An Ergonomic Appeal

God, we need to talk about this prayer setup. My ergonomics adviser has recommended a few changes ...

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This post is an installment in a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with posts from Enoch Allred of Chiltingham, John Allred of clol Town, Jon Fairbanks of Funkadelic Freestylings of Another Sort, Eli Z. McCormick and Miriam Allred of Modern Revelation!, John D. Moore of Whatnot Studios, Davey Morrison, and Joseph Schlegel of Sour Mayonnaise. This week's theme: 'Ergonomics'.

Training Day

Harry Pendleberry was anxious to get a start on his day. He had five important tasks to accomplish, all of which didn't need to be done until next Friday, but he had the motivation and desire to finish them up before the day was through, making this the first week in his life when he wouldn't put things off till the last minute. He looked out the window as he was buttoning up his shirt.

"Hmm, looks awfully dismal today," he said to one of his house plants. "I was hoping for the sun to help me with my errands." Indeed, Harry had always depended on the weather to reflect his mood. Without the support of a bright shining sun and a clear blue sky, it would be difficult to maintain the kind of energy he had been feeling all morning. Unfortunately, things were going to get a lot worse.

As Harry stepped outside, he heard a loud rumbling sound, almost like thunder, but with a bit more sharpness than usual. The sky darkened noticeably, as Harry pulled out his list of things to do. Item 1. He had been looking forward to this since last night. He had even dreamed about pulling out his pen and crossing it off the list. He had felt the pleasure that would come from this accomplishment, and anticipated it more even now. However, he was put off by the lack of support he seemed to be getting from his surroundings.

Eventually Harry reached his destination, but with quite a bit less optimism than he had begun with. His list was now forgotten in his back pocket; marking item 1 off the list was the furthest thing from his mind. It was now training, and Harry didn't like the feel of it. Large rumbling streams of trains poured down from the sky, and it wasn't looking like it was going to let up anytime soon. Harry dodged the larger trains, keeping particularly cautious of the engines, which had a tendency to burst out small chunks of metal in all directions. The incredibly sonorous crashing that accompanied these drops made it difficult to concentrate on the task at hand, deafening Harry to his own thoughts.

When the trains finally ran their course, Harry found that he was safe and unscathed. He had forgotten what he had set out to do, but perhaps that was for the best. "I should go back home and water my house plants," he thought. "They'll be expecting some water on a day like this."

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This post is an installment in a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with posts from Enoch Allred of Chiltingham, John Allred of clol Town, Jon Fairbanks of Funkadelic Freestylings of Another Sort, Eli Z. McCormick and Miriam Allred of Modern Revelation!, John D. Moore of Whatnot Studios, Davey Morrison, and Joseph Schlegel of Sour Mayonnaise. This week's theme: 'Trains'.

Dear Santa

Dear Santa,

I have written to you with numerous desires in the past. When I was eight years old, I wrote you a letter that contained a list of over 120 items that I wanted, with the ones I wanted most of all circled and highlighted. When you failed to get me even one of those items, I sent the same list the next year, unfazed, but again received the same troubling result: nothing. I sent it again, this time with an explanation of why these items were important to me, knowing that you’d see in your kind heart the reason for obtaining these items for me. I was once again disappointed that year: you got me a drum kit. A drum kit!? Of all things, a drum kit!? I didn’t want drums. There were over 120 other things I wanted more than drums.

I was confused more than I was upset: how could Santa have gotten this so wrong? Is he just a retard? That’s what my friend Walter said. But Walter can be a jerk sometimes, so I kept on believing in you, that you were going to come through, that you’d actually get me one of those 120 items. I sent you the list again each year, up until I was twelve years old. That’s the year you got me the fish tank. Fish!? I hate fish and you know it. I had to feed those fish for two whole years before they finally died in the muck-infested waters that I never cleaned. Then I had to figure out what to do with the tank; that was the worst experience of my life.

It’s been twelve years since the date I finally tossed that fish tank into the dumpster. I still haven’t forgotten what you did to me. I’m writing this letter to you, Santa, to plead with you for one last gift. Forget all the other 120 items: this year all I wish for is an alternate reality in which you actually exist, in which you actually show up on Christmas day so that I can look you in the eyes and tell you how much I hate you. So I can finally pay you back for all the years of miserable gifts and unwanted trouble you caused me. If I could have this one thing, that would make up for everything you haven’t done for me in the past.

Sincerely,

Richard Powton

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Santa’s eyes glossed over with tears, which quickly froze in the cold arctic climate. His cheeks puffed up red with pain as he realized that once again, he would be unable to give Richard what he wanted.

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This post is an installment in a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with posts from Enoch Allred of Chiltingham, John Allred of clol Town, Jon Fairbanks of Funkadelic Freestylings of Another Sort, Eli Z. McCormick and Miriam Allred of Modern Revelation!, John D. Moore of Whatnot Studios, Davey Morrison, Joseph Schlegel of Sour Mayonnaise, Sven Patrick Svensson of Sadness? Euphoria?, and William C. Stewart of Chide, Chode, Chidden. This week's theme: 'Alternate Realities'.

The Boy Who Cried

A: Hey, look everyone! It's the Boy Who Cried Wolf!

B: No, that's not him. That's just the Boy Who Cried.

Touch

Sometime in my youth, most likely in grade school formally, but also in my own free time, I read a book called The Chocolate Touch. I think most people end up reading this book at some point in their childhood. Basically, it's like King Midas, only instead of everything the protagonist touches turning to gold, it turns to chocolate. Well, the scene where he kisses his mother and she turns to chocolate has remained very vivid in my mind ever since. For me at the time, it was the scariest image I'd ever encountered.

There was some Goosebumps-like book where two kids go to the morgue and a presumably dead body under a white sheet sits up suddenly. That hair-raising moment has also remained with me ever since. Funny, as I'm writing this, I am suddenly remembering the long-lost name of this book. It was called Scared Stiff.

There was also a story in Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark, called "Bloody Fingers," that gave me nightmares. Despite this fact, I continually read that story (and the others in the series) throughout my childhood.

While I'm sure all of these stories are actually quite tame for me now, I know that they succeeded in scaring me at the time. How they did that, I don't think I'll ever know. That's the magic of storytelling, I suppose. They got me at the right time and in the right frame of mind.

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This post is part of the Blue-Beta Blog Coordination, a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with posts from Confuzzled of I Keep Wondering, Gromit of The Dancing Newt, Redoubt of Redoubt Redux, Third Mango of Funkadelic Freestylings of Another Sort, and Xanthippe of Let’s Save Our Hallmark Moment. This week's theme: 'Touch'.

Eleanor

Hantry had never had a friend before, but he had plenty of opportunities to make one. In the past three years, he had actually found that by not doing much different than he usually did, he could make friends with practically no effort at all. His new friendship with Sandy was the most surprising. A girl his same age, she had come up to him out of the blue and just started talking about the most random things. Their first conversation was about hard-boiled eggs and their taste compared to halibut. Hantry had never considered himself a food critic, but after their conversation he had a better idea of what it would be like to be one. Investigating this line further took him to a small halibut shop near school, where some unusual people hung around. There he ran into Johnson McNabb, a friend of his uncle, who came over to the house often enough, but never spoke to him. Now with the excuse of halibut, they spoke for a full hour and a half. The next day, Johnson McNabb was over at the house to watch some TV with Hantry's uncle:

INT. LIVING ROOM - DAY

JOHNSON MCNABB, a seventy-something man with gray hair wearing a Hawaiian shirt and Bermuda shorts, sits on a large couch in a dirty living room. HANTRY, a young 12 year old boy, is eating popcorn and playing with a lobster.

Johnson McNabb: I once knew a girl named Eleanor, but that was a long time ago. Back in those days, a lot of people knew girls named Eleanor. It was a pretty common phenomenon, not even worth making a fuss about. In fact, I never did find out for sure if she was the same Eleanor as a friend of mine knew. I just took it for a fact that it didn't matter either way. Sometimes I wish I did find out, because I think back on it and realize that I don't have a clue, and now my friend is dead and gone and no one can tell me if I should connect the image I have of his Eleanor with the mental picture I still have of my acquaintance Eleanor, or if I should keep the two separate. Things like that really drive you crazy towards the end of your life, you know. And I plan on ending my life sometime in the near future, so I really should get this figured out first.

Hantry: Why are you telling me this? Does it matter?

Johnson McNabb: Not one bit for a fellow like you. In fact, you'd do good to put Eleanor and all of this awful business out of your mind. Pretend I never said anything of the sort.

Hantry: Okay

EXT. STREET - DAY

Hantry walks down the street with his young friend SANDY.

Hantry: Hey, Sandy. Do you know anyone named Eleanor?

Sandy: Not really. Eleanor Roosevelt, but I don't really know her.

Hantry: You know of her?

Sandy: Yeah.

Hantry: Well, Johnson McNabb was over at my house this morning, talking something crazy about Eleanor, and told me to forget it.

Sandy: That sounds like the type of thing Johnson McNabb does. I'd follow his advice and forget about it.

Hantry: Alright, Sandy. I'll do that.

The two reach a crossroads.

Sandy: Well, I need to get going. See you later, Hantry.

Hantry: You too, Sandy.

EXT. PARK - DAY

Hantry is sitting by a slide in a playground, watching many kids come and go, playing. Hantry asks each child as they come out of the slide if they know Eleanor.

Hantry: Do you know Eleanor?

Child 1 shakes his head and runs off.

Hantry: Do you know Eleanor?

Child 2 shakes her head and runs off.

Hantry: Do you know Eleanor?

Child 1 shakes his head and runs off.

Hantry: What are you doing on the slide again? I need to ask others, you know.

Child 1 continues to run.

Later that evening, Hantry prepares for his bedtime. He is brushing his teeth, thinking of all the nonsense he went through that day because of Johnson McNabb's request that he forget about Eleanor, and cursing him for bringing it up in the first place. He knew he'd never know an Eleanor, and it was pointless to argue with that. Even if he knew an Eleanor, he wouldn't want to. So what was the point? Exactly. Nothing. Hantry was through playing games. He spat out his toothpaste and rinsed out his mouth. Then he ran outside and screamed for Johnson McNabb to get over to his house immediately.

Johnson came running, apparently from behind some bushes to the side of the house. Hantry went up to him calmly, and stated matter-of-factly, "You sir, are a lame duck." After he said this, Johnson McNabb disappeared into thin air. Hantry felt vindicated and rearranged his hair on his scalp. Eleanor Roosevelt peered from behind the bushes with a smile on her face. Hantry returned home and fell asleep in his bed.

THE END

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This post is an installment in a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with posts from Enoch Allred of Chiltingham, John Allred of clol Town, Jon Fairbanks of Funkadelic Freestylings of Another Sort, Eli Z. McCormick and Miriam Allred of Modern Revelation!, John D. Moore of Whatnot Studios, William C. Stewart of Chide, Chode, Chidden, Sven Patrick Svensson of Sadness? Euphoria?, and WiL Whitlark of The Real McJesus. This week's theme: 'Eleanor'.

Snowflakes

Boris Pasternak wrote a remarkably beautiful account of falling snow in his short novella, "The Childhood of Zhenya Luvers" (Детство Люверс):

The heavens quivered, and down from them tumbled whole white kingdoms and countries. They were countless, and they were mysterious and dreadful. It was clear that these lands falling from goodness knows where had never heard of life and earth: coming blind from the northern darkness, they covered them over without ever seeing or knowing them.

For me, there has always been something magical about snowflakes. Their very nature makes one reflect on life and look towards heaven. Even after understanding how they are formed, and the science behind it, there remains a captivating feeling associated with them. They provoke a child-like response that urges one to catch, play, and twirl. The snow that sticks to the ground does not have the magic, and increases its association with cold. As the snow remains and gets dirty and slushy, it loses all connection to the snowflakes that it came from. But at that moment, as it falls in the form of individual, inconceivable snowflakes, there remains an indescribable connection to a magical, unknown realm somewhere far beyond our understanding.

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This post is part of the Blue-Beta Blog Coordination, a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with posts from Confuzzled of I Keep Wondering, Gromit of The Dancing Newt, Redoubt of Redoubt Redux, Third Mango of Funkadelic Freestylings of Another Sort, and Xanthippe of Let’s Save Our Hallmark Moment. This week's theme: 'Snowflakes'.

Poverty

Young Albert Einstein awoke one morning ready to take on the world. He knew that he'd been treated unfairly by most everyone he'd met, that he hadn't been given a chance to prove what he's worth to the world. He was fed up and ready to make a break for it - run off to Honolulu.

But young Albert didn't have the money for such a trip. In fact, he didn't have money for anything at all. His parents raised him in the most abject poverty, without a roof over his head, without a sole to his shoes, and without a penny to his name. Poor Albert even had to beg for admission into the school system himself, which almost didn't accept him due to his wild haircut, which he couldn't afford to have cut.

But fuck all that. Einstein was going to make it to Honolulu today, even if it meant giving up his own life, his chances at a future career in science (he'd been under the tutelage of a well-known professor of Physical Sciences, Dr. Isaac Lowenblatt, for quite some time, and was promised a chance to apply for a renowned scholarship in exchange for doing his dishes and laundry every evening), and his familial ties to family and friends (his best friend was a turtle named Gifford who lived under a rock near an old pond).

His trip commenced with the goodbyes: goodbye Rowena, young little child (his stepsister of only five years), goodbye Jackson, a well-known figure on Einstein's block (he was young Albert's favorite juggler in a circus performance group that made regular public appearances, often for free), and goodbye Gifford (with whom the reader is already introduced).

After his goodbyes, young Albert started walking. He got as far as Prague when he realized that he didn't know where he was, or the best route to get to Honolulu from there. He bought a map and asked a few questions of the clerk, only to find out that his dream of going to Honolulu was not nearly as strong as he had imagined. He lost his determination after about an hour of looking at the map. He decided to go see Gifford at the pond and just say to himself that the pond is in fact Honolulu, and that the other Honolulu not only doesn't exist, but is the least desirable place to visit in the world.

Well, I needn't tell you the rest of the story. You are well-acquainted with Einstein's future accomplishments. He became one of the best-known names in science, having risen from his place of poverty through his intellect and hard work. But, even after all of his many accolades (and, yes, remuneration for his time served in poverty), Einstein never made it to the real Honolulu. He never thought back to that moment in Prague, when he gave up his dreams for a life with Gifford. Nor did he care that Honolulu was a real place that denied him his chance to make something else of himself - something greater than anyone could ever have imagined. Einstein died peacefully, thinking little of his impoverished beginnings, and not at all of Honolulu. Gifford was by his bedside, on the table, immovable and still. He had died 15 years previously, and was now in the great Honolulu in the sky. Einstein, rest in peace.

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This post is an installment in a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with posts from Enoch Allred of Chiltingham, John Allred of clol Town, Jon Fairbanks of Funkadelic Freestylings of Another Sort, Eli Z. McCormick and Miriam Allred of Modern Revelation!, John D. Moore of Whatnot Studios, William C. Stewart of Chide, Chode, Chidden, Sven Patrick Svensson of Sadness? Euphoria?, and WiL Whitlark of The Real McJesus. This week's theme: 'Poverty'.

Trends

FRED: Trends!! I see trends!! JOE: What's the big deal, Fred? It's just Trends. FRED: I hate trends. All I ever see all day are trends. JOE: Well, I'd say you're pretty lucky. Last time I saw Trends in the daytime was about a month ago. FRED: I'm not talking about Trends the person. I'm talking about trends in general. You know, like trendy people and such. JOE: You don't think Trends is trendy? I'd say he's very trendy. He even has that new sweater that all the girls are talking about. FRED: I don't know what you're talking about. I don't like trends. JOE: You're not making any sense. TRENDS: Hey guys! JOE: Hey Trends. How's it going? TRENDS: Great! How do you like my sweater? JOE: It's fabulous! I'd say you're very trendy, wouldn't you? TRENDS: Well, I sure hope so. I am Trends, after all. JOE: You have a good point, Trends. TRENDS: Well, gotta run. Bye guys! JOE: Bye, Trends! FRED: I hate Trends.

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This post is part of the Blue-Beta Blog Coordination, a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with posts from Confuzzled of I Keep Wondering, Gromit of The Dancing Newt, Redoubt of Redoubt Redux, Third Mango of Funkadelic Freestylings of Another Sort, and Xanthippe of Let’s Save Our Hallmark Moment. This week's theme: 'Trends'.

Prosperity

Old man Carter lived in relative prosperity. What this means, of course, is that he lived in a state of utter poverty, but was unwilling to admit to his complete downfall in the rough economic times he was facing, and preferred to think of himself as semi-prosperous. This he did through a clever means of self-deception.

Instead of going out to buy groceries and other necessary items, he simply decided he didn't need them anymore. As a result, his cupboards were completely empty, and he felt he had a great opportunity to fill them with various other items. He found some tinsel and some old ornaments in front of his neighbor's house, and took them without asking. He also found some old metal cans in the parking lot at the bottom of the street one day. In addition to these treasures, he would sometimes build things of his own by cutting down a tree or two from a large field not far from his home and nailing the wood bits together to make small wooden items which he called "wilygigs."

Not long after old man Carter had begun to live his life in relative prosperity, he was visited by a young whippersnapper by the name of Fred. Fred was old man Carter's grandson, but since he had long since disowned any of his family ties, he preferred to think of him simply as a young kid he didn't know. Fred had come over on the prompting from his parents, who were kicked out of the house immediately if they ever got it into their heads to come visit their father (/father-in-law). Fred hated everything about old man Carter (as he preferred to think of his grandpa) except for the wilygigs. The wilygigs fascinated him, and made him feel at peace in life. Sometimes he would go out with old man Carter to collect the wood for the wilygigs. Old man Carter allowed him this intimate look into his relatively prosperous life, but knew that such an arrangement could not last long. One's fascination with things like wilygigs quickly wanes, and, sure enough, Fred stopped coming a few weeks after he had begun.

Old man Carter preferred the silence to any visit from strangers. For him, the wilygigs were just one more unnecessary item in his life - proof of his prosperity, since they served no purpose other than to take up space that was once filled by vital substances. He decided that life as a relatively prosperous individual was far better than it was when he was truly prosperous. Although certain things were always just out of his reach, he had his wilygigs, he had his peace, and he had his space. For old man Carter, this was all he needed.

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This post is an installment in a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with posts from Enoch Allred of Chiltingham, John Allred of clol Town, Jon Fairbanks of Funkadelic Freestylings of Another Sort, Eli Z. McCormick and Miriam Allred of Modern Revelation!, John D. Moore of Whatnot Studios, William C. Stewart of Chide, Chode, Chidden, Sven Patrick Svensson of Sadness? Euphoria?, and WiL Whitlark of The Real McJesus. This week's theme: 'Prosperity'.

Sentiments

EXT. STREET - DAY MAN1 is walking down the street, wearing a business suit. He is stopped by MAN2, who looks to be homeless. MAN2: Excuse me, sir, but I would like to give you something important. MAN1: Oh, no thank you, I'm really in quite a hurry. Perhaps some other time. MAN2: I don't think you realize what I have to give to you. I'm a collector of rare sentiments. MAN1: What sort of sentiments? MAN2: Very rare ones, sir. Sentiments you've never seen the likes of, I'm sure. MAN1: How do you go about collecting them? You haven't got any money, do you? MAN2: Ah, you can't buy sentiments like these, sir. No, no. Sentiments like these need to be found and nurtured and cared for. Sentiments don't just fall into your lap, either. You really need to be on the look out for them, spend every waking minute searching for them in order to spot them. That's why I gave up my day job. MAN1: You had a day job? MAN2: Of course. Just like you, sir. I used to work at Carlyle Electronics, down in the Quido Valley. Of course, back then they were just a small startup company, just about to make their name in the marketplace. I was one of their top-tier employees, brought on to help them make the transition to multiple market sectors. Of course, nothing could take me away from the draw of sentiments, not even the prospect of a six-figure salary. No, sir. MAN1: Well, I feel sorry for you, but I really must be going. MAN2: Sorry? Don't feel sorry for me, sir. I'm the one with sentiments. I have so many rare sentiments that I'm prepared to give them out to whomever I feel needs them. You strike me as a rare individual yourself, and so I'm offering you not only one of my sentiments, but also a chance to take part in the allocation of the other sentiments. What do you say? MAN1: I'm afraid you haven't convinced me of the need or the draw of these sentiments, so I really must decline your proposition. MAN2: That's too bad, sir. You could have been somebody. We would have made a great team. I hate to horde the sentiments, you know, but unfortunately, those who respect their power are rarely those who need them. I like to find people like you, people who could change their entire life in the search for the perfect sentiment. I really wish you'd reconsider. MAN1: I'll see what I can do. In the meantime, enjoy your sentiments and try not to lose them all. If I ever have the urge to assist in this sentimental endeavor, I will contact without delay. MAN2: Alright, I'll mark you down as a future prospect. Enjoy the rest of your day, sir! MAN2 makes a mark in a dirty, torn notepad that he pulls out from his coat pocket. MAN1 continues on his walk to work, stepping with urgency to make it to his meeting on time. MAN2 puts his notepad back into his pocket and looks out into the distant crowd of people on an even busier street. Looking out for traffic he makes his way across the street to join the crowds.

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This post is part of the Blue-Beta Blog Coordination, a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with posts from Confuzzled of I Keep Wondering, Gromit of The Dancing Newt, Redoubt of Redoubt Redux, Third Mango of Funkadelic Freestylings of Another Sort, and Xanthippe of Let’s Save Our Hallmark Moment. This week's theme: 'Sentiments'.

About a Ball - Victory!!!

In between my studying, I have found ample time to enjoy myself in playing a rather simple, yet challenging and fun game called About a Ball (click here to download). The game was designed by my friend John at Whatnot Studios as a demo while he works on more complex projects. The game proved to be especially difficult at the very last section of it, forcing me to play it many times before I was finally able to beat it, but beat it I did.


I'm not sure how good a score of 6609 is, so I'll continue to play until I get that number better. I really can't say enough good stuff about this game. It's simple and short, so you can play it during breaks in your schedule without committing too much of your time, it has enough variation to keep it difficult and enough consistency to allow you to improve with practice. Download this game, you won't regret it.

Sanctuary

The small ant named Fred rushed as fast as he could across the sand. This was not good. He had strayed far from the other workers and was now alone in foreign territory, far away from the anthill he called home. This wouldn't be so bad, but he repeatedly found himself in situations that were more than dangerous, and very likely to end in his death. He was almost eaten by some of the largest bugs he'd ever seen, and now was being chased by a giant creature.

He saw safety up ahead: an anthill. It wasn't home, but it looked enough like it that it should be able to provide a much needed respite in his time of trial. He dove into the network of tunnels that made up the complex anthill. Sanctuary.

The other ants looked at him with disdain: he was not one of them. He looked similar, alright, but he didn't have the features of a worker from their camp. Nor did he have the same care and concern for his fellow ants: he was a loner, and loners are not welcome in the ant world. You stick together or you deserve the fate that comes your way.

The ants were about to rally around and kick this no-good loner wanderer out of their territory when the giant creature did something none of the ants had expected: he stomped down on the anthill with a mighty power unknown to them. The ants who were not squashed in the immediate attack ran as fast as they could, searching for whatever safe position they could find: behind plants, bushes, trees, etc. Unfortunately, there was little else besides sand around for quite a distance, and the sand was no sanctuary if not built up in a large hill.

And, as they realized all too painfully: even a large hill of sand is no sanctuary against intruders of the giant sort. Their life was hard, their comrades were dead, and their existence was over. These ants who survived, the loners, looked on as the giant creature stomped his way into the sunset, over the fallen bodies of their dear friends.

Fred cursed the day he had been born and continued his search for safety and sanctuary, knowing he would never find what he was looking for, but looking nonetheless, for this was his destiny.

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This post is an installment in a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with posts from Enoch Allred of Chiltingham, John Allred of clol Town, Jon Fairbanks of Funkadelic Freestylings of Another Sort, Eli Z. McCormick and Miriam Allred of Modern Revelation!, John D. Moore of Whatnot Studios, William C. Stewart of Chide, Chode, Chidden, Sven Patrick Svensson of Sadness? Euphoria?, and WiL Whitlark of The Real McJesus. This week's theme: 'Sanctuary'.

A Heavy Box

The room was almost cleared out. After nine days of non-stop lifting and carrying, John had just about finished moving all of his stuff to his new apartment a few floors down. There was just one item left in the far corner: a heavy box.

John couldn't even remember where he had acquired this box, nor could he remember what the contents were. He had made a point not to look into any of his boxes during the moving process, so as not to slow himself down with memories and reminiscences. However, in this case, he would have to make an exception. He had tried to move the box earlier, to no avail. The box wouldn't budge from its spot no matter how much effort John put into it, and John was no weakling - after all, he had managed to carry his couch on his back all the way to the elevator and down to his new apartment with no help from anyone else. "What could possibly be in this box," he wondered, "to make it so damn heavy?"

John carefully cut into the tape holding the box shut. When he was able to view the contents of the box up close, he was startled by his discovery: the box was completely empty. John gave another try at lifting the box off the ground, only to find that he was entirely unable to make the box budge in the slightest. Tired from the long moving process he had already completed, John decided to leave the box here for the next owner to deal with. He had moved most of his stuff out, and that would have to be sufficient.

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A few days later, John was getting himself situated in his new apartment. He had finally arranged his furniture the way he liked it, and was about to sit down to watch a football game, when he heard a light knock on his door. John looked out the peephole. Not seeing anyone there, he assumed the newspaper delivery must have come late that day, and he opened the door to retrieve his paper. However, rather than finding the expected newspaper, John saw the same heavy box from his previous apartment. It was now standing directly in front of his door, and as much as he tried, he could not move it one inch.

"No, no, no," he said to himself.

He was upset at the reappearance of this inexplicably heavy and annoyingly immovable box. He opened a note that was lying on the top of the box. It stated:

Dear Tenant,

This box has been found in your previous apartment. Please remember to vacate completely when moving from one apartment to another.

Thank you,
The Management

P.S. You have been charged five dollars for your negligence.

John hated the management, and was already kicking himself for not moving out of the building when he had the chance. He couldn't think of a good way to explain that he, a capable and strong man in the prime years of his life, could have difficulty moving an old box from the confines of his apartment. Nor could he imagine asking anyone for help in lifting an empty box away from his doorway. This predicament wasn't going away, no matter how much thought John put into it. He decided to go pay the five-dollar fine immediately, to at least clear his conscience.

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This post is part of the Blue-Beta Blog Coordination, a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with posts from Confuzzled of I Keep Wondering, Gromit of The Dancing Newt, Redoubt of Redoubt Redux, Third Mango of Funkadelic Freestylings of Another Sort, and Xanthippe of Let’s Save Our Hallmark Moment. This week's theme: 'A Heavy Box'.

Oscars

What has happened?

I usually look forward to the Oscars like others do to the Superbowl. For me, it's more than an event, it's a monumental moment in history. This ceremony confers awards on those very films that will continue to be discussed and cherished for generations after generations. Even the awards that go to the undeserving films remain a force to be reckoned with. It is always entertaining, and superbly interesting, to see which films are considered to be the best by those in the industry.

I disagree with those who declare the meaninglessness of Oscars. Of course, I have always known that the best films are not always awarded with the Oscar, for reasons that may be political, financial, or social. And sometimes, there are just too many good movies in one year to honor them all. Nonetheless, the receipt of an Oscar is a profound statement - a statement that this film, at this date, under these circumstances has been seen as being important enough to go down in history for the honor of mankind, throughout the ages.

This brings me back to my original question: what has happened? This year I have not seen a single one of the nominated films, apart from Kung-Fu Panda. What has happened to my love of cinema? I continue to enjoy films, but I have failed this year to spend any of my money or time to seek out the best movies. And this is a growing trend with me. Last year I saw very few of the films, and the year before that, I had also seen only a handful.

It's a pity, because, despite the critics' statements that this is a dull year for films, many of the movies look genuinely interesting. I hereby plan to have an Oscars night when the films become available on DVD, in which I will watch each of the films that win any of the major awards. Hopefully, this will renew my passion in cinema to its former glory.

Forest

Billy's home was located on the edge of a small stream, beyond which was a large forest filled with tall trees and rich soil. Often, Billy liked to go exploring in the forest, even though his parents prohibited such action due to the danger of losing one's way in the similarity of the various trees. This explanation never made much sense to Billy, who knew that every tree, like every person, was a unique creation that could be identified through various marks and features, not to mention their helpfulness in pointing the way home for him when such time came. His parents could never embrace the trees the way he could - not mentally, nor physically.

One day, while Billy was hugging the barky exterior of one of his best tree friends, he heard his mother scream his name. This caused him great alarm, for it was a most unusual sound to hear from his mother. He had grown accustomed to the sound of her irritated voice, yelling for him to come home out of 'the damned, cursed forest from Hell,' but this scream was different. This scream said, 'if you don't come back home right this instant, I'll have to slit my own throat to stop my screaming.' Billy said goodbye to his friend the tree, and to his other friends the trees, and made his way determinedly home, towards the offensive wailing of his mother.

When he got to the edge of the forest, Billy remained out of sight of his mother for another few moments, to gauge the anger of his mother. She did not look irritated, but frightened. She gave another loud scream, "Billy!" Billy came timidly out of the trees, crossing the stream carefully. He looked up to see his mother's face now completely calm, and simply irritated as usual. "Billy, I've told you a thousand times, don't go into the forest. Ever. Got that?"

"Yes, mother," came Billy's usual response.

While everything seemed normal at dinner that night, Billy couldn't get the frightened look of his mother out of his mind that entire evening. He had trouble sleeping, and decided to go ask the trees what they thought the matter was.

Billy had never crossed into the forest at night before, for fear of being caught by his mother, and because he was usually quite tired. However, he didn't have any fear of the forest itself. The forest was a home to him that his actual house could never be. He had a connection to his tree friends - he understood them, nurtured them, caressed them, but to Billy, it was they who understood him, they who nurtured him, and they who caressed him. It was a place of safety and solitude - a place to figure out life's problems.

Billy went into the forest that night without any thought of the next day. He didn't worry about what his mother would think when she saw the dirt on his shoes. He didn't care about what she would say when she noticed that he was tired and sluggish from lack of sleep. He simply wanted to be with his friends - to be safe.

The forest calmed him that night, and helped him to forget about his mother's earlier scream. His memory of that day, and of any day, was replaced by a sense of calm and peace. He hugged the tree and fell asleep. When he awoke, it was still night out. It seemed as though an entire night had passed while he was dozing amidst his comfortable surroundings, as he felt completely refreshed and renewed. When he got back home, being careful to wipe some of the dirt off his shoes and place them back in the same place as he got them, he tiptoed up to his room and crawled back into bed.

Billy never visited the forest in the daytime again, finding much more strength and vitality in the trees at night. Their comfort and solace was much more helpful at night, and he didn't have to worry about his mother's yells (or screams!) ever again. The forest assured him protection from all other fears and provided him with an entire childhood of good memories and pleasant dreams.

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This post is an installment in a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with posts from Enoch Allred of Chiltingham, John Allred of clol Town, Jon Fairbanks of Funkadelic Freestylings of Another Sort, Eli Z. McCormick and Miriam Allred of Modern Revelation!, John D. Moore of Whatnot Studios, William C. Stewart of Chide, Chode, Chidden, Sven Patrick Svensson of Sadness? Euphoria?, and WiL Whitlark of The Real McJesus. This week's theme: 'Forest'.

Imagination

Marthur's imagination was very complex and intricate, or so said his closest friends, Bartholomew and Rex. Marthur first met Bartholomew when he was only six years old, but they didn't see each other until he was almost ten. Up until then, he was lovingly referred to as his 'imaginary friend,' because of his active imagination. Marthur's mother, Marjorie, allowed the friendship to continue, even after Bartholomew materialized, since he had proven himself to be a good influence on her son's upbringing. Bartholomew taught Marthur how to eat beans with his fork, and soup with his spoon, something that Marjorie had been trying in vain to teach him for years. Marthur's father, Arthur, liked Bartholomew because he was so much more interesting than his own son.

Rex was a different story entirely. Rex was Bartholomew's imaginary enemy, and he taught Marthur to hate him with every passion of his being. However, Marthur was a rebellious child, and decided to befriend Rex without Bartholomew's knowledge. Over the years, Rex and Marthur formed a very close bond, and soon after, Rex also materialized. Since Bartholomew only knew Rex as an imaginary enemy of his own, and not as the imaginary friend of Marthur, this materialization did not have any similarity to Bartholomew's own conception of Rex, and so went unnoticed by him as his most hated enemy.

Marjorie and Arthur loved their son, but by his fifteenth birthday they began to fear him terribly. Marthur had taken on qualities of both of his once-imaginary friends, and their bitter hatred between one another had altered Marthur's personality for the worse. He now tried to kill his friend Bartholomew by throwing knives at his wrists, now tried to squeeze Rex in a mighty bear hug that would cause his eyes to bulge out of their sockets. Marjorie and Arthur never noticed this strange behavior, but they noticed instead something they termed 'the evil eye.' Marjorie's mother had acquired the evil eye fairly late in life, and Marjorie had had to deal with this strange enigmatic quality while caring for her mother in her later years. Arthur hated this task of caring for his mother-in-law, and so any remembrance of those terrible years was enough to send him over the edge. He sought solace in drinking.

Arthur soon became a raging alcoholic, who ranted and raved about his son's evil tendencies, and his fiendish friends. Marjorie became depressed at the thought of caretaking for her son in the same manner that she had for her mother, and was so heartily saddened that she fell into a state of absolute depression. She drowned herself in a bowl of water while trying to wash away her tears. Her father found her the next morning and swore to never drink again. He was back at the liquor store three hours later.

Marthur hadn't noticed any of these strange goings-on in his household. He was so taken with an inner struggle of love for his friends while hating each one for purely personal reasons that he hadn't had previously. They had built up within him to the point of bursting. He soon realized that it was not the fault of his friends at all, but rather his name. He hated that his parents had combined their names to form a terrible corruption of each. Marthur was both uncommon and abhorrent. He decided that all of his problems would be solved with a name change, and asked his friends which name he should choose. Rex said Rex. Bartholomew said anything but Rex. Marthur went with the latter, simply because it gave him more options.

Rex felt both angered and slighted. He vowed to never appear to Marthur again, and took on his imaginary form once more. Bartholomew instantly recognized Rex as his most hated enemy, and realized why he had been so apprehensive about his friendship with Marthur over the years. He hated Marthur for going behind his back and befriending his enemy, and he too vowed to never see him again. It was then that Marthur went in to his parents room to tell them the news about the name change. This moment caused him to rethink his decision, and he forever lost his very complex and intricate imagination. He no longer saw any imaginary friends, for he realized that in life, there are no friends. He said a final goodbye to both Bartholomew and Rex, realizing that they could no longer hear his voice, or see his face.

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This post is part of the Blue-Beta Blog Coordination, a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with posts from Confuzzled of I Keep Wondering, Gromit of The Dancing Newt, Redoubt of Redoubt Redux, Third Mango of Funkadelic Freestylings of Another Sort, and Xanthippe of Let’s Save Our Hallmark Moment. This week's theme: 'Imagination'.

Superstition

EXT. SIDEWALK - DAY

EDWARD is walking along the street, drinking coffee. He sees PAUL running along the other side of the road in the opposite direction. Paul's hair is tousled, his clothing tattered, and his glasses askew.

EDWARD: Hey, Paul! Paul!

Paul glances over at Edward, disoriented. He continues to run. Edward runs across the street, dodging some traffic. He reaches Paul at a steady pace and slows him down. They stop running near the side of a small inner city park.

EDWARD: Paul, Jesus, what are you running for?

PAUL: I'm escaping destiny.

EDWARD: Oh, shit, not again.

PAUL: What do you mean? I'm escaping destiny. It must be done.

EDWARD: Paul, you look like shit, dude. Let me get you a cab so you can go home and clean yourself up.

PAUL: No! No cab! If I step into a taxi right now, that will be the death of me. I must walk.

EDWARD: You're not exactly walking, Paul, you're running like the Dickens. If I were you, I'd slow down before I pull a muscle or twist my ankle in a pothole.

PAUL: I'll be fine. I just need to escape my destiny.

EDWARD: I'm sick of this shit, Paul. You're always escaping your destiny in some stupid, fucked up way. I don't care what you saw, or who told you what, or any of your other bullshit excuses, running from your destiny will not produce a single positive result in your life. You'll only fuck it up further.

Paul takes a brief glance down at his feet, pondering Edward's words. He brings his head back up and looks at him seriously in the eyes.

PAUL: You're standing on the crack, Edward. What do you know about fate?

EDWARD (annoyed): Paul, my mother is already on her deathbed. Standing on some arbitrary crack in the sidewalk is not going to assist her in any way towards her imminent death.

PAUL: And yet, you moved your feet. It seems even you are attentive to fate's clues when you need to be.

EDWARD (smiling): I guess everyone is a little superstitious. You just need to take it easy, though, Paul. I worry about you.

PAUL: I'll be fine. Just let me forge a new destiny.

EDWARD: Sorry for the hold up. See you tomorrow then?

PAUL: Tomorrow, unless fate steps in to screw me over.

Paul begins to run in the same direction again. Edward waves goodbye as he continues standing on either side of a large crack in the pavement.

EDWARD: Watch out for the cracks, now!

Paul waves back, continuing his run.

PAUL: You too!

Edward walks back to the other side of the sidewalk, and continues to head in the same direction as before. He is careful to avoid every crack he sees.

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This post is an installment in a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with posts from Enoch Allred of Chiltingham, John Allred of clol Town, Jon Fairbanks of Funkadelic Freestylings of Another Sort, Eli Z. McCormick and Miriam Allred of Modern Revelation!, John D. Moore of Whatnot Studios, William C. Stewart of Chide, Chode, Chidden, Sven Patrick Svensson of Sadness? Euphoria?, and WiL Whitlark of The Real McJesus. This week's theme: 'Superstition'.

Victory

INT. JACK'S LIVING ROOM - DAY

ROBERT, JACK, LILY, and BILL are playing monopoly.

ROBERT: Park place, huh. I don't think I'll buy that.

JACK: Are you sure, Robert? If you buy it, you'll have a monopoly.

ROBERT: Yes, I'm sure. Don't try to second guess my own decision. I know it'll get me a monopoly. The same monopoly I got last game, and the same one that you skipped every time around the board.

LILY (giggling): And I stayed in jail just to avoid you over there.

ROBERT: Exactly. The Boardwalk-Park Place combo is the worst monopoly in the game. I never have enough money to build on them, and no one but I ever land on them.

JACK: You sure land on them a lot, though. So, if you don't buy it, I will, and you'll be paying me for the rest of the game.

ROBERT: I won't be paying you much, though. I've got the other property.

JACK: You'll really let that property go to waste in your hands? You know you'll trade it to me eventually, when you get into hot water with Bill over there at Indiana and Kentucky.

BILL (excitedly): Yeah, I've already got houses on them.

LILY: You're always so lucky, Bill.

ROBERT: I'm sure the money from free parking will help me out when I need it. No deal, I ain't buyin'.

JACK: Okay, your loss. I'm buying it, though, and you're going to be sorry.

CUT TO: TWENTY MINUTES LATER

They are still sitting around the board playing monopoly. Robert rolls the dice and moves his playpiece.

JACK: Oh, that's Bill's property! You owe him two hundred dollars more than you've got!

BILL (excitedly): And it doesn't look like you had any luck with free parking all day!

Robert holds up his boardwalk deed, already mortgaged.

ROBERT: Will you take this instead?

BILL: An old mortgaged piece of junk, this late in the game? (pause) Throw in a railroad and you've got a deal.

CUT TO: TWENTY MINUTES LATER

Lily is sitting on the sofa, eating popcorn. The rest of the players are still at the game.

LILY: Aren't you guys finished yet?

JACK: Just about, Lily. Robert's going to land on his beloved Park Place this turn, on which I now own a hotel, and he'll be out.

ROBERT: I am not! I haven't landed on it since you told me I would.

JACK: All the more reason for you to do so now.

ROBERT: That's absurd. I'd have to roll a three. What are the odds of that?

BILL: Three out of, um, twelve, I'd say.

ROBERT: What? Really?

BILL: Sure, there's twelve numbers possible, and so take the three divided by the twelve, oh, right, so, um, one in four.

ROBERT: One in four? That's not right.

LILY: Are you really trying to do math right now? Isn't this supposed to be a game? Fun? You know, relaxation?

JACK: Not relaxation for anyone playing against me. It's a struggle not to lose to my supreme skill, as you well know.

LILY: Yeah, well, at least I get to eat popcorn. Maybe I lost on purpose.

JACK: Just roll the dice, Robert. Let's get this over with.

ROBERT: Okay, no three, here we go.

Robert rolls the dice. Three.

ROBERT: Crap!

LILY: As if you didn't see that one coming.

JACK (enthusiastically): Ha ha! Victory!

LILY: What about Bill? You haven't one till he goes out.

BILL: I think I've lost.

LILY: You can't give up! You have to play till the game is over.

ROBERT: I thought you just said that playing was more stupid than winning.

LILY: I may have meant that, but I didn't say that.

Robert walks over and grabs a handful of popcorn.

ROBERT: It sucks to lose. Well, go ahead and roll, Jack.

JACK: It's Bill's turn.

ROBERT: Okay, then, Bill. What do you need to roll to get this game over with? I need to go home soon.

BILL: Um, I need a seven to survive. Anything else, and I'm going to be dead in the water.

LILY: Roll Bill, you have a seven in twelve chance of survival, by your calculation.

BILL: I haven't calculated a thing.

Jack hands the dice over to Bill.

JACK: Just roll, Bill. I want to see all that money of yours come my way finally.

Bill rolls. Seven.

BILL: Hooray, a seven!

Robert and Lily groan. Bill moves his piece, carefully counting seven spaces. He lands on Park Place.

JACK: Ho ho! Give me all your money! Victory!!

ROBERT: What? It's over?

LILY: Finally.

ROBERT: I thought you said a seven would be a good thing for you?

BILL: I just said that so not to jinx it.

LILY: That worked well, didn't it.

ROBERT: I should've tried that. Good thinking, Bill.

Jack continues to count his money and be in very high spirits.

ROBERT: Well, I've got to get going. It's been fun.

LILY: You know, I should go to. Thanks for having us over, Jack.

Jack is too busy counting his victory money to listen. Bill gets up from the floor.

BILL: I don't really have to go, but I'm going to. See you later, Jack. Good game.

Jack doesn't look up from his money.

JACK: Victory is mine! I've defeated you all. Come again soon for another speedy defeat, if you dare.

Robert, Lily, and Bill all say their final goodbyes at the door before they leave. As soon as they are gone, Jack stands up abruptly.

JACK: Victory feels so good.

THE END

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This post is part of the Blue-Beta Blog Coordination, a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with posts from Confuzzled of I Keep Wondering, Gromit of The Dancing Newt, Redoubt of Redoubt Redux, Third Mango of Funkadelic Freestylings of Another Sort, and Xanthippe of Let’s Save Our Hallmark Moment. This week's theme: 'Victory'.

Disfigurement

INT. - EXECUTIVE OFFICE BUILDING - DAY

CHARLES and his colleagues, MATT, ROY, and DAVID, are standing by a row of six elevators in a crowded office building. They are wearing expensive executive-style suits and ties, carrying the finest briefcases.

DAVID: It's been one hell of a long week, hasn't it?

ROY: It's been one hell of a long month.

MATT: We've been waiting about a month for this elevator.

Matt pushes the already lit up elevator button impatiently. Charles stands back a little from the group, looking at his reflection in the elevator doors and feeling his beard with his hand. The elevator arrives and the doors open. The group enters the empty elevator.

MATT (comically): What floor?

David and Roy laugh.

CHARLES (seriously): One.

CUT TO:

The elevator doors open on the first floor and the group exits together. David and Roy go one direction, while Charles and Matt go another.

DAVID: See you two on Monday.

MATT: I don't plan to be sober by then, but I'll do my best!

Matt and Charles continue out to the street.

EXT. STREET - DAY

Matt and Charles are walking down the street in the same direction. Charles remains pensive while stroking his beard, and periodically looking at his reflection in windows of buildings. Matt is talking continuously.

MATT: President Brewster really called me out today in that meeting. I was hoping he wouldn't notice the lack of sales made by all teams in the last quarter, but old Brewster's got a keen eye. Why, he even saw through my graphs and charts that I so thoroughly hacked up. I really thought he wouldn't notice. (etc. etc. continue continue)

They reach the subway stop. Matt turns to go down the stairs while Charles continues to walk straight ahead.

MATT: Well, see you later, Charles! Don't forget to have some fun this weekend.

CHARLES: No problem, Matt. See you on Monday.

INT. - CHARLES'S BEDROOM - NIGHT

Charles is changing out of his suit, periodically looking at his reflection on his tie rack in the large walk-in closet. He walks around, almost pacing, as he gets undressed. With his shirt unbuttoned and his belt undone, the phone rings. Charles walks over to it and answers.

CHARLES: Hello?

SANDRA: Hey Charles! Can I come over?

CHARLES: You want to come over tonight?

SANDRA: Yeah! It's the weekend. I thought we could make popcorn, watch some tv, have sex. You know, the usual.

CHARLES (smiling): Okay, Sandra. Give me about fifteen minutes to prepare.

SANDRA (giggling): If you make the popcorn before I get there, make sure to save some of that hot butter for me.

Sandra hangs up.

INT. CHARLES'S BATHROOM - NIGHT

Charles washes his face at the sink. He dries off and looks at his image in the mirror. Pensively looking at his features, he brushes his beard. Abruptly, he reaches under the sink, rummaging around for something. He finally finds an old bottle of shaving cream. He rubs it all over his face. He gets a razor from his medicine cabinet and begins to shave, slowly.

CUT TO:

Charles runs the water in the sink, washing his face off with his hands. He grabs a towel and dries off again. He looks again at his image in the mirror, seeing a face with no skin at all in the places where he shaved, as if the skin had been peeled off by his shaving. Charles reaches his hand up to feel the damaged area, but feels his normal face, skin and all.

CHARLES: What the hell has happened to me?

Sandra KNOCKS at the door.

SANDRA (from hallway outside): Hey Charles! I'm a little early, hope you don't mind.

Charles runs to the front door.

CHARLES: I'm not ready yet. You'll have to give me a second.

Charles rummages around the closet.

SANDRA: What do you mean? Don't you want to see me?

CHARLES: I do, I do. I don't think you want to see me at the moment, though.

SANDRA (giggling): What, are you naked?

Charles finds a scarf in the closet and wraps it around his face. He opens the door. Sandra comes in and looks at Charles's face.

SANDRA: What's that scarf for? Where's the popcorn?

Sandra walks over to the couch and sits down. Charles closes the door and walks to his living room.

SANDRA: Take that silly thing off and sit down here.

Charles walks over to the couch and sits down. Sandra grabs the scarf as he does so and unwraps it suddenly, jumping onto his lap and kissing him all over his face.

CHARLES: No, Sandra! Don't!

Sandra continues kissing. Charles forces her off of him.

CHARLES: I said no, Sandra! What's wrong with you?

SANDRA: What's wrong with you? Why are you pushing me like that?

Charles stands up and faces Sandra on the couch.

CHARLES (indicating his face): Look at me! I'm a freak! I had some sort of accident, and I haven't had time to figure out what to do. Just leave me alone for one second.

Sandra looks confused.

SANDRA: Well, it is a little weird that you've decided to shave after all these years, but that doesn't mean you have to make such a big deal about it. I mean, after all, you can grow it back if you want.

CHARLES: Grow it back? Can't you see I've been mutilated! I've skinned myself alive. I'm a bloody-faced freak!

Sandra stands up to inspect Charles's face. She sees a few cuts from his poor shaving job, but nothing terrible.

SANDRA: Sure, there's a little blood here and there, but nothing that won't heal itself up in a little bit. Boy, you have been a long time without shaving, haven't you? To get all scared about a little blood like that.

Charles gets a relieved look in his eyes. He feels his face with his hands.

CHARLES: You mean, I'm fine?

SANDRA: Sure you are. And I love you more than ever.

Sandra jumps up and kisses Charles on his face repeatedly. He holds her for a moment, then lets her down.

CHARLES: You can pick a movie, I'll get started on the popcorn.

Charles walks to the kitchen. As he is pouring some popcorn into a large pot, he glances over at his reflection in the stainless steel toaster on the counter. He is met with the same disfigured face as before.

TO BE CONTINUED ... (at a later date)

[This is getting too long, and I have more work to do. Sorry for the lack of resolution. The basic idea is, he always sees a disfigured face for the rest of his life, but only when he looks at his reflection in the mirror. He is in constant need of reassurance that his face looks fine and that he is indeed hot. Sandra will leave him over this, he'll lose his job, he'll become this vagrant walking the streets asking everyone how his face looks. Eventually he'll break every mirror he sees, in a desperate struggle to not have to deal with his disfigured reflection.]

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This post is an installment in a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with posts from Enoch Allred of Chiltingham, John Allred of clol Town, Jon Fairbanks of Funkadelic Freestylings of Another Sort, Eli Z. McCormick and Miriam Allred of Modern Revelation!, John D. Moore of Whatnot Studios, William C. Stewart of Chide, Chode, Chidden, and Sven Patrick Svensson of Sadness? Euphoria?. This week's theme: 'Disfigurement'.

Ventriloquism

INT. SUSAN'S APARTMENT - NIGHT

Three women in their late-twenties are gathered in a small apartment. They are eating various snacks and interacting with one another while the television plays its advertisements in the background. SALLY is sitting on the couch, but turned away from the television. SANDRA sits at the table, facing Sally to engage her in conversation. SUSAN is in the kitchen, open to the main room, preparing more snacks for consumption. All are in jovial spirits.

TV: You think I'm talking, but I'm not.

SALLY: That's the third time this break! I can't believe the trouble they're going to to advertise such a stupid product.

SANDRA: I know. As if anyone would actually pay money for a ventriloquist act.

Susan sits quietly.

SALLY: Yeah, aren't ventriloquists pretty much despised and hated by pretty much everyone?

SANDRA: Except maybe for mimes.

SALLY (laughing): Those two would make quite a pair, wouldn't they?

SANDRA (mimicking the voice from the TV ad while acting like a mime): You think I'm being annoying, but ... I actually am!

Susan clears her throat.

SALLY: Is there something wrong, Susan?

SUSAN: No, nothing at all.


INT. SUSAN'S APARTMENT - NIGHT

Susan is cleaning up after the party. Sally and Sandra have gone home. Susan is rinsing off the dishes.

SUSAN: Some friends. Sally thinks she's so smart. Sandra with her witticisms.

Susan opens the dishwasher next to the sink and goes to place the plate she has been rinsing into the dishwasher, only to find that it is already full of clean dishes. She turns off the faucet and begins to unload the dishwasher instead of rinsing.

SUSAN: I don't think they realize for one moment the difficulty involved in ventriloquism. Nor do they even fathom the great good it can serve the world. It's rendering a service, God Damn it!

Susan angrily throws a plate against the wall. It shatters to small pieces on the floor.

VOICE: Ow!

SUSAN: What was that? Was that you, Mr. Plate?

Susan walks up to the pieces of plate on the ground, looking at them closely with her face about an inch away from the remnants of the plate.

SUSAN: Did you say something?

Susan clearly ventriloquates the response from the plate, as her lips move ever so slightly.

PLATE (SUSAN): Don't hurt me.

Susan gets a look of pity on her face.

SUSAN: Oh, you poor thing! I'm so sorry. I was mad at my friends Sally and Sandra. I would never be mad at you. Here, let me fix you up.

Susan pushes the broken pieces next to one another, aligning them in a plate-like fashion. What results only somewhat resembles the previous plate.

SUSAN: There, do you feel better now?

PLATE (SUSAN): Not really. I'm still broken.

Susan gets a shocked look on her face.

SUSAN: Oh, you ungrateful little plate! You're just as bad as Sandra!

Susan turns her back to the plate, calming down slightly. She looks over her shoulder and sees the plate in its same position. Susan again gets a look of pity on her face. The plate sits still.

Susan runs over to the plate again.

SUSAN: I'm sorry. You are still broken. You'll always be broken. It's all the fault of Sally and Sandra, and people like them who don't understand.

Susan falls onto the plate, exhausted, sobbing.


INT. TELEVISION STUDIO - DAY

A commercial is being filmed. People are standing behind large cameras filming ACTOR 1 at a podium on a prop stage, made to appear as though it is in a large conference center. He is presenting a PowerPoint presentation with lots of charts and graphs. Other ACTORS take part in the commercial, filling various roles.

ACTOR 1 (confidently): So, you see, the fiscal year ending 2009 resulted in a profit margin of just over 8.2%, while last year's fiscal budget only factored in a 5% net increase in sales. I now turn to the floor for questions.

Actor 1 is performing in front of an audience of cardboard cutouts that only somewhat resemble a live audience of business professionals. ACTOR 2 stands up in the midst of these cutouts to deliver his lines.

ACTOR 2: I do have a question for the distinguished speaker. How do you talk with such eloquence and style? Don't you get frightened on stage in front of a large audience?

Actor 1 looks into the camera with surety.

ACTOR 1: You may think I'm talking, but I'm not.

The DIRECTOR, standing behind one of the camera operators, waves his hand to indicate 'CUT', and points to the monitor beside him, which begins to play the advertisement previously seen in Susan's apartment on the television. The advertisement logo "Ventriloquist Professionals" appears, with information about the product in smaller type below, along with contact information. A VOICEOVER pronounces the benefits of the product to the viewer. The director watches this monitor for review of the full ad.

VOICEOVER: Let Ventriloquist Professionals help you give your next speech, presentation, lecture, or seminar. Contact toll-free: 1-800-555-ventriloquist, or email ventriloquisthelp@ventriloquistprofessionals.com. Join thousands of others who have improved their speaking style with the help of ventriloquism!

The director again waves his hand and points to ACTRESS 1 sitting in a chair behind a secretary desk on the set. The cameras turn on and focus on her as she repeats her lines.

ACTRESS 1: I used to have such trouble getting up in front of my colleagues to speak. But look at me now!

The camera pans to ACTRESS 2, who is crouched below the desk. Actress 2 turns to the camera to deliver her line.

ACTRESS 2: You may think she's talking, but she's not!

DIRECTOR (waving his hand): Cut! That's a wrap. (pause) For now.

ACTORS AND CREW: You mean there may be more of these stupid commercials?

DIRECTOR: If the company keeps making them, I'll keep producing them.

Susan suddenly appears with a clipboard in hand, walking up to the director.

SUSAN: Hello, are you Artful Dodger, the director we hired?

DIRECTOR: Oh, you must be Susan, the representative from Ventriloquist Professionals. Pleased to have you on board here.

SUSAN: Oh, no, the pleasure is all mine. We're very pleased with the work you've been doing on these commercials.

DIRECTOR: Well, that's great. I'm glad to hear it. So, what can I do for you?

SUSAN: Well, that's the thing. These commercials don't seem to be getting the right message out. Focus groups, and personal experience, have shown that even after watching these commercials 20 or 30 times, the majority of respondents still feel that ventriloquism is a mock service with little or no value in the daily lives of people.

The director gets a look of misunderstanding on his face.

DIRECTOR: You mean, you actually take these commercials seriously?

SUSAN: Well, of course. It's what we do.

DIRECTOR: You ventriloquate?

SUSAN: Yes! That's my profession.

DIRECTOR: You're a professional ventriloquator?

SUSAN: Ventriloquist.

DIRECTOR: Oh my God, this is too much.

The director turns to the crew.

DIRECTOR (loudly): Did you hear that, fellows? These commercials we've been making are being taken seriously. Susan here is a professional ventriloquist!

The crew laughs heartily while pointing at Susan. Susan gets a look of indignation on her face and turns away.

VOICE: You're fired.

The director turns his head towards the voice, but sees only a large video camera looking him in the eye. He looks at it unbelievingly for a moment, then turns and sees Susan walking away purposefully.


INT. VENTRILOQUIST PROFESSIONALS BUILDING - DAY

Susan walks down the large hallway of the ventriloquist offices. She knocks on a door that says "PRESIDENT - ARTHUR MCNALLY" on it, and enters halfway into the office.

SUSAN: Excuse me, Art.

Arthur, sitting in a large chair behind the desk, rotates around to face Susan. A small ventriloquist dummy sits on his large lap. His lips move only very slightly while the dummy speaks.

DUMMY: Yes, Susan. Come right in.

Susan looks at the dummy for a moment and gets a look of realization on her face.

SUSAN: Oh, yes. Thank you, Art. I came to have a word with Arthur, actually, if that's alright with you.

DUMMY: I guess you can speak to him if you want, the big dummy!

ARTHUR: Hey now, Art. That's not very polite.

DUMMY: It's not very polite to be so fat either!

ARTHUR (laughing): Well, you have a point there! Isn't Art wonderful today?

Susan only smiles slightly.

SUSAN: I'm afraid I'm not much in the joking mood today, Arthur. I had to fire the director of our commercials.

ARTHUR: The "You think I'm talking, but I'm not!" commercials?

SUSAN: Yes. They were being treated in an incorrect and irreverent manner unbecoming of the ventriloquist profession.

ARTHUR: That's a shame. I was really hoping to turn the image of ventriloquism around. So many people think only of silly has-beens with dummies on their laps telling stupid jokes to themselves.

DUMMY: Who are you calling a dummy, you has-been?

ARTHUR: Not now, Arty.

SUSAN (not paying attention to Art's aside): I know. It's so difficult to explain the professional ramifications that our organization can have for people. When ventriloquism is put to its proper use, it becomes much more than a mere jovial past-time. It is elevated to a way of life. One that I marvel in the beauty of.

ARTHUR: You've done good work here, Susan. I think it's time to call it quits.

Susan gets a look of surprise on her face.

SUSAN: You're firing me?

ARTHUR: No, I'm firing myself. The world isn't ready for us yet. Our kind must continue to practice our craft unseen, offering our help only to those in great need. Being of service to our fellow being, for that's the only way we can survive.

SUSAN: I see what you mean.

Susan looks seriously into the eyes of the dummy.

SUSAN: It has to be this way, doesn't it, Art?

The dummy nods its head in response.


INT. SUSAN'S APARTMENT - NIGHT

Sally and Sandra are again sitting around at Susan's house, as before. They are eating various snacks, and the television is on in the background.

SALLY: I am so glad that those stupid commercials are off the air now.

SANDRA: Yeah. Guess the dumb ventriloquists finally realized they're useless.

Susan sits back silently. There is a KNOCK on the door.

SALLY: Oh, I bet that's Billy!

SANDRA: Billy's coming?

SALLY: Yeah, I thought he might like to join us.

Sally opens the door to Susan's apartment. In the hall way she sees a TELEGRAM DELIVERY MAN in uniform.

TELEGRAM DELIVERY MAN: Telegram for Sally S. Trumet.

Sally takes the telegram and closes the door. She unfolds the old-style piece of paper and reads the note: "Can't come to party. Busy with friends. Billy." Sally walks back into the main room.

SANDRA: Who was it?

SALLY: A telegram delivery. From Billy.

SANDRA: A telegram? They still have those?

SALLY: No. No, they don't.

Sally sits in silence for a moment, then suddenly crumples up the telegram in anger.

SALLY: Oh, he makes me so mad! I wish I could tell him off, just once, without falling apart into tears.

Susan clears her throat.

SALLY: Is there something wrong, Susan?

SUSAN: Nothing at all. I think I can help you.

SALLY: You can? How?

SUSAN: Ever heard of ventriloquism?

A look passes from Susan's eyes to Sally's. She instantly understands.

SALLY: He'll think I'm talking, but I'm not.

Sally and Susan continue to look at one another in silence.

SANDRA: God, I hate those commercials.

THE END

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This post is an installment in a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with posts from Enoch Allred of Chiltingham, John Allred of clol Town, Jon Fairbanks of Funkadelic Freestylings of Another Sort, Eli Z. McCormick and Miriam Allred of Modern Revelation!, John D. Moore of Whatnot Studios, William C. Stewart of Chide, Chode, Chidden, and Sven Patrick Svensson of Sadness? Euphoria?. This week's theme: 'Ventriloquism'.