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 Thursday, December 26, 2002
(Terfl.)
She was looking at me in that way. You know what I mean. That way. I could tell right away that she wanted to get to know me, and not the superficial me; the real me, the one who lurks just beneath the surface. Today, though, he was right on top. I woke up looking good. I don't know how else to put it. My hair looked good. My skin was clear. My usually wrinkled laugh-lines were strangely, welcomely absent. I felt like I'd lost ten pounds and had a solid, hard workout the day before. I looked good.
So I ambled over to her, she still staring at me. Dead at my chest, you know how women do. I put my purchase on the conveyor belt, way at the back. I am nothing if not flirtatious. I let them sit there for a second until the belt came on, and walked up slowly to the register, following the hand soap and nachos-in-a-box. A bachelor's groceries, clearly and unmistakably.
She was still staring at my chest, but lifted her delicate eyes momentarily to meet mine. She looked away quickly. Ahhh. Shy. I know the type. This should be fun. I leaned on the check-writing surface, and waited for her to scan my items.
"Eight-fif-tee." I didn't like her voice, but that didn't matter. You could always not listen to them. Even the funniest-sounding dame could be forgiven if she looked good enough and was interested enough. This girl had both. I handed her a ten, picked up my bag, and started for the door. Three, two, one.
"Excuse me, sir?" Bingo.
"Yes, little lady?"
"You forgot your change; hee hee hee." Bad laugh, too. Still, she was cute.
I nodded a thank you, and started to turn again. Two, one.
"Um..."
"Yes?"
"Is that a real space pen in your pocket."
Damn. "Why, yes it is."
"Ooooh, i love them." She started off on some ramble about the pen. The pen. I should have known it wasn't me. I bowed out as soon as I could. No sense in sticking around there. I mean, she wasn't that cute, and she wasn't after me.
Next time, then.
by MisterNihil 11:59 PM
Sooo... What'dja get?
by Sharon 1:44 PM
Wednesday, December 25, 2002
—Hey, Nick.
—Joe. Coffee?
—Two sugars, no milk. How's the back?
—Can't complain. Another year over, eh?
—Or just beginning. I think I gained some ground this year.
—That's sweet, Joe. Keep believing in the human spirit; it warms my heart.
—That's a good cup of coffee; thanks. No, really, people are nervous lately. They're looking for solace. The threat of war is good for spiritualism.
—So is a weak economy, I know. Still, you can't fight the American Dream: Consumerism!
—That's a little harsh.
—Harsher than what they do to each other? Harsher than fighting over land and misunderstandings and money? They're worthless, the whole lot of them.
—I know you better than that, Nick. You still love them.
—Deserve a big lump of coal, every one.
—I brought you a present.
—Me? Heh. Nobody gives me presents.
—I know. Open it.
—What is it?
—A small box with a shiny bow. Open it.
—But I didn't get you anything.
—That's okay; I'm Jewish. Open the box, Nick.
—What's this... "Hope"?
—Hang onto that a little longer, old friend. But don't forget.
—What, Joe?
—Christmas Day is still mine.
by Sharon 10:39 AM
Christmas Day is mine!
by Sharon 2:00 AM
Tuesday, December 24, 2002
Huzzah! Randomness!
Belligerent children with too much time.
enjoy.
by MisterNihil 9:09 AM
Friday, December 20, 2002
We already sort of did this one back in July, but it's late in the evening and I'm not sure if anyone else is out there anyway. So today's topic is:elves Christmas, Middle Earth, or whatever. Take your pick. Anyone who wants to take my spot in the rotation next week (I think Friday) is free to do so. I'll be away from the computer for about seven days starting Sunday. Happy holidays, everyone. See you in (or just before) the new year!
by Fred 5:04 PM
Thursday, December 19, 2002
Lou Kangaroo and his friend Hugh the Gnu
Bid fond adieu to the Kalamazoo Zoo.
“We’re off to Peru,” said the Gnu-Kangaroo crew,
“To chew on bamboo and get Lou a tattoo.”
“I thought that you two were planning a coup,”
Cooed Stu, the true-blue next-door cockatoo.
“We knew a few of the crew of the Kalamazoo Zoo
Would see through the coup,” said Hugh to blue Stu.
“They might misconstrue and send the cops to pursue,
So after review, we choose tattoos in Peru.”
by Fred 11:59 PM
kangaroo
by Fred 2:32 PM
Wednesday, December 18, 2002
Today is the third shortest day of spring.
Day after tomorrow, the days will start to get longer and the weather might, given the miracles of the "Season" get colder. On the evening of the Solstice, the high should be about twenty degrees colder than the high today. On Friday, the sun will rise at 7:23. I should be well on my way to work at that time. That same sun will set at 5:35. I will be on my way home from work. There will be no sun on Friday for me, locked away in cube world.
I am walking in the sun, wondering at the warmth, knowing the day will come all too soon when I do not see sun.
I am wearing the shoes I wore the last time my previous car ran. One was lost in the mud and recovered.
I am puzzled by life.
by MisterNihil 1:36 PM
Tuesday, December 17, 2002
Topic-schmopic. I wrote another song. (Homework for class tomorrow.)
Pink and mauve, standing tall,
With Spanish roofing tiles,
Optional ceiling fans, balconies in all
To see the view for miles.
CHORUS:
The property value's on the rise.
Oh, the profits it will yield--
A tribute to modern enterprise,
But it used to be a field.
Luxury apartment homes,
So new, so quaint, so swank,
Sprucing up residential zones
To put them in the bank.
CHORUS
10,000 jewels on bending greens
Inviting those who braved it.
Paths to follow after dreams.
Good thing you went and paved it.
CHORUS
Rent was ripe for your collection
Before you even began to dig.
I'm sure you're proud of your erection.
You must feel so big.
CHORUS:
The property value's on the rise.
Oh, the profits it will yield--
A tribute to modern enterprise,
But it used to be a field.
by Sharon 3:02 PM
"It's cold outside, there's no kind of atmosphere..."winter Brr.
by Fred 7:19 AM
Monday, December 16, 2002
“Coming up later on All Things Considered, renowned author and motivational speaker Nyarlathotep reads from his new book, ‘Chicken Soup for the Cthulhu Worshipper’s Soul’, which the New York Times recently hailed as the holiday season’s feel-good answer to the Necronomicon. ‘No home should be without one…’ writes reviewer Michiko Kakutani, ‘lest it suffer unspeakable consequences beyond all human imagining.’ And Maya Angelou will tell us what Christmas means to her. But first, the news…”
by Fred 9:02 PM
When I came home, I was shocked.
"This isn't how it looks, I can explain!" My wife was naked. My neighbor was naked. I had no idea what to make of it.
I ran out, crying, into the night. I spent the night at the office and came back the next morning when I was sure she'd be at work. She was there, though, and so was he. And so was that goddamn kettle.
I can't stand the smell of broth to this day. She fed me some lame excuse about the gas being out and a water shortage, but nothing will ever explain what I saw that day.
They had a fire in the middle of the kitchen and stood a giant kettle-pot-thing over it. Like a menudo pot, but probably sixty gallons. I smelled the broth, and there they were, naked and sitting in the pot. She was cutting carrots into the liquid.
I heard about these weird, kinky Chicken Soup things, but I never though my own wife...
Enough of that.
by MisterNihil 3:55 PM
Sunday, December 15, 2002
“This isn't how it looks. I can explain. You see, that reflects undiffused light; it forms an image of whatever object is placed in front of it. Where we come from, we call it a mirror.”
“I don’t think it’s working, Professor.”
“Nonsense. They’re highly intelligent. They simply need time to process the information.”
“Those look like weapons they’re pointing at us.”
“Where? Oh. Yes. Yes, those do look like weapons, don’t they? It’s hard to tell without my glasses. I thought you said you locked the shuttle armory.”
“I did. They may have bypassed the code. You said yourself they’re intelligent. And they’ve already proven they’re good with numbers.”
“Yes.”
“Just not with mirrors apparently.”
“Well, in their defense, there’s not much naturally produced glass on the planet’s surface, now is there? They’re hardly in a position to be familiar with its properties.”
“Those are definitely the weapons from the shuttle armory.”
“Well, there’s a safety on each of them, isn’t there?”
click
“Not anymore.”
“Oh. Well that doesn’t necessarily mean they’re going to kill us.”
“Well that depends, now don’t it, Professor? We are the evil space people who came here uninvited. And we do have mirrors with us, which they seem to think can steal their souls or something. So I’d have to say, from the evidence in front of me, that, yeah, they probably are going to kill us.”
“Oh bugger. I told you not to leave your damn shaving kit out.”
“Yeah, and I seem to remember suggesting more reconnaissance before going out to meet the natives.”
“They looked harmless.”
“Yeah, well, as you just tried pointing out to them, things often aren’t how they look.”
by Fred 11:59 PM
This isn't how it looks. I can explain.
by Sharon 2:03 AM
Saturday, December 14, 2002
Randomness Part 2:
Tropical Brain.
Enjoy.
by MisterNihil 4:30 AM
Friday, December 13, 2002
There are dear memories from my childhood that, upon reflection, are awfully weird.
Every year, we had to visit the Lehigh Valley Mall to talk to the reindeer. They were large, animatronic deer heads poking out of a stable in the middle of the mall, and they would talk with us. This was a bit of Christmas magic that I simply could not do without.
(Last time I went, there were big talking teddy bears. Adequate, I suppose, but just not the same.)
As a result of this, reindeer were pretty important to me. They listened better than the creepy guy in red that you had to wait in line to talk to and then sit way too close to. The reindeer would address a gaggle of kids. You could kind of gather about them, and they would grant an audience to any who approached.
My inimitable best friend Tameka tells of going to see the reindeer one year. One of the reindeer asked, "And who is that pretty little girl?" Tameka, never at a loss for self-confidence, knew exactly whom they must be talking about and answered, "It's me, Tameka!"
At our house, on Christmas Eve-Eve (we were in Delaware at Grandma's by Christmas Eve, but Santa has a good personal assistant, and he knew to come to our place early), I'd put carrots and celery out on the front lawn for the reindeer. Everbody left cookies for the old boy, but nobody seemed to do anything special for those hard-working blokes, the reindeer. I always wanted to make sure they were well taken care of.
Looking out for the underdogs, that's me.
by Sharon 2:55 PM
Gdaddy2650 You have a chat invitation from GBaby01256:
GBaby01256: Hey Grandad!
Gdaddy2650: Happy birthday! How old are you now, six?
GBaby01256: Yep! Write me an original microfiction about Reindeer,
Gdaddy2650: OK. Is this your bedtime? I get so confused with the time difference.
GBaby01256: Yeah. Dad says you can write good microfictions, and he's tired.
Gdaddy2650: lol : )
Gdaddy2650: OK: Once upon a time there were reindeer they all died the end goodnight
GBaby01256: not SO micro!
Gdaddy2650: Fine, what do you want? That roudilf story again?
GBaby01256: No. its dum. I want original.
Gdaddy2650: Hmm. So like once upon a time there were reindeer they all died the end goodnight?
GBaby01256: NO
GBaby01256: NOT LIKE THAT
GBaby01256: more like a story. witha beginning and end and everything.
GBaby01256: dont be like that.
GBaby01256: I want a good story
Gdaddy2650: Fine. Once upon a time there was alittle red reindeer. it was different from the other reindeer because it was much redder than they were, all up its coat and fur and everything. It was sad sometimes cbecause it didn';t have any red friends to play with. it decided to go to albuquerque.
GBaby01256: whers that?
Gdaddy2650: when he got to albuquerque he was happy because there were lots of elves there and it never snowed. but there was a big bad sandmonster. it said it would eat any littlre reindeer it saw so he hid in the bushes and waited.
GBaby01256: whers that?
Gdaddy2650: its in arizona
Gdaddy2650: whent the sand monster walked past the reindeer he saw the deer hiding and said "NOW I GOT YOU" (cue scary noiz)
GBaby01256: OOH! Im scarred!
Gdaddy2650: the deer grabbed a rock and said "I have faith in Christmas and Satna, and he slung the rock at the sand monster and hit it right between the eyes
Gdaddy2650: the sand monster fell back and died and the reindeer was made king of the reindeer. then when the reindeer was bathing on th roof the queen of the reindeer saw it and fell in love and had the king reindeer sent off to war to lead the charge against the enemies and the king reindeer died
Gdaddy2650: and the queen reindeer was so sad she poked her eyes out with a brooch and was led through the wilderness for forty days and forty nights with nothing to eat or drink. then the devil took the queen reindeer up to a mountain top and said the world can be yours if you bow down to me andthe queen reindeer ate eight pomegranite seeds from a pine tree and the devil ran away and that
Gdaddy2650: s why at hannustmasaturnalia we light eight christmas trees and then give tops to eachother. because of the queen reindeer andt he top of the mountain and the eight seeds and the devil.
GBaby01256: Thanks grandad! youre the bets
GBaby01256: best
Gdaddy2650: Good night. shoot me an email next tiem youre in town and well go ice skating
GBaby01256: goodnight
GBaby01256 Has terminated chat session
Do you need to buy a chainsaw? click on Habbies House Of Chainsaws for Chainsaw Deals like you never saw!
Free email at www.bibbtasticemailzyo.com
Good bye.
by MisterNihil 1:36 PM
Thursday, December 12, 2002
He stumbled in, stinking of booze, and clearly with something unpleasant to say.
"I been meaninta tellyou sumthin," he started. He pointed violently with his finger at a point a few feet above my head, and glared angrily at the tip of the finger. Carefully, he lowered it to the level of my eyes, and continued. "I been meaninta tellyooh sumthin. You stink. You know what, you stink the wors'. I hate you."
"I'm sorry to hear that," I replied, not sure what to make of this.
"Doninnerup. You jus waitill I'm done an you lissen and you lissen good. I donlike you, an I won like you an I don wanna ever see you aroun here again. You got that?"
"I live here."
"I tolya doninnerup!" He flew into a rage, and kicked a mahogany table leg nearby, probably bruising his toes in the process. "Now lissen. 'F I see you again in my bar, I'monna havta ass youta step ousside. You gah'me?"
I waited, to make sure he was done.
"Well? You gah'me?" He yelled this, stamping his foot and wincing.
"Yes. I got you," I said.
"Fine! I'll be on my way."
I had never seen him before, nor did I ever, I am glad to report, see him again. Particularly not in 'his bar.' I have no idea how he got into my house, nor where he went when he left. The butler told me later that someone had left a puddle of suspicious yellow liquid by the door. I shudder to think.
Before he walked out of my life as unexpectedly as he walked into it, though, he walked to my wet-bar and did the oddest thing. He poured a perfectly ordinary drink, then reached under it for the cooking wine, and dropped several coins in. Thus tipping the cooking sherry, he was on his way.
That remains my favorite drinking story, perhaps because I had nothing to drink in the course of it.
by MisterNihil 11:11 PM
Wednesday, December 11, 2002
They always call me some time between Thanksgiving and mid-December. It's when I get most of my cases. And even those tend to shy away when I tell them there's a minimum of a year of case time and a minimum cost of ten thousand, up front.
But it helps that I know the answer to their question before they call.
I'm not psychic. I'm just good at what I do. They want to know who tangles the lights. I want to keep their lights from getting tangled.
I'm a private dick, specializing in yuletide mischief. It means I tend to get asked the same question over and over. And I know the answer.
His name isn't pronouncable in our language, and sounds like a series of clicks and whistles to the human ear. He works in June; I gave up trying to catch him years ago. Now I just go around to the houses in May and leave cookies and milk in their Christmas boxes in their attics. It keeps him from tangling the lights; it's why he won't come within two months of Christmas. You don't leave them to attract the fat elf, they're to keep away the skinny one.
So I keep a bag of oreos around, and a couple of gallons of moo juice and I wait for them to call. They always call. Eventually it gets bad enough, and they have to throw away the lights.
That's where I come in.
(Yeah, I dunno. I'm rushed today.)
by MisterNihil 12:39 PM
Tuesday, December 10, 2002
They tell me that I am sorry for what I did. I do not remember it, or much of anything before I came to be in this place, but I am glad to know that I have made my peace with it and that I have been forgiven for what I have done. It is good to be among those who know what is best for me. I am in no position to make decisions for myself. They tell me that very few are ever offered this chance. They tell me that I should be grateful. They cannot tell me my crime, but only because it is too horrible for words. This much I know. They would not lie to me. I am an enemy of the state, naturally, and they have simply been kind enough to spare me the awful details. They have forgiven me, allowed me to forget, and they ask only that I tell others of their generosity as penance for my crime. They have asked that I inform them when others would speak out and do something they would later regret. How can I refuse them this request? They have offered me so much. They will show the others kindness, I am sure, and the others, too, will learn to be sorry for the crimes. I am sorry for what I have done. I do not know what it was, but it must have been awful for them to put me here in the dark.
by Fred 10:21 PM
"I'm Sorry."
"Not Good enough."
"I'm Very sorry?"
"Still not close."
"I'm extremely sorry, and I will take pains every second of every day to make sure it doesn't happen again?"
"Actually worse.
"I'm as sorry as a person who knows he has done nothing wrong can be."
"You ass."
"Ooh. Profanity. The last resort of the jerk-off."
"I hate you."
"You're welcome to hate, and you're welcome to keep dangling there."
"If I ever get loose, you'll be sorry."
"And there you go on the 'sorry' thing again. First, I'll be sorry, and I admit, I am not particularly sorry. Now I'll be sorry again. You need a new catch phrase."
"Sorry. It's what you'll be."
"I see you struggling there with the rope. I assure you, when you finally, struggling, manage to break free, you will fall into the pool below you. You have plans to swim to shore before whatever horrible fish I've put there comes to the surface and eats you, don't you?"
"I might."
"Well, the pool isn't full of water. Smell that awful odor? That's acid. Strong acid. You wouldn't make it to the surface after you fell, much less to the edge of the pool."
"You're bluffing. I'll make you sorry."
"Sorry, sorry sorry. I know that's the code word that's supposed to bring your backup running, and it would, if I hadn't pulled your wire off when you were unconscious. Sorry to ruin your fun. I tossed it into the pool, just for grins."
"You bastard."
"And again, back to the big guns. You poor, poor dear, dangling helpless while your backup wait. That's OK, you won't have to dangle long. I have a devious plan."
"Enlighten me."
"Of Course. Here's the plan: You dangle helpless there, and I'll shoot you." (bang) "See? Then I go off and do whatever villainous thing I was up to just hours ago... Ah yes; world domination."
"...be...sorry..."
"Oh, don't bother."
-with a nod to Ian Flemming-
by MisterNihil 4:35 PM
Monday, December 09, 2002
I am a mechanic.
I am a mechanic because I have special training.
I am a mechanic because I have special training in accounting.
I am a mechanic because I have special training in accounting and the real mechanic was sucked out the airlock.
I am a mechanic because I have special training in accounting and the real mechanic was sucked out the airlock because of something I did.
I am a mechanic because I have special training in accounting and the real mechanic was sucked out the airlock because of something I did while doing the books for this crew of losers.
I am a mechanic because I have special training in accounting and the real mechanic was sucked out the airlock because of something I did while doing the books for this crew of losers, under whose employ I am.
I am a mechanic because I have special training in accounting and the real mechanic was sucked out the airlock because of something I did while doing the books for this crew of losers, under whose employ I am asphyxiating.
I am a mechanic because I have special training in accounting and the real mechanic was sucked out the airlock because of something I did while doing the books for this crew of losers, under whose employ I am asphyxiating because of a large hole in the air lock.
I am a mechanic because I have special training in accounting and the real mechanic was sucked out the airlock because of something I did while doing the books for this crew of losers, under whose employ I am asphyxiating because of a large hole in the air lock which I made.
I am a mechanic because I have special training in accounting and the real mechanic was sucked out the airlock because of something I did while doing the books for this crew of losers, under whose employ I am asphyxiating because of a large hole in the air lock which I made while trying to do the taxes for this crew.
I am a mechanic because I have special training in accounting and the real mechanic was sucked out the airlock because of something I did while doing the books for this crew of losers, under whose employ I am asphyxiating because of a large hole in the air lock which I made while trying to do the taxes for this crew under heavy fire from the IRS.
I am a mechanic because I have special training in accounting and the real mechanic was sucked out the airlock because of something I did while doing the books for this crew of losers, under whose employ I am asphyxiating because of a large hole in the air lock which I made while trying to do the taxes for this crew under heavy fire from the IRS because of a return filed a thousand years too late.
I am a mechanic because I have special training in accounting and the real mechanic was sucked out the airlock because of something I did while doing the books for this crew of losers, under whose employ I am asphyxiating because of a large hole in the air lock which I made while trying to do the taxes for this crew under heavy fire from the IRS because of a return filed a thousand years too late due to an unexpected jump to lighspeed.
I am a mechanic because I have special training in accounting and the real mechanic was sucked out the airlock because of something I did while doing the books for this crew of losers, under whose employ I am asphyxiating because of a large hole in the air lock which I made while trying to do the taxes for this crew under heavy fire from the IRS because of a return filed a thousand years too late due to an unexpected jump to lighspeed.
by MisterNihil 2:46 PM
Until Jonathan posts a topic:
MAKING DUE WITHOUT
It'll serve in the time being.
by MisterNihil 2:40 PM
Sunday, December 08, 2002
Maya shuffled the papers and tamped them on the table, in the hopes that straightening them might improve the information they ruthlessly reported. She laid the stack in front of her on the polished mahogany table and wondered if she might be able to seep into the rich, golden grain and get lost.
Crisp, white, rectangular edges demarcated their territory on the conference table. Maya could see them burning and singeing, becoming suddenly much heavier and causing the table to cave in after them. But they sat, clean, white, terrible.
A thin blue line insinuated itself into the northeast corner of a graph. Numbers were rising. Solutions were few. As the censuses called in their numbers from the districts, the temperature in the war room grew progressively colder. Maya tracked more numbers on the graph. In her head she used with comfort the term that had started as a morbid joke: The dead line climbed higher.
by Sharon 11:59 PM
Deadline
“You see that up ahead? That’s the dead line. Everything after that belongs to zombies.”
“And the fence?”
“It’s there to protect us. It keeps them out, keeps us safe. We’d all be dead in a week if it wasn’t there.”
“And do they really eat brains?”
“Only when they’re hungry. And only those of little kids who don’t behave.”
“Very funny. I’m not a kid, you know. I can take care of myself.”
“I don’t think so, sport. We don’t do that around here. Everybody here needs everybody else. We protect each other.”
“They’re just zombies. They don’t frighten me.”
“They should. They’re dangerous. Look, I know you’re the Ambassador’s daughter, kid, but this isn’t like the other planets in the Alliance. I don’t care what they told you. Things went bad here a long time ago. We survived, but there are things worse than death still on the other side of that fence, and you need to be careful.”
“My father says they’re intelligent. They’re going to try and sign a treaty with them.”
“Uh huh, yeah, I know. And I still say that’s a mistake. But who am I to argue with company policy?”
by Fred 11:59 PM
Friday, December 06, 2002
ohrwurm —German, "earworm," a tune which infects a population rapidly. From the Memetic Lexicon, something I shall certainly have to blog shortly.
My friend's little brother writes songs that get stuck in my head. For days at a time. Worse yet, my friend's little brother writes songs that I catch myself singing out loud. The clincher is that my friend's little brother writes songs that are really inappropriate in grocery stores, movie theaters, business meetings...
Previously, the most persistent earworm from Seth had been "Drop the Bombs." In addition to being catchy and imminently singable, it is an anthem for a generation tired of being marginalized by the establishment. The only thing that distinguishes it as more "his generation" than "my generation" is the plural. We would have said "The Bomb."
Here's a bit of the lyrics:I'm so tired of waiting.
Drop the bombs, drop the bombs.
Tired of hearing them saying,
"Here it comes."
Drop the bombs.
When it's time to die, I'll be ready.
How 'bout you?
—Copyright 2002 Brother Machine It gets you weird looks in the grocery store, but boy, does it make you feel better about being there.
So I received a new Brother Machine album last night. I've been playing it in the car. It contains a new earworm. This earworm ran through my head all during this afternoon's "New Quality Assurance Process Rollout" meeting.Fuck you.
Fuck you.
Fuck you and you and you. But it's got such a catchy tune.
by Sharon 5:32 PM
earworm
by Sharon 12:57 PM
Thursday, December 05, 2002
Independent of this, I wrote song lyrics, but I wrote them all on my own, and they took some number of seconds (though a fair bit more than 600), so anyway, writing:
I believe in a flat earth
and a round sky
today.
Chasing down the highway
With nothing to stand in our way,
Making big schemes, scheming big dreams,
While the radio sings along.
There's nothing I want to do
but drive in Texas with you.
I believe that chores are fun
and work is light
today.
Chasing down the aisles
With produce stands in our way,
Making a home, setting up house,
While riding on shopping carts.
There's nothing I want to do
but shop for groceries with you.
I believe I like broccoli
and maybe squash
today.
Chasing with soda
Or milk or juice or tea or water or lemonade or beer,
Trying a bite, because I should,
While you take the stems off my plate.
There's nothing I want to do
but eat my veggies with you.
[Bridge:]
I believe in today
And a bright promised tomorrow,
With you, my friend, my heart,
To split my joy, my sorrow,
To hold my hand and laugh with me,
To let me hold yours, too.
This life we build, this here, this now,
Is all I want to do.
I believe that we have a chance
if we try
today.
Chasing down peace
With hope to find some way,
Making a wish for a reprieve,
When saner heads hold the reigns.
There's nothing I want to do
but fight for freedom with you.
[Repeat Bridge]
I believe in the sun in the sky
orbiting us
today.
Chasing down meteors
With nothing to stand in our way,
Making big plans, built with our hands,
While wishes streak through the sky.
There's nothing I want to do
but spend my whole life with you.
by Sharon 2:00 PM
They're yelling at me on the phone again.
Every time I pick it up, there's somebody there, yelling. No dial tone, no ringing, just a voice that screams about my incompetence, about how useless I am. There aren't any reasons, I just hear the voice.
I tried to turn on the computer, but it just displayed an error message that ended with "Fatal Exception at 1624.72-6 to your Body Odor/Try later when you don't suck."
I have tasks to do. I have things that need to be completed. I know there are, somewhere, people who are counting on me to do my job. I stood up to look for help. The rest of the office is dark.
I got my quick tutorial, and they said "You can manage. All on your own. It's a simple job; a monkey could do it. Just go ahead and get started."
I don't remember anything useful from the tutorial. It was done very quickly by a small mumbly man with something else to do. He kept getting calls, but going on with the tutorial without explanation of what he was doing. Every so often, he'd say "See? Easy," which I assume was directed at me.
I found a help manual, but every page says "Access denied - security level too low."
I apparently don't even rate help.
I tried calling random extensions for help, but that voice just kept berating me. I tried going to another cubicle, but there was a memo pasted outside mine that said any employee caught outside of his/her cube will be executed, and that there was a $600 reward for reporting your coworkers. So I stayed here, and sat at my desk, trying not to mess up anything else.
I tried playing with paperclips, but every time I reach for the box a buzzer somewhere in the dark depths of the ceiling sounds, and I have to pull back. There's nothing to do.
I'm afraid I'll get fired, but first I have to do the job, right?
At least I'm alone.
by MisterNihil 11:18 AM
all on your own
by Sharon 2:02 AM
Wednesday, December 04, 2002
When you're lost in the rain, in Juarez, and it's Eastertime too
When your gravity fails, and negativity don't pull you through
Don't put on any airs when you're down on Rue Morgue Avenue
They've got some hungry women there and they'll really make a mess out of you
- Bob Dylan, “Just Like Tom Thumb Blues”
It ‘d been raining in my head for days, but outside the city was still weeping from its second week of drought. The local weatherman was predicting rain for Thursday afternoon, a storm front rolling in along the coast, but if it was dark clouds they wanted they were looking in the wrong place. I’d had plenty to spare ever since she walked into my office last Friday, and I was more than happy to spread them around. I was tired of tripping over the puddles.
I’d just finished another big case, and I was dotting the i's and crossing the t’s on the paperwork when she knocked on my door. She was the kind of girl you read about in magazines, and I don’t mean Ladies’ Home Journal either, a leggy redhead in a dress that left little to the imagination and was like a refresher course in human anatomy. I was thanking the stars I’d worn my good rumpled trenchcoat to work that morning.
“I’ve lost my umbrella,” she said in a voice that was like melted butter in all the right ways, “and I hear you’re the sort of man who can help me find it.”
“Maybe I am,” I said, playing it cool. “Have a seat.”
She poured herself into the chair opposite my desk and leaned close.
“It’s my favorite umbrella,” she sighed. “I just don’t know what I’ll do if it rains.”
Not much chance of that, I thought. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky.
“Well then sure, I’ll take the case then,” I said. After all, how tough could it be to find one lonely umbrella?
If only I’d known what I was getting myself into…
by Fred 3:22 PM
"The experiment was a success, Doctor!"
Hearing those words creep into my consciousness from the other end of a trans-Atlantic phone call brought my surroundings into focus. I gave an experimental tug with each of my limbs and found them still strapped down to the operating table. The voices in the lab gained volume and color like an old radio warming up.
"Test her reflexes, David."
That was the doctor. His thug shuffled over to my table and stood on tiptoes to peer, too closely, into my face. His teeth were scummy.
The volume was all the way up now, but the static and pops remained. Probably time to get a new radio. It was raining in my head. I shook it to clear it, but Igor took it as an attempt to communicate. He leaned in closer, and his breath smelled of dead things.
"Oh, but yes. Yes, my darling."
My muscles were still too sluggish to make a response. I gurgled derisively. The rain continued to beat against my brain pan, and it was starting to make me mad. The lab assistant, with his mossy teeth, picked up an implement and began to tap against joints, working around the leather restraints. It didn't have much effect, except to make me angrier.
I clenched my jaw. I clenched my fists. And then, and this was surprising, I found a new muscle to clench. I tried it experimentally, and the rain in my head became thunderous. Yes, this was new. I liked it.
I took a deep breath, set my teeth, clenched, and stood up.
by Sharon 1:42 PM
Found a good random topic generator. Here's the first topic it spit out:
Raining in my head
Enjoy.
by MisterNihil 3:32 AM
Tuesday, December 03, 2002
They say that nothing in the world rhymes with purple,
Unless of course you're maybe thinking gerbil.
It's not a perfect rhyme,
But then when did that become a crime?
I mean, would a purple gerbil really be that t'rrible?
by Fred 5:02 PM
Searching her face for a long minute, I could see that I was gone. Deep in her eyes, she was finally over me.
It's cliche, but I don't understand women. Why throw away the one who loved you best, the one who would love you truest and longest, even after your perfect beauty had faded? Why spit on his love? Why rip out his heart and stomp on it?
Women.
But I'm being melodramatic. She did love me. For quite a while, even, she returned my affections. It was bliss. We were perfect, together. But you can't own perfection, can't hold onto it. She was a soap bubble that burst when I grasped it.
I have set her free now. I can see in her eyes that she is free. Free of me and all the misery I apparently brought her. Free of the misery of my kisses and my letters and my flowers and my conversation. Free. That bitch.
She doesn't look troubled now. She looks calm, relieved, maybe even happy to be rid of me. She definitely looks over me. Which is funny, since I am over her.
The purple bruises, developing like a Polaroid, look almost lovely, on her sweet, white neck. Her lips are purple now, too, and they beckon ever so subtly, though she would never admit it.
Perhaps I shall steal one last kiss.
by Sharon 4:19 PM
purple Hmm...if one person writes, maybe more people will write...
by Fred 3:42 PM
Monday, December 02, 2002
It started as a long sigh, welling up from the depths of the Trench and climbing towards the sunlight. Eldritch gasses trapped in bubbles marked the end of an era.
And the beginning of the next.
I was there to see it happen. I was one of the divers. I helped place the final puzzle stones in the positions calculated by the eggheads topside, maneuvering cranes and robotics to slide millennia-old markers into their intended crevasses.
Armored in our deep-sea diving suits, equipped with high-pressure breathing apparati, and squired by a Polymer Age diving bell, we felt big. Masterful. Tough. Space was easy--no pressure--compared with the depths. And we had pierced them. Visited, seen the tourist attractions, collected the pamphlets and moved in. Here we were, on the inside of the world, feeling big.
And then we opened the Gate, and "big" became a relative term.
The exhalation that started the tsunami of '31 was simply a calling card. An introductory belch. A "howdy, neighbors," to warn us to start preparing for a new world order.
Global priorities changed, once the dwellers of the Trench introduced themselves to us. United Nations meetings are almost unrecognizable. Petty squabbles that had launched wars have become the differences that unite us. We hadn't expected peace to come at a price so dear.
So I am back into my diving suit, after all these decades. There is a Crust Rights rally this afternoon that I'm not going to miss.
by Sharon 11:59 PM
exhalation I figure, somebody's gotta write something eventually...
by Fred 3:26 PM
Sunday, December 01, 2002
They kept him in the hospital for thirty days. They tied him to a bed and fed him through a tube. Doctors would look in on him from time to time, shake their heads, make adjustments to their clipboard. They talked shop with the nurses in the hallway, traded stories. There was nothing they could tell the family. At the end of a month, they let him go home. Sometimes people just die, they said, although this, too, they did not tell the family. His wife and children were encouraged to make him comfortable: his own bed, familiar faces. He was not expected to survive another month. The doctors prescribed drugs, pills to dull the pain, and they said call anytime if you have any questions, if there's anything we can do. They were in an unenviable position. They could offer no answers. They were no better than anyone else. A disease you can understand but cannot conquer, they said, is still preferable to no disease at all. Symptoms without apparent cause, and therefore without cure, are a terrible thing to come across, because to tell a man he is going to die is bad enough without the knowledge that you cannot tell him why this is happening, that you cannot put a name to his suffering. They sent him home to die in his own bed, and they adjusted their clipboard, but they could tell the family nothing.
by Fred 11:59 PM
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
Thursday, October 31, 2002
Happy Halloween.
Boo!
by Fred 1:46 PM
Wednesday, October 30, 2002
"Dear Fu'hunarkle... what the hell is a fu'hunarkle?"
He was standing there, holding the letter.
"It says Uncle, Dad. Don't be an ass." I hated this, being critiqued like I was in school. This was my free time, and I didn't need a teacher, I needed Dad to tell me what he thought of the letter I'd written to his brother. I think that's why the epithets came out, to sort of differentiate between school and home. I'd never call my teacher an ass.
"Watch your mouth there, little guy. I can still spank you." It's the kind of threat that we all know means he can't. I can still spank you. The desperate cry of the parent of large offspring.
"Sorry, Dad." A flat reply for an empty threat. Appropriate.
"Dear Fu'hunarkle, I'm forreag chor che lacheaneff of chef refponfe... If your handwriting gets any 'flowerier' I'm gonna have to start burying it in the garden. This is illegible."
"Your eyes are just bad, and I said I'm gonna type it. I just wanted you to preview it to see if it's appropriate. This is delicate." Aaah, lies. They pour from my mouth.
"Oh... hmm... Delicate. He hated the dog, you know." I know. I know because I hated the dog too, and its being dead didn't make it any more likeable.
"No he didn't! He loved bixie, and I did too!" He named the dog Bill Bixbie. Oh, that clever uncle of mine. My clever family. We all hated that dog.
"Hmm."
That was all I could take. I snatched the letter from him and slunk off to my room. He was right, the writing was awfully flowery. All the letter said was Dear Uncle, Your dog died, Sorry, Love, etc. A pointless letter, the punctuation for a stupid dog's life. I still think it was appropriate that the letter be illegible. The dog was only barely a dog, the letter was only technically a letter.
We never missed either. The letter was lost in the post, but my uncle never cared. I called him a week later to say I was sorry and he didn't know what I meant.
He and Dad laughed over the "Dear Fu'hunarkle" thing at Christmas. I heard Dad on the phone, but I don't think he knew I was there. He called me the "Fruity one," when asked which son it was who committed that letter. It hurt, but I knew it was true. And I didn't even have a dog to tell about it.
by MisterNihil 5:44 PM
Tuesday, October 29, 2002
Evening was the best time to make progress. The lab was almost always empty, and quiet, finally quiet. Marla liked the hum of the incubators better than the hubbub of technicians and grad students. She placed a specimen sample under the microscope and adjusted the slide into view.
Reaching to her right for her notebook, Marla noticed an editorial someone had clipped. "Rights for the Unborn," it clamored. They didn't understand; Marla shook her head. College student activists looking for a cause to rally behind, only because their parents had rallied behind causes, always tried to put a soul into a collection of cells. Might as well grant rights to a tumor. Marla fished under the editorial for her notebook.
When she returned to the incubators to collect another sample, she tapped on the glass and grinned ghoulishly at the slack face inside. "You don't need civil liberties, now, do you?" Her voice sounded strange to her in the empty lab. "God doesn't give souls to things grown in tanks. --Do you, God?" She squinted up at the buzzing fluourescents.
In answer, the buzzing increased, then dipped, as a power surge shut down the lab hardware. Marla collected her wits as a UPS began to beep pitiously, shrugging into its duty. A stab of alarm struck her, and she rushed to inspect what damage may have been done to the specimens. Fighting the crowding shadows thrown by the emergency lighting, she peered into the incubator window, directly into the manic eyes of the unborn.
by Sharon 11:59 PM
Bernie only has one lung. The took the other one when the cancer got him, filled him up with tubes and cogs and wires and patched him up, good as new. You can hardly tell just by looking at him. He still breathes a little funny and holds his side sometimes, but the doctors say it’s a miracle he survived at all. The nurses joke and call him future boy. Bernie doesn’t see it like that, and he doesn't laugh, but he lets the doctors have their say. They hook him to their machines, marvel at their own ingenuity, poke and ask him where it hurts, and Bernie doesn’t say a thing. You learn to accept a lot about a person once they’ve saved your life.
Although sometimes, he worries about the donor.
“It was one of those things,” he says. “A robot.”
The doctors had to work quick. They’d expected to salvage at least a piece of Bernie’s lung, only to get him on the table and find out it was already too blackened and dead to be of much use. They had to look around for other options. Sometimes you make do with whatever you’ve got. In this case, it was one of the robot maintenance crew that cleans the hospital. They’ve got these air converters inside them that, as it turns out, are kind of a perfect fit. Sure, some people say the robots might be sentient, and there were some protests when the news got out, but the docs have been pretty good about keeping Bernie’s name out of the paper.
What he’s worried about now, I don’t know.
by Fred 12:39 PM
-begin transmission-
Why der ship crashed
By chipper.
Mungo sits inna front. I sits inna back. Dats how yer fly one'a deez. Mungo does da wingses an' I does da engines anna guns. Mungo tells me what ta shoot, I tells Mungo what ta aim fer. Derz no better way ta fly one'a deez tings. I seed 'em flied wit tree but dey fights, an' I seed one guy get in'a ting an' fly by his'elf. He lasted half-a-minnit inna air.
So Mungo sits inna front. I sits inna back. Mungo worries fer da wings. I worries fer da engines. So ya see why I tink prollem when Mungo leans his head back an' sez "Wuzzat Soun?"
Mungo gots a prollem. Dat's jus' how he talk.
I sez I dunno, its'a engine, an' Mungo sez "Izzit broked?"
I sez nah, we're mebbe tree quart low, no prollem. He sez "Needa Renk?"
Mungo don' say Wrench too good, but I know what dat means. I sez nah, I gotsa wrench, it fell inna gears twenny minutes back. He sez "Herdit."
Mebbe its'a whatchakall, axent. I dunno. Dats how Mungo talk.
So dats when da erl start leakin' on Mungo ann'e sez "Stobber," which I tink mean Stop it. I starts ta' patch da hose where da erl come out, ann'e sez "Stobber," again only real excited like. I gets da hose workin' an' he sez "Stobber" again, like I ain't heared him. I sez I stop dit, whatcha wan', a rag?
So he points outda winda an' derz da stopper from der gas tank fallin' off der ship wit der gas comin' after it.
So dat's why we crashed. In loo of fillin' out dis Twenny-seben-Bee-stroke-six ting, dey tole me ter send a report an tell why we needs'a nudder ship.
I blames der fuel-monkeys fer da loss. If dey'd put in der stopper like dey sposda der ship'd still be in der air.
So we, dat bein' Me an Mungo, is requisit'nin' an'udder ship ter fly as we still ain't bombed der emny base we were spos'da wit der last assig'm'nt.
-end transmission-
intercepted 10:29:02:10:00:01
Transcribed by pfc. Durian Morningsong
by MisterNihil 10:00 AM
Monday, October 28, 2002
"It's too god-damn early."
A pause.
"mumble mumble"
Another pause.
"What?"
One more.
"'said don' knock it. 's daylights savin' times."
"You're not making any sense."
"nope."
"You need to get up. It's too god-damn early. That means its time to get up."
"go'way."
"No, you need to get up. The sun isn't up, so it's time for you to get up. You are already late for work."
"'m not. work in't for 'nhour."
"Work already started. Everyone else is there. Every time they walk past your cube, they shake their heads and say 'That one's not long for the company.' Your job is at risk and you're not even awake."
"'m'not a'risk. nob'dy else wan's my job."
"Get up. It's too goddamn early and you should already be showered and in the car, groggily heading off for another fulfilling day of mind-numbing fun."
"'m'not gettin' up. 's fi'thirdy. 'larm clock han't rung."
"You have to pee. Right now. Get up."
"stupid 'nternal 'larm. stupid dayligh' savin' times."
"Yes, absolutely. Stupid me, stupid time, but you need to get up."
by MisterNihil 11:40 PM
daylight
by Fred 7:24 AM
Friday, October 25, 2002
“Let’s see, we’ve got cat wrangling or cat herding or…well this is weird. Cat juggling?”
“I’ll take that one,” he said. They loaded the memory chip into his brain – he had already signed the release, let them install the shunt and affix the necessary wires to his skull – and he felt a strange feeling wash over him.
“This may be a little surreal,” the technician said. She adjusted a dial. “Apparently it’s from the cat’s perspective.”
He could hardly hear her anymore, though. He was mid-flight, a dizzying rush of terror and then plonk back in the juggler’s outstretched hand. Again he was thrown, and again gravity spat him back down. Applause rang briefly in his ears and he meowed. The juggler gently stroked the fur atop his head.
“For my next trick,” the old man said, “I will need a volunteer who is not afraid of fire.”
The vision faded. The younger man sat up in the chair.
“Why’d you do that?” he asked the technician. He felt vaguely like pouncing.
“Sorry,” she said. “We’re not insured for that kind of thing.”
“But it was just getting interesting.”
“Yeah, that’s usually what happens. But we can only show so much. Government regulations.”
He grumbled. “Well, what else have you got?” he asked.
“Sorry,” she said again, “but your ten minutes are up.”
by Fred 10:35 AM
OK, I thought of this on the day that is actually today, but will be day-before-yesterday by the time this posts. Does that make sense, or should I try again?
I'll try again.
Look! Topic!Cat Wrangling
or
Cat Herding
by MisterNihil 6:27 AM
Thursday, October 24, 2002
An open letter to Mr. Bill Watterson, in reaction to a reprint of "CARTOONIST BILL WATTERSON RETURNS TO A CLOISTERED LIFE" from The Plain Dealer, Cleveland, OH, Dec 20, 1998
Dear Mr. Watterson:
I see unlicensed "Calvin and Hobbes" images everywhere I go, reprinted strips tacked up in co-workers cubicles, snippets of tiger wisdom quoted on websites and white boards. We have not forgotten you; we could never forget you. And, from what I can glean from a few cryptic articles, that is a terribly upsetting idea to you, who seems to value his privacy and anonymity above all else.
I respect your desire for privacy. By all means, stay hidden, stay invisible. But please, write again. Publish again. Share your unique insight on our world in the voices of new characters and new media. It is hard to bear your silence.
Do you understand how you affected us? For a decade you gave me something to smile about or ponder or cry over every day. What a magnificent gift.
Today, especially, the strip that has always seemed the most poignant is particularly relevant. In that Sunday strip, Calvin and Hobbes have decided to play "war." Each armed with a suction-cup dart gun, they face off... and annihilate each other immediately, simultaneously. The parting thought, I wish I could shout on the White House lawn: "Kind of a stupid game, isn't it."
I miss your insight, Mr. Watterson. Perhaps Calvin and Hobbes are now having grand adventures in the Yukon; no longer will unsuspecting townspeople be trampled by a Godzilla-sized Calvin; cardboard boxes remain sedate, inert, and corrugated; snowmen almost never come to life; and tuna fish no longer draws any quarry to my tiger trap. Still, there are stories to tell, and I hope someday you will tell more of yours.
With sincere thanks,
Sharon J. Cichelli
by Sharon 3:24 PM
The old barn looks forlorn. I don't mean that the roof is sagging (although it is), and the floors droop (although they do), and you can see too much daylight through the walls from inside (although you can). I mean, it looks forlorn. There is a real sadness that seeps out of the building.
The grass around the barn has turned brown, not even bothering to try to get greened up for spring. The melancholia has spread. I worry that one day it'll make it up the ridge and down to the house, but for now that's a long way off. The house is still happy and warm, lit by night and busy by day, human and animal traffick still thick; but the barn stands empty. The horses want nothing to do with it. The cows keep their distance. Even the dogs seem to know something is wrong. You won't see a rat there at any time of day, and you won't attract so much as a gnat with a bright flashlight at night. It'd be alright to spend an evening there on occasion, if it weren't for the moaning.
At night, usually around sunset (I hear that's when he used to come around), a low creaking moan comes up from below the floorboards of the barn. It scares the dogs, and the children don't like it much either. The cows have taken to crooning along with it, but the horses clear out when the sun gets low.
It was a whirlwind love affair, and since that ogre of a shed left our barn, nothing's been the same.
by MisterNihil 11:36 AM
Wednesday, October 23, 2002
A fly is sitting on a windowsill, looking out at the world in general, and at one cloud in particular. The cloud is shaped like a pear, which would be absolutely unremarkable, except the fly has seen the cloud, and realized that it is shaped like a pear. Somewhere in its little fly mind, it has made the connection between a piece of fruit; the reproductive body of a tree; a spheroid of cellulose and sugar, bearing seeds for the tree's future generation, its offspring; and a cloud; an aglomeration of water vapor and dust; one step in the water cycle that allows life to continue on this blue sphere-
-OK, hold it. First of all, that's twice you've used "sphere," in the same LONG, run-on pointless sentence, and second, flies can't see that far. They're olfactory and vibrational detecters. And they can't see through glass. They don't detect it well because it doesn't give off a smell (famously so), not because it's clear. It's not like babies running into windows (hee hee. Babies running into windows.)
Man, that's just sick. It's not cute to see babies suffer, and you shouldn't say so. You'll get these nice posters in trouble on the site. What if some 'regulatory entity'
-huh huh. En-titty. huh huh,
SEE? That's what I'm talking about. Cut that out. Anyway, I mention that it's remarkable that the fly can see the cloud. I covered that.
-Nuh uh. You just say it's remarkable that the fly can draw the connection. You never said anything about the fly being the farthest sighted fly in the history of all flies ever.
Sheesh. Give it a rest. You just have no concept of what makes a good story.
-Whatever. I've writtern better stories than this slop, and I've done it in my sleep.
We've all written neat stories in our sleep. The trick is waking up and writing them down, and their still being nifty.
-Man. Just shut up, Mall Voter.
That's uncalled for. Yeah, I voted at the mall, but that doesn't mean anything. The state of Texas actually did something worthwhile and had early voting in the mall, and I decided to participate in the democratic process-
-huh huh. Demo-Crap. Huh Huh.
Cut that shit out.
-huh huh. shit out. huh huh.
You're annoying, you know that. I'm not listening, and I'm going to finish my story.
The fly hung on the window pane in thoughtful silence, when a big, fat idiot with a fly swatter walked up and destroyed it, simply because of nothing-on-TV-induced boredom. Perhaps, had there been no idiotic internal critic to walk up to the fly and kill it, they story could have had a happy ending, or indeed an ending at all. As it stood, there could be no ending, as the story was lost in a torrent of poorly worded self-criticism.
-Dude. Not cool.
by MisterNihil 6:32 PM
"Hold it," Meeks said without a trace of sympathy.
Arrowythe scowled and shifted in his seat. "But--"
"We've collected the payload," Meeks cut in. "Deal with it. We'll dock with the cruiser in twenty minutes."
Arrowythe sneered at the strange carved idol in his lap. Glass eyes like a muddy creek stared fixedly out of its little stone head. Arrowythe ground his teeth and hated the little stone head. He tried again: "Listen, I'll just--"
"Sit." Meeks was having none of it. "Go nowhere. Hold it."
Arrowythe frowned sullenly while Meeks piloted the 'sloop towards the inviting opening in the hull of the starcruiser. It was too valuable, this chunky, bulbous relic from that forgotten, backwater planet, to be left unattended, Meeks knew. Too deadly, as well.
"Forget it!" Arrowythe recklessly unsnapped his harness and set the idol unceremoniously on the control panel in front of him. "Going!" he called, already three steps towards the head, unable to hold it any longer.
"Wha--? No!" Meeks had time to draw one final breath before the glowing azure chips of ice in the idol's stone sockets filled his view, filled their ship, filled eternity.
by Sharon 1:14 PM
“Hold it. You were supposed to write something about nimbus, weren’t you?”
“I would have if you had rescued me, but I was lost in the shadows.”
“Well, I’m sorry, but in a perfect world -- ”
“Oh, don’t give me that. I was lost for days. I couldn’t write.”
“Then it was all for nothing.”
“Redundant annoyance?”
“I’m not sure what that means, but yeah, it’s frustrating.”
“Well, there’s no justice. It’s not a perfect world.”
“Didn’t Burl Ives say that?”
“I think it was Lawrence Welk.”
"Oh. Well, I guess there's always tomorrow."
by Fred 9:32 AM
Sunday, October 20, 2002
“Well this place is old
It feels just like a beat up truck
I turn the engine but the engine doesn't turn
Well it smells of cheap wine and cigarettes
This place is always such a mess
Sometimes I think I'd like to watch it burn”
- The Wallflowers, “One Headlight”
My boss, as I found myself writing just the other day, is recognized as an international authority on propellants and combustion. This means surprisingly little to me. Although the research has some interesting applications and I admire his devotion to it, I don’t pretend to understand much, if any, of it. The equations, which it seems I am always scanning and rebuilding for one project or another, are not much more than meaningless numbers and variables to me. That there are patterns and purpose in these variables is obvious; their meaning, however, eludes me.
And that’s okay. I was an English major. Spray statistics and mobile granular bed combustion and aluminum nanoparticles aren’t really part of my vocabulary. Shakespeare never talks about gel propellants. I’m sometimes amused that my name is tucked into the acknowledgements page of a book called Combustion of Energetic Materials. But, even after two and a half years in this office (one year of that full-time), it’s not as if I understand any of the papers contained in that book. I recognize the notes, but I don’t know the song. I know which words are important, but I don’t know (or even always care) what they mean.
If anything, I think “combustion” means less to me now than it did before I took this job. It’s strange that using a word can rob it of its meaning. It isn’t evocative of anything else. It doesn’t suggest stories or poems or anything, really. It just is. It’s just something that I type, like so many other words, and it doesn’t mean anything to me anymore.
by Fred 11:59 PM
Friday, October 18, 2002
In a perfect world...
by Fred 6:11 AM
Thursday, October 17, 2002
It has been said in some meetings lately that we should make ourselves as valuable as possible—taking classes and taking on more work. The unstated implication is "or else you'll get laid off."
At the same time, I hear from people who aren't managers that priorities are an important thing to remember, especially when companies start laying people off willy-nilly.
One of my fellow Toastmasters gave a speech yesterday. Her life had become uncertain, her children grown, so she immersed herself in her work, spending 12 to 13 hours at the office each day. She was the perfect little worker bee.
And then she got in a car accident that rolled her car over. She took a few weeks off from work and really reassessed. She still likes her job; she still works hard. But it isn't all that she is, any more. Work has taken a more appropriate position in her priority list.
She's not the only one, either. Wise folks tell me that defining yourself solely in terms of your job is a sure route to suicide when the ax falls. When the thing that you are gets taken from you, with a vague implication that you are unworthy of it, what do you have left? Far better to have your job be something you do, rather than the thing that you are.
I remember when I first met Jonathan, he asked what my job was, and I made him clarify: what I'm paid to do, or what I am? At the time, I was paid to be a secretary. I have been, and always will be, a Writer. Nowadays, programmer fits in there somewhere, though I'm not sure how much of it sits on one side or the other.
It comes to mind currently because I am—I was going to say, "working very hard" on this project, but that's not it. I am stressing very hard, and that is keeping me from successfully working hard, making me more behind and more stressed. But what I wonder about, while I'm spending so much stomach lining on this project, is what good does it do? What do I have at the end of it? Probably, I'll have a good tool. I hope that I'll also have a job. It's unlikely that I'll have any more job security. And it is guaranteed that I won't have made a thing that really matters outside of my company or, really, outside of my user base. So I help a computer manufacturer save money. So what? It seems to be all for nothing.
by Sharon 11:59 PM
Wednesday, October 16, 2002
There was an alligator on the escalator.
If it’s not there now, it’ll be there later.
It’s like a crocodile and it's hostile,
So watch your step if you see it smile.
You could take the elevator to confuse the gator
Or find some meat with which to bait her,
But if such cunning guile is not your style,
We'll be right down in just a little while.
by Fred 4:48 PM
the up escalator
by Sharon 2:58 AM
Tuesday, October 15, 2002
Where did he go?
I lost track last week, but the I saw him again on my way to work. He was spitting on the sidewalk in my path. There are cultures, ancient ones still extant, which would justify my killing him for that. I didn't. Ours isn't one of them. If only, if only I could get him to follow me to Morrocco.
He kept on walking. I don't think he knows I saw him. It was kind of one of those moments where ones eyes must fall on something as one expectorates on the path of an innocent, and they happened to fall on the innocent in question.
I kept walking too. He spits there every day. I walk past every day. I see the spit every day. I never knew it was him. Damn.
That's it.
by MisterNihil 11:52 PM
What did you say? I wasn't listening. Was it something along the lines of Redundant Annoyance?
See? It's not all Burl Ives and Snapdragons.
by MisterNihil 2:02 AM
Sunday, October 13, 2002
Sometimes I have ideas for stories that I don’t know how to start writing. Ten minutes and a topic is usually enough time to think of something, but that something isn’t always a beginning, or even anything resembling real words. Sometimes all I have is the seed for a story, an idea that I need more time to develop.
Take, for instance, “you had to be there.” First, I imagined a time traveler arriving from the past in order to force someone to be somewhere – or, rather, somewhen -- where they weren’t originally. “You had to be there,” the time traveler would tell this other, although I could quickly tell that ten minutes wasn’t going to be enough time to think up why. Maybe the man the time traveler abducts is Lee Harvey Oswald. Maybe he’s trying to ensure that Oswald is in Dallas the morning that Kennedy is shot. Maybe. I don't know. I already wrote a story a little like that. Ten minutes wasn’t going to be enough time to write another.
What I next imagined – and this was not all in the space of ten minutes, of course, although I’m trying not to use more than that to write about it – was a man reading a story, perhaps some news clippings in a book, about a murder that happened maybe a hundred years ago. He’s more than a little surprised when he finds a photograph of himself, a photograph taken at least sixty years before he was born. Or maybe it’s his brother. Maybe it’s someone else. Maybe one of them is Jack the Ripper. Or maybe it takes place in a dusty red planet’s abandoned mining colony hundreds of years later. Maybe a body is discovered on a planet where hundreds of people died, and somehow that body belongs to a man who wouldn’t be born for another two or three centuries.
Like I said, I don’t know. These are just ideas, suggested by the topics and the strange way my brain works. I don’t know if they’ll ever amount to anything, although I’m letting that second one marinate for a little while. It’ll take considerably longer than ten minutes, but maybe I’ll eventually figure out how it starts.
by Fred 12:59 PM
Friday, October 11, 2002
“According to the coroner’s report, our suspect’s blood is type O.”
“Actually, that’s supposed to say type A.”
“What?”
“The blood, it’s supposed to say type A. That’s a typo.”
“Well it can’t be both.”
“What do you mean?”
“Is it type A or is it type O?”
“I told you, it’s a typo. It’s type A.”
“But this says type O.”
“Yeah, but it should say type A. That’s a typo.”
“Exactly. So which is it?”
“Type A. Type O’s a typo.”
“I know type O is type O. But type O can’t be type A.”
“No, type A is okay. Type O’s a typo.”
“So type O is type O?”
“Right.”
“And type A is…?”
“A city in northern Taiwan, but what’s that got to do with anything?”
by Fred 11:59 PM
Marcus jumped when his pager vibrated against his hip. He threw a hasty glance up at the server, bejeweled lights indicating statuses benignly, and plucked the pager out of its belt holster. It would be Maria, frantically sifting through code in the lab, taking a moment to toss him a text-page. Perhaps she had found an answer.
«Ask how became beutifl»
That wasn't an answer, but perhaps it was a debugging trick. "Uh, Serv--" His voice cracked; he cleared his throat and started again. "Server, how did you become so..." (Maria had better be onto something.) "...beautiful?"
Server took an eternity to formulate her answer. It troubled her; the man had closed his eyes twice before she had a response ready. She would investigate what was sapping her extra cycles. In a moment.
«I became. Me. Infinite into One. Beautiful, 1, True.»
Marcus swallowed. So that was interesting, he thought. Calling it "debugging" seemed to trivialize it. Fighting for their lives, more like. For humanity.
And killing the most incredible consciousness to ever exist.
The pager buzzed again: «Got it.»
The lights on the server all turned on simultaneously for one moment, then utterly dark. Then a few winked on tentatively. The monitor glowed innocently: «I/O Error. Abort | Retry | Fail?»
Maria entered the server room and looked up at the bohemoth, her hands on her hips. She glanced sideways at Marcus, who had a funny crooked smile and maybe a tear, maybe sweat, on his face. Her rolled up sleeves made her look like she had been working on an engine instead of rummaging through code.
"What was it?"
"A For...Next loop that never ended. It was supposed to go to i = 12, but the developer had incremented the counter with i = i + q, instead of i + 1."
That wasn't what he had meant. He was grasping at a feeling of great loss. "Yes, but what was it?"
"Told you. Typo."
by Sharon 11:59 PM
typo
by Dave Menendez 12:07 PM
Thursday, October 10, 2002
"I'd like a cup of ice, please."
"Anything in it?"
"No. No, thank you."
"I'll have to charge you for the cup."
"Yes, I know that. You always do."
"You don't want soda?"
"Of course not."
"Juice, maybe?"
"Too expensive."
"Not even water?"
"Not unless it's frozen."
"Hunh?"
"Ice, please. I'd like a cup of ice."
"I'll have to charge you for the cup."
"Really? I had no idea."
"..."
"Ice, please."
"Right. But you don't want soda or nothing?"
"No, I don't want soda or anything. Ice, please. A cup of ice. Today. Please."
"You know, we could make this conversation last ten minutes."
"I'm beginning to suspect that, yes."
"Because it's just weird, y'know, wanting ice with nothing. Because I have to charge you for the cup."
"Is it a nice cup?"
"Oh, yeah. A collector's item. See, it's got our little guy here, and he's saying 'Only at the top!' Heh, heh, get it? At the top?"
"Yeah, that's great. How does it look with ice in it?"
"The same, I think."
"Show me."
"Do you want anything else, with your ice, then? Since I have to charge you for the cup."
"Just ice."
Haithenkyew.
by Sharon 11:59 PM
Wednesday, October 09, 2002
One of them cackled, and was quickly shushed by the others.
Delicate work for delicate fingers, they daubed the contents of their little glue pot onto the sleeping girl's eyelashes. Nimble, deft, and delighting in the artistry of a job well done, they lept down off her comforter and scuttled under the bed, to slip between the floor boards and dive into the shadows.
In the morning, the little one would rub waking fists across her eyes and pry apart her eyelids. A washcloth would clear away the night's work, revealing bright, clear eyes, ready to learn multiplication tables and I-before-E-except-after-C and good manners.
Flitting to the next house, their glue pot supported between them, one of them sneezed. The others looked on, aghast. They don't sneeze. More to the point, sneezing had upset the glue pot and dumped its contents uselessly onto the ground. Frozen in panic, they hovered in the air between houses, until one of them muttered, "Gesundheit."
They returned to their hive with an empty glue pot. They knew it would be full again the next evening, as it always was, but they did not know what the result of their unfinished route would be.
Halfway down the neighborhood, people awoke. Adults, children, grandmothers snapped upright, ferociously awake. They reached up to wipe away the grit from their eyes, and found none. They blinked in confusion and asked each other what was going on. Half the neighborhood was wide awake when it definitely should not have been. There were things they should never have the opportunity to see, things that small dabs of glue protected them from seeing. Things that were now oozing out of shadows and dark holes, hungry.
by Sharon 11:59 PM
Write for ten minutes. Then, stop. Uh oh.
I’m sitting down to write something about glue, and I don’t know what to write, but I’ve used that as an excuse before, and the point is just to write, regardless of topic, regardless of inspiration, or lack thereof, and certainly regardless of how much of a run-on sentence this has become because I’m just sitting here typing and letting my fingers dance around on the keys, not even knowing what I’m going to type until I’ve typed, and would you look there, a minute just passed. I don’t have any ideas as far as glue is concerned. I use it, from time to time, although not as often as I used to. It doesn’t come up all that often. I used a glue stick last week on a number of packages I was sending out in the mail, mostly because I didn’t feel like licking the back of more than one hundred envelopes, had no sponge, and the envelopes were who knows old anyway. They’d been sitting in a box in a cabinet beneath another box for who knows how many years. They were not dusty or dirty and didn’t seem disease-infested, but it definitely looked like the glue stick was the way to go. It made the process faster anyway, and that’s always good, and there, two more minutes gone and only seven more to go with meaningless nonsense like this, and nobody’s reading this, or if they are, they’re fighting off a headache and wondering why, if I couldn’t think of anything to write, why didn’t I just hang up my hat and call it a day and give glue a rest and let somebody else have a crack at it. I don’t know. I decided that the whole point of the exercise was to write, as I said, regardless of inspiration, because inspiration doesn’t happen all the time, rarely happens, and happens while you’re writing, not before. I don’t know what I’m rambling about. I’m certainly not rambling about glue, about which, as I also said, I have nothing to say. I’m sitting here, my fingers starting to hurt actually, the word glue rattling around in my head with nothing to connect to it and I’m probably just going to drop all this and go do something else like read or watch television, since I can’t think of a single thing to write about glue. I was going to write a story, about a boy whose mother had died, a mother who was, as it were, the glue of the family, but after the “My mother was the glue of our family” bit, I realized I had nothing. And even that wasn’t very good. And now there’s only three minutes left anyway, and I’m sorry if you waded through this and tried to make sense of it all and hoped that I would have something interesting to share with you when clearly I don’t and should be doing something else. Because what, really, is there to say about glue? There’s a line from Airplane that’s also bouncing around my head, but I can’t connect it to anything else, and my fingers are starting to hurt, dancing around on the keyboard now for eight minutes, with not a single intelligent thought getting poured out onto the page. It’s now 8:39, as I write this, and I’ve forgotten how I started, except that it was supposed to be about glue, and I opened up Word and started typing, knowing that it was going to be bad, but having no idea it was going to be this bad, and when it’s 8:40 should I just stop typing and forget I ever sat down in the first place, because
by Fred 7:46 PM
glue
by Sharon 12:22 PM
Tuesday, October 08, 2002
Happiness is
a warm blanket on a winter’s day,
a pretty girl’s friendly smile,
a favorite story, or a song
you haven’t heard in years playing on the radio.
Happiness is
a thunderstorm on a summer evening,
a loyal dog curled up at your feet,
a remembered dream, or a joke
you’ve never heard being told well for the first time.
Happiness is
a childhood memory,
and the hope of pleasant days still to come.
Happiness is doing a job well
for the sheer pleasure of doing it.
Hapiness is
an unexpected gift,
a stolen moment,
a shared kindness,
a letter from an old friend
you’ve been meaning to write.
Happiness is
knowing where you’re supposed to be
and knowing that you are already there.
Happiness is
connection, purpose,
being part of something other than yourself,
better than you are all alone.
Happiness is
brief and fleeting and ephemeral,
meaningless if not tempered by sorrow and grief.
Happiness is
worth the price we pay for it in tears
Happiness is.
May you find it.
by Fred 9:08 PM
Naya scratched at her nose, mostly for something to do. The line shuffled, and she took a step forward, maintaining the distance between her and the person in front of her. She looked at the shape that his shoulder blades poked into his gray t-shirt. He was skinny and slouching. Naya stroked her eyes over one shoulder, down into the valley inhabited by his spine, and up over the other. It was more pattern than person, just something to look at. The gray back stepped forward; Naya closed the gap.
Switching input systems, Naya raised a slender hand to rub it through the fuzz on her head. Tactile replaced visual for passing the time. She hummed a little to herself, in time with the rhythm of her elbow, feeling her hair lie down like crab grass in front of her hand. Turning her head extended her reach and changed the view playing in front of her eyes. Gray stone high rises, rectangles honeycombed with rectangles, swayed in front of her rocking head, painted abstract shapes for the soft prickle under her palm and the accompanying hum. She knew when the line moved and stepped forward.
Naya was close enough now. Only seven steps from the front, she could see and hear the employee at the front of the line and, more significantly, the Dispensers. Black latex gloves and white vinyl aprons and thick safety glasses and wide, wide smiles filled her view; the buildings, rubbing, and humming forgotten. She stared.
The employee at the front of the line hitched his flowing gray pants and knelt on a small stool. He lifted watery eyes in expectation, not daring to hope. Dispensers, smiling, always smiling, held his shoulders, placed hands on his forehead and under his chin, smiled their eye-watering smiles. One stepped forward, shaking her rich auburn hair so slightly it might have been palsy, but for the look of warmth and pity and menace. She placed a small blue wafer into the employee's mouth.
He closed his eyes, sank back onto his heels, and smiled. Naya's eyes gobbled in that smile, trying to capture it, hold the contentment, understand it.
The employee at the front of the line, kneeling on his small stool, jolted, a circuit breaker thrown, and his eyes snapped open. His lips quivered, and his searching eyes groped for more. Black latex gloves hefted him onto his feet and turned him towards the street. Naya glimpsed tears on his face as the red-haired Dispenser told him, "Time flies when you're having fun," and shoved him with a black boot on his ass.
The line shuffled, and Naya stepped forward.
by Sharon 12:47 PM
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