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.”