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...