Wednesday, November 27, 2002

 

anticipation

by Fred 6:00 AM

Tuesday, November 26, 2002

 

Marcus stretched in the grass. He smelled food nearby, and he was hungry. The winter sun was comfortable, though, and he'd just waked up. He looked up to see if there was anybody else around, and was satisfied that he was alone. He was used to looking up all the time, being short himself. He snuck through the tall grass to where his nose told him there was food. He poked his nose to the edge of the grass and waited to tell how many of them there were, guarding the food. He smelled three, two old and one young. The old ones smelled like beer; that meant it was a toss-up whether they'd be friendly or mean, but he had to take the chance. It had been awhile since he'd had real food, and living in the woods was getting old. He ventured a glance through the grass at the three of them eating there.
Chicken.
The thought of it made his mouth start to water and his tail wag. That was good, they liked that kind of thing, but he shouldn't appear over-anxious. Sometimes they took that to mean he was sick or vicious, and they kicked him or threw rocks. Once, one of them threw food, but the next one had a gun, and he'd learned the hard way not to try that trick a third time. He sauntered up to the blanket where they were eating, and barked once, short and sharp. It was meant to catch their attention, but not to sound too demanding. He'd had almost three years to practice that one and get it right, first as one of these things' pet, and then later living in a park in the city where they were more generous. Out here, again, it all came down to luck and skill. He had to find the right group of them when they were eating, and he had to taylor the performance to the audience.
The youngest one giggled and threw a piece of probably-inedible plant matter. Marcus skittered away, unsure if the move was an attack or an invitation. He slunk back to it and smelled it; sweet, sugary, green, and covered with spit. This was one of the edible ones. He licked it up, just in case it was something he liked.
"Moomoomoo moo moo Dog," said one of the big ones, pointing at him. He barked one more time, just in case that was something good. He never picked up more than about ten or twenty words from them, but he never really needed more than that. It was time to bring out the big guns. He sat back on his haunches, and brought his feet up into a cute begging pose. He held his muzzle out and up, trying to look the way they seemed to think was aware and clever. He felt awkward, which was usually a good clue that he was doing something cute.
The other of the big ones held out a piece of chicken. The smell of the cold meat made him drool, but he tipped his head back to keep from looking rabid.
"Eeew eew, moo woo eew Doggy?" It said. He yapped again, as that seemed to be working on them. The big one dropped the chicken, and Marcus snapped it up and ran for the grass. It was hard to tell, most of the time, whether the meat was dropped on purpose, but he wasn't in the business of waiting to find out.
Out of sight, he tore the meat from the bone, and sat again, satisfied, in the grass.

by MisterNihil 4:40 PM

Monday, November 25, 2002

 

the best vacation ever

by Sharon 10:57 AM

Sunday, November 24, 2002

 

She was very, very early.

by MisterNihil 2:01 AM

Friday, November 22, 2002

 

I didn’t catch “The Death of Cold” last night, but my brother watched it and said I wasn’t missing anything special.

“I’ll lend you the tape,” he said, “but I don’t know, I expected more, you know? I mean, they’d been building to it for weeks, and then it was, like, ‘Next week, Cold dies! Don’t miss it!’ And in the end it just kind of sucked.”

Cold had been our favorite wrestler since we were kids, and he was probably the one thing that had kept me watching all these years. I knew Bobby still liked some of the others -- he and his kid still kept up with all the new names -- but the whole thing had gotten a little boring for me. There was a kind of meanness about it now. Things were a little more flashy, a little more vulgar. Cold hadn’t had a great name, but he’d always had class.

For months now, we’d known the guy who played him was going to retire. Bobby had heard a rumor, and then they’d started advertising on TV. They decided they wanted to kill his character off, have him go out with a bang. Wrestling is all about plot, and even at its most violent or absurd its chief goal is to tell a simple story and entertain.

So, Deathknell and Cold, two rivals, meet one final time. And everybody knows what’s going to happen. But a story is a story, and we like to be entertained. I didn’t know much about Deathknell -- he'd come to the sport back when I first went to college and thought I was too cool for wrestling -- but I knew Bobby liked him. And I knew Bobby had been looking forward to this more than I had.

But he was disappointed. “The Death of Cold” hadn’t lasted more than five or ten minutes. And it’s really hard to tell a good story in just ten minutes.

by Fred 11:03 AM

Tuesday, November 19, 2002

 

I am sitting in the middle of the road; I have turned my back on my friend; I know he will protect me still.
I sit three feet from my friend, back to back with distance. He is looking for cars coming toward him, I am looking for cars coming toward me. I rely on my friend to speak up when he sees one; he relies on me for the same.
I haven't seen a car yet. I am puzzled, but I still watch. I wish I could talk to my friend, but that breaks the Rules. The Rules state that there can be no word spoken but "Car," and that word may not be a false alarm. I think I can sense him back there, sitting, watching for cars. I haven't seen one, and I know he hasn't either because he would have said "Car."
We are Road-sitting, a game I learned in college, or High School. Perhaps both. I know there was drinking involved, but that doesn't narrow it down much. I am sitting, waiting for my friend to call out "Car."
My friend is waiting for me to call out car.
We've been sitting here for almost six weeks.
Below us, through the glass floor of the street, in this place between death and life, I can see the world spinning. I know that nothing there can possibly be aware of what I'm doing. I'm road-sitting.
My friend behind me was wearing a black cloak when we sat down. He rested his scythe against a lamp post, and sat behind me. I heard his bones clatter as he sat. He wanted to play chess, but I'm a modern man, and I don't play chess. He was kind enough, though, to let me pick a new game.
But in playing, I've beaten Death. I am not dead. I sit here, my back to him, waiting for a car, but I am not dead. Simply by playing well, I can never die. I know there aren't any cars up here. I know I'll be here forever. I'll never die.
I have stopped the unstoppable force.

by MisterNihil 1:50 PM

Monday, November 18, 2002

 

For Shawn:

tomorrow

by Fred 9:06 AM

Friday, November 15, 2002

 

"I got the last bagel, but there wasn't any cream cheese."
"No?" I stood beside his desk, sipping my coffee and thinking about my upcoming weekend.
"Yeah. Not even the kind with the fish stuff in it. What's it called?"
"Lox." I shot back.
"Yeah, lox. Where did all the cream cheese go?"
"Printer." I was thinking about going out of town for the weekend. Maybe to visit an old college buddy I hadn't seen in a while.
"What? We sent if off to the printer? What for? That doesn't make any sense."
"Laser." Another sip of coffee. Man, that's good coffee.
"You lost me. You mean the laser printer out in the hall? Next to Bob's cubicle?"
"Yup."
He sat at his desk, paused in mid-keystroke. He turned slowly to look at me.
"Yup." I said again.
"But that'd smell terrible. That thing gets so hot, and the cream cheese was left over from Monday. I mean, old fish on a hot laser printer..."
"Yup." A good all-purpose word, provided he's correct.
"So you got word on the next round of layoffs? Isn't Bob in charge of those?"
"Yup." It's so nice to be understood.

These are the war stories we will tell our children.

by MisterNihil 11:36 AM

 

“It’s just cream cheese and lox,” said Simon.

Paul shook his head. “No, that’s what they want you to think. It’s all a clever disguise.”

“Oh come on, Paul. Not this again.”

“I told you, this isn’t the office. I know it looks like it, but…the aliens are watching us, Simon. They’re listening. They want us to eat the cream cheese.”

“Paul, come on. We are not on board an alien space ship, okay? I thought we went through this. You’ve been working too hard, that’s all. Take a break, get some fresh air, go outside --”

“There is no outside. Not anymore.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“The doors, they’re all locked. I tried to get out, Simon. I -- I opened one of the emergency exits, but it was just a brick wall. There was nothing there. I haven’t seen a window in days.” He trembled.

“Oh come on, Paul, it’s not that bad. You’ve just been stuck in your cubicle too long, staring at your computer. We all have. The long hours will get to you, I know. Have a bagel, a cup of coffee, you’ll feel better.”

Again, Paul shook his head. “The aliens are watching, Simon. They’re the ones who put the bagels here in the break room. They’re studying us, watching. We’re in a cage.”

“We are at work, Paul.” He glanced at his watch. “And speaking of which, I have to get back. These cost proposals don’t write themselves.”

He turned to leave.

“In a couple of days, it’ll be all right, Paul,” he said. “You’ll see. And in the meantime, well, have a bagel. It is really good lox.”

by Fred 10:51 AM

 

Looking around for inspiration and hitting on the first thing I see...

cream cheese and lox

by Sharon 8:26 AM

Thursday, November 14, 2002

 

It's almost 6 o'clock by my watch. In the unlikely event that anyone still intends to write something today...

lights in the sky

by Fred 4:51 PM

Wednesday, November 13, 2002

 

"The leaves were moving slightly. Do you see? There's new growth here along the stem."

Thomas sighed. "I see that, Edward," he said, "and I admit, it's remarkable. But I'm not sure it has any truly practical applications."

"What do you mean?" asked Edward. He looked up from the potted plant in his hands, placed it gently on the table in front of him. "This is the reanimation of dead tissue we're talking about. It could revolutionize --"

"The reanimation of dead plant tissue," said Thomas. "And you still haven't shown us more than a few centimeters of growth. I agree, on paper it's impressive, but --"

"Two weeks ago, these leaves were completely dead."

"And they're still almost completely dead, Thomas." He lifted the small pot. "In two weeks, how much have they grown, really? Enough to make a difference to farmers' crops? Enough to keep suburbia's lawns thick and green? Enough to have any real use or return on our investment? Or just enough to keep a few dead leaves from withering and dropping to the ground?"

"I -- I don't know. It's too soon..."

Again Thomas sighed. He returned the plant to the table. "No, Edward, I'm sorry," he said. "We appreciate your effort, really we do. And, like I said, what you've done here is impressive. If you want, we'll let you publish. But we've decided to pull the funding on the project."

"But you can't," said Edward. "It's too soon. It isn't ready, I need more time. I --"

"I'm sorry, Edward, but I just don't think we can do that."

"Well," said the plant, "then perhaps I can help you reconsider..."

by Fred 11:33 AM

Monday, November 11, 2002

 

I am a solecistic solipsist,
So my words are oft incongruous.
For all I knows, youse don’t exist --
(This is where there’d be a twist
If I had thought of one to list,
But this ain’t that, it’s just this;
I guess it’s gone a bit amiss,
So just dismiss this missing twist --
Here, I’ll close my parenthesis --)
Not doing so would be remiss,
And might just serve to make you pissed
Unless of course, you don’t exist,
Which, as a solipsistic solecist,
Is really none of my business.

by Fred 12:06 PM

Friday, November 08, 2002

 

User Acceptance Testing

The horror, the horror.

by Sharon 2:00 PM

Thursday, November 07, 2002

 

"Run the report again."

Jana chewed on a cuticle. She thought about objecting, but resigned herself and clicked "Go" again.

«No future posts found.»

Romina huffed. "Something's wrong with your filter criteria." She paced behind Jana's chair, stalking like a predator. "You're just filtering all the records out."

"I'm not," Jana ventured. "Look: I've stripped off region, end date, and magnitude." She quailed under Romina's scowl. "It should return every post after 11/21/18." She clicked "Go" listlessly.

«No future posts found.»

Romina switched to her rational-pedantic voice. "Those same filter criteria, except for start date, show all the posts we've established, back into antiquity. It shows next week's posts. It shows next year's posts. Why would the code suddenly break for transport-focus posts established after next November?" The heels of her leather boots marked a rhythm on the linoleum floor. Jana swivelled to follow her, back and forth.

Jana cleared her throat. "Maybe, um, maybe the project ends, maybe the funding gets cancelled next year."

Romina tisked. "The posts we've already established on future time nodes would continue to exist. They'd have to not only cancel the project but then invest the funds to travel to each of those eras and remove the posts. And, apparently, only the future ones." She switched directions. "Not very economical."

"So what if, ah, the future ends? Um, next November?"

Romina stopped pacing. "Fix your report code. Send me the url when it's running correctly." Her boots stomped noisily down the hall.

Jana wondered if perhaps there weren't some more meaningful ways to spend transitory days. She clicked "Go."

by Sharon 3:57 PM

 

No future posts found.

by Fred 7:31 AM

Wednesday, November 06, 2002

 

Everything in my office is now pink. I'm used to the people's skin being sort of pink. Beyond that, it's all new.
At first, I thought they'd gone and bought a lot of playdoh, and made everything out of it. Taken a mold of the whole office and made it out of some viscous, pink stuff. I figured it was a joke, so I kept waiting for somebody to say "surprise," or "gotcha" or something. Nobody did. When I tried to ask without asking, you know sort of "How 'bout this new paint, huh?" I got funny looks.
I tried to peel a little off the walls, but it feels the same as it always did. There's no fine coating of clay, or even the newpaintfeel you'd expect. It all just seems to be pink, and the same color of pink, too.
Waiting for somebody to say surprise, I sat at my desk, staring at the computer screen (now illegible and pink. The letters don't show up. There's not even a bluescreen), it was hard to work. I tried writing, but the pink pencil lines don't show up on the pink paper. Everything I'd written or printed or typed was just a blank, pink sheet of paper.
I'm still in color. My blue clothes, my skin pale by comparison, my metal grey watch. Everything on me is still the right color, but when I put down my briefcase it got lost in the pink haze under my desk. I assume that's supposed to be shadow, only it's pink. Everything, featureless and pink.
Pink. It's everywhere. Did I miss a memo, or is it just my imagination?

by MisterNihil 12:35 PM

Tuesday, November 05, 2002

 

I can't breathe. I have a throat, tubes connecting the holes in my face to the airbags in my chest. I have air all around me, and I have the remnants of the aging air in my chest. I can live off of the air I have 'squirrelled away' there for an eternity, almost two minutes if I have to, but I've been cut off. I don't remember how or why. When I open my eyes, everything is a blur, spinning and out of focus.
One of the tubes between my air bag and the vast reservoir outside has been pinched off. I think it hurts. I'm feeling very detatched. I think I'm asleep.
Air bag. They have another name. Lug? Lunge? Lung? Yeah. That's right.
I try opening my eyes again, just a flash, but it's still the same. When I do that, I feel like I'll regurgitate all my precious food in my stomach, but the pinch in the tube stops that as well. I'm lucky in that, I think. I don't know. I'm very confused. The blur was blue, with a black shape in the center. I made it out this time before I had to close my eyes again.
My ears are ringing loudly. The left one hurts and the right one's just stuffy, or closed or something. It sounds like listening through a cotton pillow.
I have a feelling that I'm scared. I take a spare moment and use some of my remaining air, my nest egg, to bring my left arm up to my throat, and I feel the obstruction. It is warm and fleshy.
I try to open my eyes again. The swirling chaos of light resolves suddenly into a bright, exalted moment of prefection. I see my attacker, a stranger, teeth gritted in determination, holding closed my throat and killing me slowly.
The clarity passes, and I am cast once again into the void of my brain, solitude both warm and cold. I am dying alone.

by MisterNihil 3:21 PM

 

“Swirling chaos, resolving into a bright, exalted moment of perfection.”

“With or without sprinkles?”

“With, please. Rainbow-colored.”

“Comin’ right up.”

Robin stares into the void, the chocolatey swirl of soft-serve confusion and disorder the man behind the counter empties into her paper cup.

She’s heard good things about the chaos here -- "Get the sprinkles,” her mother said. “It’s ten cents extra, but I think you’ll like it.”

There are other shops in the food court like this, ones that carry anarchy, bedlam -- even the occasional strawberry-dipped pandemonium -- but chocolate-flavored out-and-out chaos is rare. It is, apparently, their pièce de résistance. There has been talk of selling it in nationwide stores.

“Where do you get your chaos?” Robin asks the man as he rainbow-splashes the contents of the cup.

“Trade secret,” he says. He places the paper cup atop the counter, wipes his hands on his apron.

“But it’s the bright exalted moments of perfection that people really seem to like,” he says, and he places a small maraschino cherry atop the chocolate chaos in the cup. “$4.50,” he says.

“Keep the change,” Robin tells him, handing over a five, and she wanders off towards a bench to enjoy her dessert.

by Fred 1:17 PM

 

swirling chaos, resolving into a bright, exalted moment of perfection

by Sharon 11:36 AM

Monday, November 04, 2002

 

Now my life collects dust.
I used to have nice things, but
after years and years of careful neglect, they
have fallen into disrepair or just simply fallen prey
to the dust that seeps into everything in this life. Every
thing is covered with a layer of fine dust, fluff from old shirts,
dryer lint, bits of hair, pieces of old, dead skin, fallen from my body
as I inhabit my world. There's no ignoring all the dust. It just
piles up all over everything. Sometimes, just for a laugh,
I try to blow it off of something, try to clean up
the life I've let gather dust, but
it's no use.
My life collects dust.

by MisterNihil 10:24 AM

Friday, November 01, 2002

 

an inauspicious beginning

by Sharon 1:37 PM