Sour Mayonnaise

Thursday, August 27, 2009

An Ergonomic Appeal

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

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'.

Thursday, July 23, 2009

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."

Thursday, July 09, 2009

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

::::::::::::::::::::

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.

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'.

Sunday, May 03, 2009

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.

Monday, April 06, 2009

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.

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'.

Thursday, March 26, 2009

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

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'.

Monday, March 16, 2009

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.