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.

I lost my train of...what was I talking about again?

I need to talk to someone.

How about me?

You? No, I mean someone that is not...me.

But I am not you, I am a figment of your imagination.

Which is exactly why you are me. I’m the one coming up with your pathetic arguments, buster.

And is that supposed to reflect poorly on me? Remember, I’m controlled by your thoughts. You summoned me with your lonely question, and instead of doing anything productive, you go and talk to yourself. I could have been on vacation instead.

But only I could imagine that!

Wow, this beach is spectacular. Thanks!

I'm sorry

This is a story about nothing. Nothing at all. I don’t really know why I am even bothering to tell you this, for it is so devoid of interesting happenings or, to be honest, any plot at all. The only distinguishing feature of my tale is its very lack of substance. No gimmicks. Well, it is itself a gimmick, but that can be forgiven, yes? No? Truly, you are making sense. A story should only exist if within it lies meaning, emotion, action. None of these will you find in my sorry excuse for a narrative. Ahem, let me begin...

Perhaps a princess would change your mind!

“Brave knight! Please slay the evil dragon and save our village from the fate of eventual obscurity.”

“I do not believe in dragons, piteous mayor, so I’m afraid I cannot help you with your plight. As for your obscurity, I’d say you won’t have to wait that long.”

“Is that an insult, courageous knight? Dare you wave away the terror that plagues our citizenry?”

“Easily. Do you expect me to deal with that I do not believe in, and therefore cannot see?”

“Cannot? Or will not?”

“Cannot.”

“Oh.”

“Have a nice day, sir, and good luck with that dragon!"

“Hey!”

Perfection

A certain legend, now lost from memory, tells of a boy with a curious and unfortunate affliction. This poor youth, so blessed with mediocrity in all other aspects, could not eat without being met with an extremely unpleasant taste. Each meal all but turned to ash in his revolted mouth, assuming that someone has ever tasted ash and deemed it unfavorable. His affluent mother sent for help from around the globe. Many tried, but each delicacy failed to please.

Until one day.

“So I take two pieces of bread, and put anything between them?”

And so, the sandwich was born.

Merry Christmas!

He paused for a moment, counting down the minutes until the new year. “Only in my time zone, though,” he thought. Yet before he could travel farther into the distraction of universal time, he pulled himself back into his original, distracting thought. “What should I resolve to be for next year?” A beautiful question, dripping with cliché. “Resolutions always fail, so maybe I should resolve to be poor and fat? Wait, that’s stupid, what if this is the year they come true? Hey...no! Resolutions don’t come true, they are...um...what are they again? Eh, I resolve not to follow my resolution.”