh, how stupid was I? Oh well, it’s just a memory.

And now, back to my routine of 100 words. I’ll try not to disappoint.

Mean Time

“It’s the end of the world.”

“As we know it? That was a good song.”

“Would you shut up and start running already?”

“Hey man, just reminiscing. It’s been fun, huh?”

“You...just come on, okay?”

No, it was all going out of order. This was supposed to happen tomorrow. Why? Were the calculations off? Argh, this is what I get, trying to be the next Nostradamus and all. What a foolish goal. Working towards the end of Earth? No fame, no glory, just an ‘I told you so.’ But why? Oh! Well, geez. Who knew Death was on Australian time?

Jilted

He was struck by her beauty. It was all he could do to stay calm in her presence. Cool and collected, yes. The virtues of an eligible man. Traits worthy of her absolute grace, her unfathomable serenity. The way she walked, smooth and with a depth beyond mere motion. She was on a higher plane... No! A higher dimension!

No longer. No longer would he remain a shadow in the face of her blinding light!

“Pardon me, my dear, but I must proclaim to you my undying affection.”

“Who the hell are you?”

Lightning only strikes once, as they say.

Friction is F uN

He was in a predicament.

"I'm in a predicament," he thought, as the mountain of snow trundled happily along at fatal speeds behind him.

Luckily, our youthful protagonist had a good background in high school physics.

"Well, assuming that the angle of this inclined plane is... and given that the coefficient of friction is low enough to be negligible... what the hell do I weigh in kilograms again?... do I reach a terminal velocity or is that just for freefall... oh god, I'm blanking on the free body diagram. Oh fudge, aaaauuugh!

Well, not that good of a background

Lack-a-Hollandaise-ical

The sun melted into the horizon, the yolk of a sunny-side up egg. Tom preferred his eggs fried, which coincidentally was how he was feeling on his habitual walk through the hills of Newkansas. Oh, how lonely he felt at that moment, remembering that no eggs could ever reach his sparse meals, not after that horrible disaster. Funny, nothing quite tasted like chicken after it had disappeared. Life in East West Virginia would never be the same again.

“Curse you, world! Curse you Post Pre-Cambrian Explosion! Curse you who ended my love of Eggs Benedict!”

The yolk disappeared from view.

Oh! And that's not all. Good friend of this blog Diego posted one of my stories to his site. It's exclusive...ooh, ahh, so go check it out, as well as the many other great works of his gallery type showcase. Do it now!

Quack

It looks like a duck, it walks like a duck, it talks like a duck, (That is, if ducks could talk. I’m assuming here that ducks cannot talk, but who knows? They could surprise me. This assertion is also conditional on the fact that ducks do not speak any human tongue, and not, in fact, a duck language of its own right, which would still remain unintelligible to me, who, as you know, does not know of any such language and would no doubt put very little effort into learning it.) so it’s a duck. Probably. I could be wrong.

Unsightly

“I just found it really fascinating, you know? The whole idea that the brain is simply responding to a relativistic array of stimuli and adapting accordingly. It really sheds a new light on our perspective on sight, pardon the pun. Gwahahaha!”

Ugh. Does this guy never stop? It’s just a standard maintenance check, not a friggin’ college seminar. Perhaps the silent treatment will work...

“I guess I’ve just got an “eye” for funny! Snort.”

...no dice.

“Wait. I can’t see.”

“Hey man, don’t scare me like this.”

“No, really, I’m blind.”

“Well, that’s why I brought a flashlight!”

...no answer.

I should justify this, huh?

I’m a perfectionist. No, that’s not right.

You could call me a perfectionist, although I use that term lightly. Wait, no.

Perfection. Some say that I am but a puppet at the mercy of the strings of my condition. Some say? How cliché!

This curious affliction of perfection, it straightens the oxbow lake of my life. No, no one will understand that.

When in the course of human events... Real original.

That which is perfect runs through the very fibre of my being. No, no! It’s all wrong!

What I’m trying to say is that I’m working on it, okay?

Driven insane

Sometimes, I think, it’s nice to close my eyes while in the passenger seat. Any car, at any speed, with one condition. I must imagine myself in a roller coaster. Yes, a roller coaster. It’s quite fun. Going up a hill, normally humdrum in terms of its view, turns into that spectacular anticipation before a drop. Each turn is exaggerated, the fictional rails bending at the will of my imagination. For some reason, the speed only increases, faster and faster until my stomach turns. My eyes snap open. You may think I’m weird, and I am sometimes, I think.

To whom it should concern,

I’ve been skirting around this issue for awhile now, and I guess what I’m getting at is that I love you. Yes, that’s right. This very moment shall be remembered as the time of my confession. A confession of love. One that should not come as a big surprise, to be honest. I mean, we’ve been together for as long as I can remember. Our thoughts are practically one and the same. But this love, that had been quietly bubbling beneath the surface of my emotions, must now come to light. What’s that? Step away from the mirror, you say?

A Warning

At that moment, he knew they were dead. Not dead in the conventional sense of the word, the whole endless oblivion thing, but dead in the sense that they could no longer go back to the way things used to be. The way life should have been, if only they were not dead. But they were. They were! Dead. Dead. The word kept ringing through the despair of his consciousness and he just kept grappling with his slowly crumbling perception of death, life, and other existential fluff.

“No! Nooooooooo!” he cried. “You can’t go left!”

But they did go left.

Yeah, duh.

Am I real? One would tend towards an answer of “Yeah, duh,” or perhaps an “Are you stupid?” Rolling one’s eyes would have the same effect as well, but hear me out! I am, admittedly, just a figment of my own perception. I can change my actions at will, and do so in a manner that depends on the person I am with. With Sally I act as is appropriate based on my past with Sally. This implies that the idea of “me” in the eyes of Sally as opposed to, say, “Pierre” would be different. Therefore, am I real?

No fluff

“No fluff,” said John.

“There is no fluff here, sir.” Another sentence, this time said by Mary. John would have known this detail had he checked her nametag, haphazardly placed but still in plain sight. Eye contact was never his strong point. Instead his focus was on the empty landscape to his right, devoid of anything interesting. Better than this dusty diner, thought John.

The implication of Mary’s statement suddenly hit him.

“No mustard, sorry.”

“Certainly”

As Mary shuffled off in all her nameless glory, John couldn’t share her feeling of certainty. To his right, the clouds looked like cotton.

How to be unproductive

The sinking feeling of something gone missing. Something that could be right there, should be right there, but is not. All I can imagine is myself in your presence, smiling and content in your company.

But.

All I can see is a blank page, the place where you were last week. Situations change, time passes, and the world is so cursedly entrenched in the fourth dimension. I meander the halls in a contradictory haze of resigned desperation.

“Where are you? My life is nothing without you!”

In the back of my mind, I know. Math homework does not solve itself.

My Dream (Last night, that is...)

He wandered purposefully through the backward back alleys of the night. The purple darkness warranted that of a more depressing scene, filled with unheard shouts and unseen ends. But rather than all this, the avenue unknown to most was home to his favorite spot, a small sandwich shop so sweetly named The Love Between Us.

He entered, and ordered the dessert sandwich, filled with mustard, sugar, and the sickly sweet taste of regret. To his right was a couple.

“I have nothing more to say Margaret. I have nothing more to say, so please, please stop making me say it.”

Huh?

There is nothing that I can say... to make this submission any less odd. But, for some reason I can't help but posting it anyway. From the author himself (oops, herself):

Kurt "Vonnegut" Pitzer is a passionate writer and lifelong student of philosophy. She enjoys mulling over the unknown and sharing her ideas through stories (such as this one.)

            “Fourty six grams of whole grains per serving”, said Joebertia as he ejected from his cockpit. “That’s all I am, fourty six grams.”

            As he fell he heard the cries of the other pilots, all falling hopelessly into the black, large unknown. To them, this was the end. Like true Buddhists, they had nothing left to live for. 

            But Joebertia was the nihilist that all Buddhists secretly wished they could be. Remembering the words of his favorite philosopher Queen Elizabeth, he used his remaining hand to unhook his parachute from his golden throne.

            “I’m back, and I’m mad,” he intimated.

Shocking

Imagine yourself strapped helplessly to a gurney, drowsy and disoriented. You snap awake, suddenly aware of the dire situation you now find yourself in. The room is cold, damp and dark, with the foul smell of despair hanging in the air mixed with a touch of lilac.

Just as you start planning an escape, your captor enters, and the hope you had held crashes to the floor, lifeless. He attaches a variety of electrodes to your panic-stricken face, a sharp contrast to his crazed smile.

Now stop imagining...

But...why?

“Dropped into a maze, huh? I really am a lab rat, then.”

The other subjects arrived, and an announcement rang throughout the room, cold and impersonal.

“Your task is to get to the finish line first. The one who succeeds will receive a cash prize.”

Silence, anticipation, then...

“Go!”

It was over as soon as it had started. The finish line was only meters away, and everyone just sort of stood there, confused and angry.

He asked his friend about the experiment, days later.

“Oh, that? That was an experiment to test how people react to poorly designed psychological experiments.”

A Tree of Knowledge

Today is a nice day for a guest submission, I think. Luckily, I just checked my virtual P.O. box, and one just happened to appear! Let's let him introduce himself:

Tree is a person who likes to think, read, and write. These things are very good for a blogger, so he became one. On his blog http://treebytheriverblog.blogspot.com he writes weekly about anything on his mind, usually well thought out. His aim is to encourage people to think more about their life, as they see his thoughts on his own.

Here we go:

What is a word? Does it restrict, or set free someone’s mind? The less words the more imaginative; the less words the more confronting; the less words the more moving.

Maybe like Jazz? You need to be skilled to play badly. You need to be creative to write concisely. Somehow, popular culture is wrong. (Amazing!) Intelligence isn’t to write long, it is to write short, but still explaining the difficult.

Like the boy who had to write a 20-mark essay on courage. He just wrote “this” on a blank paper and handed it in, getting full marks. The real intelligence.

The floor that should have existed (and did)

The mission: Get the attendance safely to the office on the 3rd floor. A mundane task for most, but for the students at Treeville Elementary, it was the utmost of privileges. The elevator, normally off limits to the children, became accessible for those lucky enough to obtain that magical slip of paper. He dashed off, accompanied by his friend Billy. They entered the gaping doors, and rode up in a blissful stupor. The doors slid open, and he gasped.

“This isn’t the third floor!” he cried.

Billy broke the confused silence. “Yeah, duh. It’s the second floor. Hurry up.“

The rain made me type this

They were so far removed from the world of the living, their hearts knew not which way to beat. Precariously perched on the edge of existence, pushing against harsh waves crashing against their fading efforts, slowly but surely sapping their strength. Just one look down told them of their sealed fate, a black abyss all that separated them from immeasurable darkness. They nodded to each other, and in this last act of mutual acknowledgment, a feeling of calm broke the tension that had been so prevalent in their last moments. They fell, and saw their future, so bright. So promising.

A request, a plea, what have you.

You might have noticed a certain number next to the label I so appropriately titled “100.” Or perhaps you haven’t. I’m not one to judge observancy. Well, whichever it is, that number at this moment in time is 99. A nice number, for sure, but with the addition of 1 more story, I will have reached a pretty darn cool milestone.

However! I have decided to torture you for a while longer, and won’t write one for a bit. So I shall ask right now a favor of sorts. In the next week, which oddly coincides with some important finals, I hope to showcase some of your writing. Anybody can participate,

“Yeah, yeah, we know the drill, Scott. 100 words, and you’ll submit it before we can say ‘don’t submit that!’”

No! Nope! It can be close, but make sure that your story is anything but 100 words. 98 words? Great! 103? Never better! 101 Dalmatians? Sure, go ahead.

I have nothing really to offer you if you do help out, but you will always hold a special place in the empty void certain people call a heart. Thank you.

Find my contact info here.

Tired Tirade

Sometimes I like to put my life on repeat. I wake up, and then I fall asleep; over and over until I’m tired of being tired. It’s a lot to keep track of, but hey, simplicity is a complicated word. Would that I could forgo sleep, for going to sleep is akin to defeat. Why else do we “fight” sleep? Each time I close my eyes I am retreating, escaping backward into the future. I know a losing battle when I see one. My life continues on permanent press. Now, please excuse me while I go take a mid-afternoon nap.

Playwrought

A beach, a resort, a double date, a double murder. Nah. I’ll toss my playwright dreams for now. Just another goal left incomplete while twiddling my thumbs on this lonely island. I once loved the feeling of sand between my toes, running for the waves to escape the heat. Now even my toes are bored.

I think I’ll take one final swim. A fitting end, the curtain call. Or is it the curtain close? It’s hard to remember these years. A wave of blue, and then...

A super boss, a supernova, a super bossa nova. That’s it! Maybe another day.

Genius

“Guaranteed to grant one wish!” read the promotional poster. While Peter was normally a window shopper, he decided to leave his glass hobby behind for an even better room decoration. The Genie Lamp, a foolproof way to attain all that is imaginably imaginable. Imagine, money that grows on stylish trees. Imagine, a life with no disease, heartache, headache, or dust bunnies. Imagine, the past and future at your infinite disposal. He stopped imagining, and imagined that his wallet would soon be lighter. Rubbing his hands in anticipation, he glanced at the back label. “Your dream of brighter, more efficient lighting...granted!”

A Mural Dilemma

With each can of paint emptied by her paint roller, the fulfillment of her dreams slowly materialized. The methodical movement of the roller represented the ocean waves of her vision. This mural, it was to be her first ever commission, and she would rather drown than fail her employer, the local aquarium. Her task: to recreate an ocean scene, something to attract passers-by. Brick was less than appealing, they had said. Uh oh. That’s odd. Her blue was turning out brighter than expected. She panicked, and before she ran away, titled her work as “An Overhead View of Deep-Sea Divers.”

Have You Ever Been 2 Electric Lady Land?

Another day, another submission, another cryptic intro. Cryptic? What could that mean? Anywho, this submission is by Joe. Hey, that's not right, it's Diego! You must, must frequent his blog here!

The bathroom stall door asked, in bold, permanent marker strokes, if I had ever been to Electric Ladyland. A query to which my only reply was a disappointed “no”. Briefly, as I sat, pondering and conjuring, I imagined what such a place would consist of. Deep within my own head, I envisioned a magnificent set of hilly lady legs, adorned with flashing colored lights, like carnival rides rising in the distant darkness.

Later, upon relating these visions, a good friend would call me stupid, expressing grave concern over my ignorance of a certain Experience administered by one Jimi Hendrix.

Power Nap

Despite having landed on a planet of questionable safety, Captain Oscar Luminaire’s only urge was that of sleep. Our intrepid hero had arrived at Planet Z, home of the feared Nappa Rays, capable of disabling foes with a paralyzing slumber. Crashing through the atmosphere at mach speeds, Oscar had finally succumbed to the darkness.

He had woken up with a yawn. Tired, groggy, and with a vague sense of lack of accomplishment, Luminaire fought his way to a standing position.
However, soon enough he felt better, wonderful even! How refreshing. He would not regret his trip to Resort Planet Z.

Governmental

Subjected to the injustice of the masses. The proverbial butt of every joke, without the poetic verbiage normally found in such proverbs. No longer! The ignorance of the majority would henceforth be deemed invalid, a relic of a democratic past. The vote was historic, an event televised by even the home shopping networks. Proceedings were covered in the odors of bribery and corruption, but for the first time in the eyes of the public, the end really did justify the means. If passed, the bill would incorporate minority rule.

A unanimous decision, which left everyone unsure of what to do...

Small Talk

How was your day?

Good.

Good? Is that all you can say? How am I supposed to extract any semblance of context from such an ambiguous word as “good?”

I’m not sure. Perhaps the context you so desperately strive for that I was trying to convey was my general disinterest in starting conversation with the likes of you.

Well. I’m starting to seriously doubt your general character, as it was an obvious lie which you so hastily spit at me. Surely your day couldn’t have been that great to elicit such a vitriolic response.

Good day, sir.

Good day, indeed.

Made with Smiles and Unbleached Enriched Wheat Flour

It’s been a while since I’ve considered Goldfish crackers as belonging in a soup of some sort, and yet, I still eat them from a bowl. This is probably the worst moment to think such thoughts, but please withhold judgment. Are these ponderings so base, so revolting as to be on the receiving end of hushed disapproval? Is it so wrong that the now labeled “snack crackers” were originally intended for my clam chowder? My worst fear is that their smiling faces will pop up when asked of “my biggest weakness” in an interview. We all must face our fears.

Rain Check

Something about the way the rain fell onto his windowpane pained him. Drop. Drop. Drop. He waited for another drop, but they held back in mocking hesitation. Every pause, every break in the rhythmic patter irked him. Now it was all he could focus on, just the beat of water upon glass. No other noise could compete with that loathsome deluge. With his ears straining, focus was lost on any productive activity he may or may not have been accomplishing. Concentrate, he thought, but the thought of his lost resolve only distracted further from his essay on the water cycle.

Narrator, Orator

The captain set foot onto new land. The land itself was not new, as it was a product of millions of years of geological forces, but rather new in the eyes of the observer. Also, the captain did not only use one foot to hoist himself from ship to ground, but instead jumped off with a neat and tidy hop.

He then surveyed his surroundings. He did not question his surroundings, for that would be silly, and he was in no way surrounded in the sense that he was cornered or otherwise disadvantaged.

“Would you shut up?” said the captain.

Organic Love

I heart you, said the boy to the girl. The girl, visibly offended, frowned almost audibly, although the motives for her offense were less than apparent. She couldn’t handle being passive aggressive any longer, and burst into a violent tirade against the now shaken boy. (visibly shaking, I should add)

“You heart me? Let me allow that sentence to sink in. Do you really believe, in your heart of hearts, that the heart has any other function than pumping blood to your pitiful brain? I don’t heart you, I would rather brain you!”

And so they lived happily ever after.

Plot Hole

A sailor went to sea, to see what he could see, but all that he could see, was nothing of terrible importance. This, of course, should have been the end to this NyQuil substitute of a tale, but suddenly, a plot appeared! The sailor, with the one eye still open, spotted an inter-dimensional, pan-epochal space-time rift. He immediately paddled forth, apparently without a sail. Soon enough, he reached the portal and was vacuumed into a new setting. He gasped, relieved to at least be alive and in one piece. Yet all that he could see, was nothing of terrible importance.

Another Fruitful Conversation

“Wait!” cried the tree. “That is not all I have to say. Please do not abandon me so soon.”

The girl, having run off, did not hear the distraught plant. She continued frolicking through the forest. Her thoughts drifted back to her conversation with the tree. How could it speak with no brain, or less importantly, no mouth? Curious, she went back to investigate.

“Oh! You’re back. Wonderful. Wonderful. How am I speaking? Well, it’s rather complicated, and I don’t have much time.”

“Why not?”

“Hum. I don’t know. It’s as if I’m confined to an arbitrary word limit. How...”

San Francisco Fog

This entry comes from secret fan of the blog and health extraordinaire, Cheryl. Some have compared her writings to an early Camus and also a late Camus. There are even rumors that she may be related to yours truly, but I'll leave that question to the philosophers.

It chills me to the bone as I leave my warm house and walk to the bus. My perfectly straight hair becomes instantly frizzy. It flows gently and silently over the hills and slowly meanders down the street like a ghost finding its way. It can be eerily beautiful and dreamlike as it drifts through the cables of the Golden Gate Bridge and floats like angels into the bay. It can be as thin as a veil or as thick as cotton. The foghorns blow in a wide range of tones to warn passing ships and keep light sleepers awake.

A Fruitful Conversation

She frolicked about in the forest until she realized that it would be more appropriate to walk. She was the type of person who wondered what life would be like if trees were sentient. She was also the type of person who assumed that others placed her in such a category.

“You called?”

She leapt back in surprise. “Aaaah!” she cried, also in surprise.

“What’s this? Weren’t you the one wishing I were capable of thought?”

“Er, why yes! What do you think about, tree?”

“I’m a tad thirsty, to be honest.”

“Well, that was disappointing.” And she walked away.

Wholly Ghost

I don’t believe in ghosts. After years of experience and a hardened, rational mind, I have reached the conclusion that phantoms are lying bastards. You’d think that the omniscience garnered in the afterlife would stop a man from betting on the Cubs, but I am getting ahead of myself. Ever since I could remember having these visions, I have had these visions of certain apparitions, almost lifelike but with an ethereal quality one would expect from something not quite alive. And, would you believe it, they are all terrible people. Truly horrible personalities, yelling, moaning, screaming. What’s their beef, anyway?

Yet another twist ending

The gloom of a rainy day always cheered her up. The gentle downpour muffled the city’s sounds; white noise for a grey day. Her hands firmly in her jacket, and her shoulders tensed in the cold, she strolled through the streets of Seattle, watching unfamiliar passers-by pass her by. She would buy a bag of cherries, and laugh at the looks of surprise on unsuspecting tourists’ jaw-dropped faces as fish were flung about nonchalantly. She had been there, once. Too long ago. She spun around, her jacket twisting and turning in the wind, and made her way back home.

Reboot

The man walked on a path that led to the horizon. He wore the contented nonchalance of someone on a leisurely evening stroll. His thoughts meandered through the hilly landscape, never stopping for too long on any one aspect of the man’s existence. Ahead, a village appeared, a relief in the fading light. The chimney smoke blended in with the pewter sky.

“Any room for a weary traveler?”

“There’s always room, these days. That darn economy.”

“That makes no sense. Surely a fictional village would not be affected?”

“Don’t blame me! Blame the author for his pitiful attempt at social commentary.”

Non-Equator

As a line enthusiast, I travel to the ends of the Earth to find rare lines. Of course, I have nothing but contempt for that phrase. Lines have no ends, and the Earth has been quite disappointing in my search for that eternal straight. It is fiercely embarrassing to admit this, but my early travails were a comedy of grievous errors. Gibraltar, Gibraltar, that accursed rock was all that met my conical periphery. I am banned from the lands that surround the Bosporus. And the Prime Meridian? Certainly a prime spot for bitterness and defeat. My life, a graphic tragedy.