Thursday, February 26, 2009


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.

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'.

Monday, February 23, 2009

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.


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.

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'.

Sunday, February 22, 2009


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.

Thursday, February 19, 2009


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.

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'.

Monday, February 16, 2009


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.

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'.

Thursday, February 12, 2009



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.

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'.

Monday, February 09, 2009



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.


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.


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.


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.


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'.

Thursday, February 05, 2009



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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.


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.]

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'.