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'.

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'.

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'.

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'.

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'.

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'.

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'.

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'.

Eifen Deifeiffen

What Bobby didn't know was that Eifen Deifeiffen was about to occur for the third time in his life. He had never taken notice of Eifen Deifeiffen before, nor did he know what it was, but it was about to change his life in ways you will hardly be able to imagine.

This tragic case of Eifen Deifeiffen took place on the 6th of March, 1992, when Bobby was eight years old. He had been told by doctors that the scar on his left leg, and the lack of one of his kidneys, were both due to past traumatic events. They did not mention to Bobby, nor to his parents, that these were in fact symptoms of early childhood complications due to Eifen Deifeiffen. This is because no medical examination or screening could have conclusively proven Eifen Deifeiffen to be at the root of Bobby's issues. Eifen Deifeiffen was still largely undiscovered at that time, as it remains today. Instead, the doctors had to come up with elaborate scenarios in which Bobby's leg had been badly injured during his fall into a window well on his third birthday. The kidney loss was explained by complications at birth.

Although Eifen Deifeiffen is rarely noticed, it happens at least once to everyone. My Eifen Deifeiffen incident came when I was 32 years old, just starting my new job at a downtown law firm. I was excited and anxious to begin this new phase in my career; but imagine my dismay when I saw that Eifen Deifeiffen had set in. I tried to shake free of it, to battle it back, to cast it from me at all costs, but to no avail. I enlisted the help of friends, relatives, neighbors, and I even wrote a letter to the President of the United States, but no one could release me from the clutches of this unseen condition. In fact, no one seemed to care or to notice. I was forced to give in, to allow Eifen Deifeiffen to do its deed, and I awoke the next morning to find that my left eye had deteriorated, leaving only an empty socket with remnants of pus.

This personal assault on my character caused me to begin my quest to remove the villainous Eifen Deifeiffen from this planet once and for all. I began to follow Eifen, learning from past sufferers the motivation for the rapid and seemingly unpredictable onset of the disease. I traced Eifen from Stockholm, to Paris, to Rome, and even to Senegal, just missing him each time. I continued to learn about him, to become one with his thoughts and actions. I began to see the signs and marks of his imminent coming at every corner and in every face. I knew that I would have to find him and remove him as soon as possible, or else I risked losing my mind, or worse, another eye.

Just as I began to become dismayed, thinking I would never find the answer to this madness, I caught Bobby out of the corner of my eye. Little Bobby. He was only three years old at the time. His parents were on their way out of the emergency room, where they had taken him after discovering the odd scar on his leg that had seemingly appeared out of nowhere. I knew immediately that I had just missed Eifen's most recent attack. I could sense him in the proximity, I could feel his influence, and his joy. I also knew that he would seek Bobby out again, for he had not completed his job with this one. He had attacked too soon, and Bobby had managed to escape his grasp, at least partially.

I only learned later, after studying Bobby closely for the next five years, that he had had an earlier run in with Eifen. The kidney incident was not spoken of often in the home, nor did Bobby have any knowledge of it, but Eifen let me know about it in his own way. Eifen was beginning to make more sense to me, and he was often giving me clues that allowed me to form a full picture of his work amongst humanity. I continued to wait, knowing that Bobby was soon to experience his third Eifen Deifeiffen incident in his lifetime, and one he would not forget any time soon.

I began to become rather excited, anticipating one of Eifen's greatest accomplishments in all of history. I was looking forward to this. Wanting this. Needing this.

March had begun just five days before, and I was beginning to get anxious. I knew from the signs and marks that Eifen was leaving around Bobby's house that the event was just a few days away. However, the marks began to fade. The signs disappeared as if they never existed, and I was left to wonder if I had been mistaken. Perhaps Eifen had decided not to subject this boy to a third wave of assault. Perhaps I was doomed to forever live in a world where Eifen remained a mystery, an inexplicable phenomenon that went unnoticed and unseen by the rest of the world. I made a pact with myself, with Eifen Deifeiffen and all that he stood for, that on this day, the 6th of March, 1992, I would see to it that Eifen's plans were carried out. That Bobby would receive his third and final visitation from Eifen, one that would end his life for the good of all mankind. One that would simultaneously fulfill both my goals and Eifen's.

I leapt out from hiding, and showed myself for the first time to Bobby. He couldn't fathom what I had in store for him, as I covered his head with a dark cloth and led him into his empty household. There, I waited. I waited for Eifen, knowing that he would come, that today was the day, that he would finish what he had started with this boy and I would be able to remove him from the Earth. I got what I wanted.

Eifen's arrival was a sight that I will never forget. The horrible anguish that was caused to Bobby, the glory that this gave to Eifen, and the excitement that coursed through my veins, all combined to create an atmosphere of euphoria and death. I knew that time was short, that I'd have to act quickly. As Eifen was doing his deed, wretching poor Bobby's heart from left to right, pounding and releasing, forcing and tugging, I made a precise calculation, one that I had practiced many times in anticipation for this event, and thrust a sharp dagger into Bobby's chest, drawing blood and stabbing Eifen in the process. Through the metal end of the blade I felt Eifen squirm up into my flesh. He had left Bobby behind, writhing on the floor in a semi-unconscious stupor, while I continued the battle with Eifen below my skin. His power, even after being wounded, was without comparison to any worldly force, and I quickly found myself brought down to the lowest brink of agony and despair. I fought, and struggled, and pulled, keeping Eifen out of my bloodstream, away from my vital organs. He continued to produce pain and misery in every portion of my body that he could touch. I realized that I was going to lose this fight.

These incomparable hours of battle lasted long enough to allow Bobby to regain complete consciousness. He looked up into my eye, and I returned his gaze. I realized that he could see, that he understood. Eifen was his battle now. I had failed.

I used the last of my remaining strength in one final push of power, thrusting Eifen from my body. Eifen left the room, injured, hurt, but not overcome. His effects remained in me, and I knew I would never recover. I saw the blood pouring from Bobby's wound. It was clean. He would get better. His parents would be home any minute now, and he'd be able to get the help required. The doctors would chalk this one up to bad luck again, an attack by a one-eyed villain, but they would not suspect the real cause, the true suspect of this attempted murder: Eifen Deifeiffen.

My time comes to an end now. I have been able to record what I know about Eifen. I may have been mistaken on some, I may have underestimated his power, but I've observed his destructive force and I know it must be reckoned with. I trust Bobby to do this for me, to continue the work I've begun. Judging by the signs, he's due to receive a fourth visitation, and I'm confident that he'll overcome in a way that I could not. By the time the doctors find out about Eifen Deifeiffen, the cause of so much pain and anguish, the bringer of misery and misfortune, the most powerful destructive force to humankind, its threat will have already been extinguished. I am as sure about this as I am in my imminent death. I mark Eifen's passing with an equal amount of awe and sadness. He was a part of life that is not easily noticed, but definitely not soon forgotten.

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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 of Modern Revelation!, John D. Moore of Whatnot Studios, and William C. Stewart of Chide, Chode, Chidden. This week's theme: 'Eifen Deifeiffen'.

Vice

"Hey Jim, what's going on?"

"Oh, nothing much, just the usual shit, you know. That sort of thing."

Sam had gotten used to Jim's lack of response to personal questions. In fact, he had come to expect it, and never deviated from his response, even if he didn't have a hell of an idea what Sam was trying to explain. "Yeah, I follow you. Same ol' shit, as the proverb goes."

"Well, there is something else that I've been meaning to talk to you about," Jim said, with hesitation in his voice. He could tell by the look in Sam's eyes that he had passed the point where he could easily step back from his announcement, shake his head and say, "naw, nevermind, it's nothing." Sam, on the other hand, expected Jim to say something along the lines of "naw, nevermind, it's nothing," and therefore prepared his response, "no problem, don't worry about it," well in advance. Due to Jim's faulty appraisal of the situation, Sam would not get to use these words in this situation, but would instead need to carry on through prompt improvisation.

"You know the Disney film 'Dumbo'?" Jim blurted out, suddenly. Sam actually did know the film very well, as he had watched it as a child numerous times a week as he would fall asleep. However, he hadn't seen it in well over ten years now, and responded, "That's the one with the elephant and circus, right?"

Jim expressed his excitement, "Yes, exactly, and a little mouse too. Dumbo has big ears and learns how to fly." It all came back to Sam vividly, not just the big top from the film, with the circus director and the animals, but also the entirety of his childhood memories, fond recollections of his younger sister, his various toys in a large yellow chest in the corner of his room, his adoration for his teacher, Mrs. Penchmond.

"That's a good flick," Sam responded. "I used to watch it a lot. My sister never got into it. She always preferred the newer animated films still coming out nowadays." Sam surprised himself with how open he had become as a result of these childhood memories. He hadn't spoken of his sister with any of his acquaintances, not even his closest friends, and certainly not with Jim. Just mentioning her existence seemed to lift a great burden from Sam's soul.

"Well, then you'll know where I'm coming from, perhaps," Jim continued. "I have a sort of a problem. A vice, really. Something I just can't shake."

"What, like a big problem? Something you need help with?" Sam offered, seeing that this was difficult for Jim. "I'm not sure how much help I can be, but I'm glad to try my best." Even though Sam would never have expected Jim to come to him for advice on anything, this was a position he had been in often enough. Things seemed to come natural to him, and his life, from the outside, evoked a sense of perfection. He had never struggled to get a good job, he had all the merits to allow for complete satisfaction with his position, and, furthermore, he seemed to be able to get any woman he wanted without any effort at all on his part. In this position, dispensing advice to others was a usual task, and one that Sam was well-familiar with.

Jim hesitated again, thinking over how his other confidantes often mocked and derided him for many of his lesser problems. Will Sam be able to understand? Will he be able to help me overcome this? he thought to himself. As he pondered this internally, Sam made a move to look at his watch; clearly there would be little time to sort things out. Perhaps I should wait for another day, another time he thought. But something within him urged him to get this vice off his chest, once and for all. If Sam couldn't help, no one could. "I like to dress up in a pink elephant costume and dance around my apartment to the soundtrack of Dumbo," Jim suddenly blurted out.

This unexpectedly brought back another rush of memories to Sam's mind. He could see his sister, vividly now, as if she were standing right in front of him, dressed in pink and dancing around the room. Marks on her skin that he had forgotten existed were brightly illuminated in his imagination, and an overall sense of helplessness and loss filled his entire body.

"I don't know what to do," Sam finally responded. "But Jim, you called your actions a vice. That's no vice. I've seen vices in this life, vices I myself used to be subject to, and your actions don't constitute any such thing. Keep on dancing, Jim. No one will give a shit."

Jim was comforted by this. He had never heard such utter sincerity spoken by his friend. He was glad for having taken the risk to open himself up, to probe his own depths and release it into the atmosphere for all to absorb. "Thanks Sam, I needed that."

"I did too, Jim. I did too."

About a month later, Jim asked Sam in passing how his sister was doing. Sam responded his usual "not bad" that was expected in such situations. He managed to stifle his snobs until later that evening, when he cried for the first time in over a decade.

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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 of Modern Revelation!, John D. Moore of Whatnot Studios, and William C. Stewart of Chide, Chode, Chidden. This week's theme: 'Vice'.

Exodus

Young Exodus was always striving to become the sort of person that his parents and peers expected him to be. However, this was very difficult to achieve, because of the high standard that they held him up to.

"Exodus," his father once said to him, "I want you to be as big and strong as your Uncle Patty and as small and gentle as your Great Aunt Clara." This apparent contradiction in no way confused young Exodus, but it did make him wonder how he could ever achieve such a conundrum. For Exodus, such tasks were often his focus.

When young Exodus was even younger, he asked his father why he was given a name that seemed so strange to other people. His father replied that they had named him after a multitude of people that had escaped oppression thanks to the help of God. Younger than young Exodus didn't understand this explanation, nor did he like the look of righteous indignation in his father's eyes when he said it; Exodus would never ask this question again for the rest of his short life.

But, Exodus's life didn't end all that soon. He made his way slowly from the cradle, to the stroller, and even up until his first car at the age of 16. "You've finally arrived at manhood," his father stated plainly, "Now you can go out on your own, and escape any tyranny that oppresses you." Exodus drove down to the grocery store and bought some milk and eggs. His father thanked him for his thoughtfulness, but Exodus could tell that he had disappointed him.

Exodus's life ended abruptly when he fell into a small stream not far from his house. He was trying to cross it on his way to his friend Steve's home, which was located a small distance away on the other side. Exodus always felt very calm and peaceful at Steve's house. His parents were the only ones who didn't give a weird look when he introduced himself. Steve always prepared great meals of ham and eggs (but never eggs and ham). The food was exquisite, the friendship strong, and the home comfortable. Steve burnt the toast and set off the fire alarm a moment before Exodus took his last breath in the water of the small stream; the sound of the alarm drowned out his final cry for help. His body wasn't noticed until the next day.

Upon finding the body, his father looked on with approval. "You found your escape, son. Now let's hope I can find mine."

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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 of Modern Revelation!, John D. Moore of Whatnot Studios, and William C. Stewart of Chide, Chode, Chidden. This week's theme: 'Exodus'.