Remember to send your entries along to me via e-mail. Each must be between 300-600 words and incorporate two randomly selected terms of your choosing. All entries must be written in under 30 minutes! Anyway, here goes today's experiment. Yeah, I'm really, really tired.
Randomly Selected Terms: paste/baseboard
GORMA-B-GONE FAQ
Will it kill the GOR'MA?
Yes. Our engineers have calculated the exact chemical balance required for maximum GOR'MA lethality while posing minimal chemical contamination exposure to you or yourt family. Simply load a cannister of GORMA-B-GONE into the GORMA-B-GONE dispenser and apply paste liberally along the basboards of your entire home.
What will happen to the GOR'MA?
They'll die, of course! GORMA-B-GONE's patented chemical mixture reacts uniquely with the GOR'MA body, rendering it immobile and softening its carapace to a squishy gell-like substance. GORMA-B-GONE makes it easy to flip the bulky insect over enabling you to deliver a percise killing blow. Just grip it and flip it!
What do I do with the body?
It is imperative the scent of all entrails is immediately doused. We recommend vaccuming entrails directly into an airtight cannister with GORMA-B-GUTTED line of products (sold separately).
Why must the entrails be vaccumed?
Dead GOR'MA release a pungent odor. While not fatal to humans it does have the unfortunate side effect of signaling other GOR'MA in the area.
How will other GOR'MA react to a dead GOR'MA?
Poorly. Upon killing a GOR'MA, neighboring GOR'MAS are immediately lured to the scent. It is imperative the odor be quickly doused. We recommend our line of "NO-SMELL-NO-TELL" GORMA-B-GONE products (sold separately).
I wasn't able to kill the scent. The GOR'MAS found the body.
Call the authorities immediately.
They've cut the phone line.
We're sorry. We have no entry for "cut phone line." Would you like to try another request?
GOR'MA physiology.
The GOR'MA is an insect, made up of a large, trunk-like thorax encased in four layers of rocklike chitin. Experts have characterized the insect as zenith of its species evoultionary track. The insect carries three heads and is capable of higher mental reasoning. Labrartory tests have proven GOR'MA to be quite capable fighters, especially when in large groups. Scientists believe GOR'MA orginated ...
How do I kill a GOR'MA?
GORMA-B-GONE paste will ...
Ahhhhrghhhh!!
I'm sorry I did not understand that last request. Would you like to try something else?
****
You've not accessed the GORMA-B-GONE interface for 10 minutes. System shutting down in 30 seconds. To reactivate simply say 'FAQ.' Thank you. Goodbye.
Showing posts with label micro fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label micro fiction. Show all posts
6/16/09
Micro Fiction: Vol. 1 June 2009 Entry #6
Remember to send your entries along to me via e-mail. Each must be between 300-600 words and incorporate two randomly selected terms of your choosing.
Randomly Selected Words: market/evangelist
"A dozen apples all at once? In front of that run-down supermarket? Sorry Jared, but I think you're outta your goddamn mind."
There's something special about the local "Buy N' Bulk;" mounds and mounds of fresh fruit, slabs of chicken, those live lobsters that scutle around in the tank. You know, whatever you want, it's all there for the picking. But the biggest attraction for me was always the customers. My audience.
"Believe me Al, they're going to love it," I said. "Think of it, twelve apples, me juggling 'em all at once. It'll be amazing, man! I bet we get tips galore, it'll be unbelievable! Plus I hear the manager's looking for a new store mascot. You know, one of them guys to stand outside on the road and promote the store. But they don't want some sorry old wino. No, no ... they want someone with a bit of pep. I could be that guy! I bet he hires me right on the spot! Jugglin' Jared, Buy n' Bulk's newest attraction!"
I started the show off real light of course, any juggler would. You had to build the whole thing up. I was, after all, a performer, an evangelist for the much maligned and often misunderstood community of street artists.
Three red fruits passed in front of my face, bouncing along in a steady rhythm. I yelled to Al to throw in another. And another. And another.
The sixth one narrowly missed the other five, which were now spinning along at a pretty good clip. I had to arch the apples a little higher to keep the whole rhythm going, but overall, no complaints. And people were starting to watch. I'd already heard several clanks! in the ole' money hat, and even caught a few dollars slipped in, which meant some people must be pretty impressed.
Just wait, I thought. How'd that song go? 'Baby, you ain't seen nothing yet' ...
"One more Al ... now!" I yelled. "And another ... now!"
The seventh apple flew in, followed rapidly by the eighth. The juggling was becoming autonomous, I was locked into the zone -- I felt like I was floating above off the ground, the apples spinning weightlessly in front of my eyes, making time with the steady measure of my breathing.
Keep breathing I thought. This next one is going to be tough.
"And now! Make it nine!" I shouted.
A distant woman let loose with a hardy hoorah! as the apple fell perfectly into the dancing carousel of fruits. The spectators started to clap. More clanks! of money into the cap. Nine apples down, three to go.
"Hit me with two more!" I cried.
Al hadn't been prepared for that. We'd always had an unspoken rule - if ten or more objects were going, the apples had to come in one at a time. It was just to damn difficult otherwise. For both of us.
"Two more!" I repeated.
Al looked doubtful, but tossed the pair anyway. It was a perfect throw. And for a moment, as the incoming orbs hung silently in the sky, I thought we might actually do it. I reached as my hands danced underneath the nine apples, keeping them in perfect synchronicity. I reached ...
And I missed.
The whole shebang fell to the ground with a loud kablunk! smashing all over the Buy N' Bulk's automatic doormat. The manager came out screaming.
"Just what the heck do you think you're doing, trashing my store?" he yelled. "Didn't you two see the no loitering sign ya punks? Yeah, that means you Tossin' Tom! And juggling Sam, get da heck outta here before I call the cops."
"There goes your job," Al joked as we walked away.
"Oh shut up. You know he was watching the whole thing, anyway. What'd we get for tips?"
"Eh, not bad." Keith held up a wad of five dollar bills. "Wanna buy some more apples?"
"Maybe we'll have better luck with oranges," I suggested. "You know, better grip and all that."
"Okay," Al said. "You know, it was crazy, but for a second there I actually thought you were going to do it. Twelve apples, with ten and eleven together. Idda been a heck of a trick, man."
"Yeah, it would have been. Someday ... someday."
We headed off to buy more oranges.
Randomly Selected Words: market/evangelist
"A dozen apples all at once? In front of that run-down supermarket? Sorry Jared, but I think you're outta your goddamn mind."
There's something special about the local "Buy N' Bulk;" mounds and mounds of fresh fruit, slabs of chicken, those live lobsters that scutle around in the tank. You know, whatever you want, it's all there for the picking. But the biggest attraction for me was always the customers. My audience.
"Believe me Al, they're going to love it," I said. "Think of it, twelve apples, me juggling 'em all at once. It'll be amazing, man! I bet we get tips galore, it'll be unbelievable! Plus I hear the manager's looking for a new store mascot. You know, one of them guys to stand outside on the road and promote the store. But they don't want some sorry old wino. No, no ... they want someone with a bit of pep. I could be that guy! I bet he hires me right on the spot! Jugglin' Jared, Buy n' Bulk's newest attraction!"
I started the show off real light of course, any juggler would. You had to build the whole thing up. I was, after all, a performer, an evangelist for the much maligned and often misunderstood community of street artists.
Three red fruits passed in front of my face, bouncing along in a steady rhythm. I yelled to Al to throw in another. And another. And another.
The sixth one narrowly missed the other five, which were now spinning along at a pretty good clip. I had to arch the apples a little higher to keep the whole rhythm going, but overall, no complaints. And people were starting to watch. I'd already heard several clanks! in the ole' money hat, and even caught a few dollars slipped in, which meant some people must be pretty impressed.
Just wait, I thought. How'd that song go? 'Baby, you ain't seen nothing yet' ...
"One more Al ... now!" I yelled. "And another ... now!"
The seventh apple flew in, followed rapidly by the eighth. The juggling was becoming autonomous, I was locked into the zone -- I felt like I was floating above off the ground, the apples spinning weightlessly in front of my eyes, making time with the steady measure of my breathing.
Keep breathing I thought. This next one is going to be tough.
"And now! Make it nine!" I shouted.
A distant woman let loose with a hardy hoorah! as the apple fell perfectly into the dancing carousel of fruits. The spectators started to clap. More clanks! of money into the cap. Nine apples down, three to go.
"Hit me with two more!" I cried.
Al hadn't been prepared for that. We'd always had an unspoken rule - if ten or more objects were going, the apples had to come in one at a time. It was just to damn difficult otherwise. For both of us.
"Two more!" I repeated.
Al looked doubtful, but tossed the pair anyway. It was a perfect throw. And for a moment, as the incoming orbs hung silently in the sky, I thought we might actually do it. I reached as my hands danced underneath the nine apples, keeping them in perfect synchronicity. I reached ...
And I missed.
The whole shebang fell to the ground with a loud kablunk! smashing all over the Buy N' Bulk's automatic doormat. The manager came out screaming.
"Just what the heck do you think you're doing, trashing my store?" he yelled. "Didn't you two see the no loitering sign ya punks? Yeah, that means you Tossin' Tom! And juggling Sam, get da heck outta here before I call the cops."
"There goes your job," Al joked as we walked away.
"Oh shut up. You know he was watching the whole thing, anyway. What'd we get for tips?"
"Eh, not bad." Keith held up a wad of five dollar bills. "Wanna buy some more apples?"
"Maybe we'll have better luck with oranges," I suggested. "You know, better grip and all that."
"Okay," Al said. "You know, it was crazy, but for a second there I actually thought you were going to do it. Twelve apples, with ten and eleven together. Idda been a heck of a trick, man."
"Yeah, it would have been. Someday ... someday."
We headed off to buy more oranges.
6/15/09
Micro Fiction: Vol. 1 June 2009 Entry #5
And so kicks off week two of our micro fiction experiment. Remember, these are short, 300-600 word pieces written in under 30 minutes and the themes must center around two randomly selected words or phrases. Have a submission? Send it to me!
Randomly Generated Terms: fourfold/unstable
Clark could feel them harvesting his thoughts.
There was no time in the panopticon known as "Stockade 32," but Clark knew the Overseers had been monitoring his brain waves for some time now.
Stockade 32 was for the worst of the worst, the politicians said. The murderers, the rapists, the child pedophiles. It was a place where these unstable types could be punished in a way beyond death. It was a plane of nothingness. A plane where only thought existed. A plane where any thought could be seen. And exploited.
Clark's consciousness was damned to Stockade 32 after he'd been charged of "committing a fourfold offense," which was the Overseers polite way of saying he was a mass murder.
A click.
His entire vision changed to a sea of white.
The momentary flash cleared and Clark found himself resting in an open gray room with flourscent lights and wide, arched door at the opposite end.
It seemed to him he'd been here before, but had the Overseers planted that memory? If so they'd most certainly harvested it, he thought.
"The energy of one emotion outweighs the total output of three nuclear reactors by a factor of 5 to 1," Clark remembered the T.V. heads saying. "One thought will power hundreds of thousands of homes for years."
Clark looked up at the gray room's florescent lights, remembering. Had he been here before?
A scream.
Martha. He turned to the arched doorway and saw his wife begging for her life in front of the silhouettes of four towering men. Clark's children Daniel, Michelle and Dayna, were there, looking on helplessly. Dayna was crying, clinging to her brother's ripped jeans which were blotched in the front with a splash of water.
Martha's scream rose for a moment and broke.
Silence.
Silence, Clark remembered, horrified. The Overseers would be happy with this.
He continued to walk toward the door, screaming for Daniel to take Dayna and Michelle away. His walk broke into a run and his run into a sprint as the arched doorway grew larger and larger, but still remained unreachable.
The four shadows closed on Daniel. He fell into a rigid lump and Dayna collapsed.
Michelle whimpered helplessly as she looked at the broken form of her brother. She screamed as the knife fell upon her sister and the four dark men turned toward her.
The room grew in size but Clark wouldn't make it there in time.
Had he ever? he thought.
Losing all semblance of stability, he fell to his knees, weeping.
Weeping. The Overseers would be happy with this.
The door was now directly in front of Clark. The four shadows emerged, clothes meticulously clean and hair perfectly coiffed into four well-groomed crew cuts. The men gathered around the hysterical form of Clark Jonas.
The Overseers, Clark remembered. He retched. The Overseers would be happy with this.
"Mr. Jonas, you've been selected for interment in Stockade 32. We regret the inconvience we may have caused, but your sacrifice will help power ... "
Inconvenience, Clark remembered. He heard Martha scream and saw Daniel fall, the whole terrible scene replaying endlessly in his mind. He collapsed. The Overseers would be happy with this.
A click.
Clark's vision faded to a sea of white, he awoke in an open gray room with flourscent lights and a wide, arched door at the opposite end.
Haven't I been here before? he thought.
A scream.
Randomly Generated Terms: fourfold/unstable
Clark could feel them harvesting his thoughts.
There was no time in the panopticon known as "Stockade 32," but Clark knew the Overseers had been monitoring his brain waves for some time now.
Stockade 32 was for the worst of the worst, the politicians said. The murderers, the rapists, the child pedophiles. It was a place where these unstable types could be punished in a way beyond death. It was a plane of nothingness. A plane where only thought existed. A plane where any thought could be seen. And exploited.
Clark's consciousness was damned to Stockade 32 after he'd been charged of "committing a fourfold offense," which was the Overseers polite way of saying he was a mass murder.
A click.
His entire vision changed to a sea of white.
The momentary flash cleared and Clark found himself resting in an open gray room with flourscent lights and wide, arched door at the opposite end.
It seemed to him he'd been here before, but had the Overseers planted that memory? If so they'd most certainly harvested it, he thought.
"The energy of one emotion outweighs the total output of three nuclear reactors by a factor of 5 to 1," Clark remembered the T.V. heads saying. "One thought will power hundreds of thousands of homes for years."
Clark looked up at the gray room's florescent lights, remembering. Had he been here before?
A scream.
Martha. He turned to the arched doorway and saw his wife begging for her life in front of the silhouettes of four towering men. Clark's children Daniel, Michelle and Dayna, were there, looking on helplessly. Dayna was crying, clinging to her brother's ripped jeans which were blotched in the front with a splash of water.
Martha's scream rose for a moment and broke.
Silence.
Silence, Clark remembered, horrified. The Overseers would be happy with this.
He continued to walk toward the door, screaming for Daniel to take Dayna and Michelle away. His walk broke into a run and his run into a sprint as the arched doorway grew larger and larger, but still remained unreachable.
The four shadows closed on Daniel. He fell into a rigid lump and Dayna collapsed.
Michelle whimpered helplessly as she looked at the broken form of her brother. She screamed as the knife fell upon her sister and the four dark men turned toward her.
The room grew in size but Clark wouldn't make it there in time.
Had he ever? he thought.
Losing all semblance of stability, he fell to his knees, weeping.
Weeping. The Overseers would be happy with this.
The door was now directly in front of Clark. The four shadows emerged, clothes meticulously clean and hair perfectly coiffed into four well-groomed crew cuts. The men gathered around the hysterical form of Clark Jonas.
The Overseers, Clark remembered. He retched. The Overseers would be happy with this.
"Mr. Jonas, you've been selected for interment in Stockade 32. We regret the inconvience we may have caused, but your sacrifice will help power ... "
Inconvenience, Clark remembered. He heard Martha scream and saw Daniel fall, the whole terrible scene replaying endlessly in his mind. He collapsed. The Overseers would be happy with this.
A click.
Clark's vision faded to a sea of white, he awoke in an open gray room with flourscent lights and a wide, arched door at the opposite end.
Haven't I been here before? he thought.
A scream.
6/11/09
Micro Fiction: Vol. 1 June 2009 Entry #4
Two randomly generated terms: Dissonance/Redivivus
Frederic Chopin's etudes always were a mystery to young Marcus Cox.
For decades he'd slaved to master the works of the deceased virtuoso, but their soul, their depth, their emotion -- somehow Marcus couldn't still comprehend them.
There were times when he'd come close, perfectly nailing a flurried crescendo of dissonant tritones or dancing over a pizzicato arpeggio as his fingers worked their way up the octaves. These were the moments Marcus lived for, but they were few. Certainly fewer than he would have liked.
But the critics never saw it that way. Since debuting at age 16 he'd been hailed as his homeland's next musical genius.
"He's Brahms redivivus," a critic wrote.
"His masterful take on Chopin's 'Tristesse' will leave you breathless," wrote another. "It's as if Chopin himself channels through the mind and heart of this young talent."
But Marcus didn't listen to the critics. He knew he wasn't a genius. Sure, he could play Chopin, but he couldn't understand it. And that was all the difference. Comparing him to the prodigal master? Ridiculous.
It was a dark night and Marcus sat alone in front of his piano. As the rain poured down outside his window he flew into a stirring rendition of "Tristesse." His favorite. A wind zipped through the curtains and Marcus's fingers slowly began to traverse the scales of the yearning opening melody. His slow progression then gave way to a terrifying tritone crescendo, before concluding, as always, on the wistful opening coda.
One phrase expressing a world of emotion. A world of magic. A world of beauty.
It was something Marcus would never understand.
The rain outside continued. Marcus just kept practicing.
Frederic Chopin's etudes always were a mystery to young Marcus Cox.
For decades he'd slaved to master the works of the deceased virtuoso, but their soul, their depth, their emotion -- somehow Marcus couldn't still comprehend them.
There were times when he'd come close, perfectly nailing a flurried crescendo of dissonant tritones or dancing over a pizzicato arpeggio as his fingers worked their way up the octaves. These were the moments Marcus lived for, but they were few. Certainly fewer than he would have liked.
But the critics never saw it that way. Since debuting at age 16 he'd been hailed as his homeland's next musical genius.
"He's Brahms redivivus," a critic wrote.
"His masterful take on Chopin's 'Tristesse' will leave you breathless," wrote another. "It's as if Chopin himself channels through the mind and heart of this young talent."
But Marcus didn't listen to the critics. He knew he wasn't a genius. Sure, he could play Chopin, but he couldn't understand it. And that was all the difference. Comparing him to the prodigal master? Ridiculous.
It was a dark night and Marcus sat alone in front of his piano. As the rain poured down outside his window he flew into a stirring rendition of "Tristesse." His favorite. A wind zipped through the curtains and Marcus's fingers slowly began to traverse the scales of the yearning opening melody. His slow progression then gave way to a terrifying tritone crescendo, before concluding, as always, on the wistful opening coda.
One phrase expressing a world of emotion. A world of magic. A world of beauty.
It was something Marcus would never understand.
The rain outside continued. Marcus just kept practicing.
6/10/09
Micro Fiction: Vol. 1 June 2009 Entry #3
06/10/09 - Two randomly generated terms: Lake/Star
The stars were just beginning to fade as Ipati and Gregor rowed their canoe out to the center of Lake Innokenti.
It was summer, but night's cold chill was yet to leave the dark surface of the water.
Ipati was a regular visitor to Innokenti, but hadn't visited the lake since his wife died five years back. For Gregor, this was the young boy's first trek up to the lake. "Their little slice of Eden," Ipati used to say, and Gregor couldn't have been more excited to be going fishing with his Dad.
Ipati had trained Gregor well. The young boy was only 12, but he was out of bed like a lightning bolt this morning and was geared up and ready to fish as the last vestiges of the icy stars poked through the dawn sky.
Innokenti had a beautiful sunrise and Ipati wanted to make sure Gregor missed none of it. The light had a way of catching the forest's surface midst as it rose off the trees, reflecting silver beams of warmth onto the glassy surface of Innokenti's gentle water. It was unlike anything Ipati had ever seen.
"Beautiful, isn't it son?"
Gregor said nothing, he just smiled that broad grin and bounced up in the boat.
The pair cast their first lines of the day and the bobs fell into the water with a stereophonic plunk! Ipati and Gregor sank back into the canoe drifting off into a peaceful silence as they embraced the calm beauty of the lake.
"Is this where you used to take Mom?" Gregor suddenly asked.
Ipati broke from his reverie. The lake was beautiful today. "Yes son, why do you ask?"
"I remember her saying she liked coming here when I was younger, is all. She'd always say, 'Gregor the water up there's so pure, it's like it came from God's pitcher itself. The Lord sure had messed up with men, but Innokenti, that place was just about as near perfect as anything could get.'
"She loved it here, didn't she, Dad?"
"Yes."
Gregor recast a line and father and son looked back out into the calm water. The Ukleika weren't biting today, but Ipati caught a few smaller shads before he called it a day, reeled in his line and paddled with his son back to the lake's distant shore.
The sun was riding low in the sky when their canoe was finally tied to the dock. Tendrils of the forest's midst refracted the light of the setting sun onto the lake in a wild fashion, throwing beams of pink and orange everywhere. Innokenti's stars were just beginning to come out. It was beautiful.
"Do you think it's true what Mom said about the Lake?" Gregor suddenly asked.
"How do you mean?" Ipati said.
"You know, about God getting it right with nature but missing the mark with man."
Ipati smiled. "Your mother said a lot of things, Gregor. During the war she'd ask me how a god could let all this happen -- all the violence, all the chaos. The world can be a harsh place son. And God's no different. He took your mother earlier than I would have liked, for one.
"But what was I supposed to say when your mother asked me that question? Was I suppose to dispense with some sage philosophical platitude about the nature of God's divine plan? Should I have told her everything in the world would work out? How did I know what would happen? So I said nothing. And I think your Mom was disappointed. She was looking for something, anything to convince her the world wasn't as horrible as she thought.
"So that weekend we took our first trip to Innokenti. My idea, of course. I don't know much about God, but I do know there's just something about this place. The warm waters, the gentle midst, the stars, the sunrise. It's something out of a fairy tale. A world removed from all the chaos and hate of the world. Our little slice of Eden, I told her.
"And I'll be damned if this place wasn't exactly the answer she was looking for. It changed her. I don't know if she ever stopped hating God, but she loved it here. The water gave her comfort. And when she was dying, she asked to be brought here, son. Innokenti was the only truly good thing she'd ever seen in the world, the only pure place, she told me.
"I miss her, Gregor. More than you can imagine. But when I saw the determined fire in your eyes as you fished today, I thought of her. When I heared you laugh, I thought of her. And when I look into your smile -- I see your Mom. And I carry that with me into the world, Gregor. I carry you and her with me wherever I go.
"The world's a harsh place son, but here on the lake ... here's we've got our own little version of Eden."
Gregor smiled and joined hands with his Dad.
"Now let's go fry up these fish."
The stars were just beginning to fade as Ipati and Gregor rowed their canoe out to the center of Lake Innokenti.
It was summer, but night's cold chill was yet to leave the dark surface of the water.
Ipati was a regular visitor to Innokenti, but hadn't visited the lake since his wife died five years back. For Gregor, this was the young boy's first trek up to the lake. "Their little slice of Eden," Ipati used to say, and Gregor couldn't have been more excited to be going fishing with his Dad.
Ipati had trained Gregor well. The young boy was only 12, but he was out of bed like a lightning bolt this morning and was geared up and ready to fish as the last vestiges of the icy stars poked through the dawn sky.
Innokenti had a beautiful sunrise and Ipati wanted to make sure Gregor missed none of it. The light had a way of catching the forest's surface midst as it rose off the trees, reflecting silver beams of warmth onto the glassy surface of Innokenti's gentle water. It was unlike anything Ipati had ever seen.
"Beautiful, isn't it son?"
Gregor said nothing, he just smiled that broad grin and bounced up in the boat.
The pair cast their first lines of the day and the bobs fell into the water with a stereophonic plunk! Ipati and Gregor sank back into the canoe drifting off into a peaceful silence as they embraced the calm beauty of the lake.
"Is this where you used to take Mom?" Gregor suddenly asked.
Ipati broke from his reverie. The lake was beautiful today. "Yes son, why do you ask?"
"I remember her saying she liked coming here when I was younger, is all. She'd always say, 'Gregor the water up there's so pure, it's like it came from God's pitcher itself. The Lord sure had messed up with men, but Innokenti, that place was just about as near perfect as anything could get.'
"She loved it here, didn't she, Dad?"
"Yes."
Gregor recast a line and father and son looked back out into the calm water. The Ukleika weren't biting today, but Ipati caught a few smaller shads before he called it a day, reeled in his line and paddled with his son back to the lake's distant shore.
The sun was riding low in the sky when their canoe was finally tied to the dock. Tendrils of the forest's midst refracted the light of the setting sun onto the lake in a wild fashion, throwing beams of pink and orange everywhere. Innokenti's stars were just beginning to come out. It was beautiful.
"Do you think it's true what Mom said about the Lake?" Gregor suddenly asked.
"How do you mean?" Ipati said.
"You know, about God getting it right with nature but missing the mark with man."
Ipati smiled. "Your mother said a lot of things, Gregor. During the war she'd ask me how a god could let all this happen -- all the violence, all the chaos. The world can be a harsh place son. And God's no different. He took your mother earlier than I would have liked, for one.
"But what was I supposed to say when your mother asked me that question? Was I suppose to dispense with some sage philosophical platitude about the nature of God's divine plan? Should I have told her everything in the world would work out? How did I know what would happen? So I said nothing. And I think your Mom was disappointed. She was looking for something, anything to convince her the world wasn't as horrible as she thought.
"So that weekend we took our first trip to Innokenti. My idea, of course. I don't know much about God, but I do know there's just something about this place. The warm waters, the gentle midst, the stars, the sunrise. It's something out of a fairy tale. A world removed from all the chaos and hate of the world. Our little slice of Eden, I told her.
"And I'll be damned if this place wasn't exactly the answer she was looking for. It changed her. I don't know if she ever stopped hating God, but she loved it here. The water gave her comfort. And when she was dying, she asked to be brought here, son. Innokenti was the only truly good thing she'd ever seen in the world, the only pure place, she told me.
"I miss her, Gregor. More than you can imagine. But when I saw the determined fire in your eyes as you fished today, I thought of her. When I heared you laugh, I thought of her. And when I look into your smile -- I see your Mom. And I carry that with me into the world, Gregor. I carry you and her with me wherever I go.
"The world's a harsh place son, but here on the lake ... here's we've got our own little version of Eden."
Gregor smiled and joined hands with his Dad.
"Now let's go fry up these fish."
6/9/09
Micro Fiction: Vol. 1 June 2009 Entry #2
06/09/09 - Two Randomly Generated Terms: "Cell phone" & "Jell-O"
Lucy couldn't get used to the fact that there was one less place at the table now.
For years, John sat in the seat under the worn table lamp by the corner.
His routine was something of envy, even for a train conductor. Off the rails by 5:52, in the car three minutes later and home to his wife for supper by 6:30.
Lucy would cook John a variety of things, but no matter how fancy the meal John would always be disappointed if it didn't end with his favorite dessert, Lime Jell-O.
Sometimes he'd eat the stuff with Coca-Cola. Sometimes with milk. If he was feeling really adventurous he might throw a few Chunky Chocolate Cookies stolen from Lucy's not-so-secret sweet stash hidden behind the cereals in the pantry.
But one day John didn't come home from work at the appointed time.
Lucy brushed it off, he'd be home. He always was. One of the trains must have lost power, that was the only thing that ever kept him from coming home late.
Lucy dialed John's cell phone. No answer.
"Hello," her husband's voice droned. "You've reached the mailbox of John Patterson, I'm not available right now, but if you'll please leave your name, number and the ..."
Lucy clicked off the cell phone.
"Must be on the road," she muttered. "I'll bet he had that damn radio jacked so loud he couldn't even hear the phone ring. Typical."
Still, better get supper going, she thought.
Lucy walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge and pulled out the day-old pasta with the hamburgers ground up in it. She decided it was good enough for a reheat and popped the dish in the microwave. As it cooked she dug around and mixed up a quick batch of the green Jell-O.
The meal was ready to go. She flipped on the news and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
It was 9 o'clock and still no John. Lucy began to wonder what was wrong.
10'o clock. Still no John. Lucy tried her husband's phone again, but was greeted with the same droning voice.
"Hello! You've reached the mailbox of John Patt ..."
Lucy hung up. This was really unlike her husband to not call. Had something happened? Where was he?
11 o'clock came and went. Lucy sat helpless at the dinner table staring at the now completely rotten spaghetti and meat. She suddenly felt a tinge of guilt for forgetting to stick the food back in the fridge. At least the Jell-O hadn't gone bad.
"Where is he?" she asked herself. "I wonder if I should call ... "
A knock.
Lucy's heart jumped into her mouth and her stomach began to close in on itself.
"Maybe that was just the wind ..."
Another knock. This time louder.
Lucy answered the door. It was the police.
***
It had been five years since a freak electrical accident killed her husband, but Lucy still set a place for her husband at the table.
Her young twins would often ask about the empty space, but Lucy would just tell them it was for their Dad.
"He's still with us," she said. "We can't ever forget that.
"So who wants some Jell-O?"
Lucy couldn't get used to the fact that there was one less place at the table now.
For years, John sat in the seat under the worn table lamp by the corner.
His routine was something of envy, even for a train conductor. Off the rails by 5:52, in the car three minutes later and home to his wife for supper by 6:30.
Lucy would cook John a variety of things, but no matter how fancy the meal John would always be disappointed if it didn't end with his favorite dessert, Lime Jell-O.
Sometimes he'd eat the stuff with Coca-Cola. Sometimes with milk. If he was feeling really adventurous he might throw a few Chunky Chocolate Cookies stolen from Lucy's not-so-secret sweet stash hidden behind the cereals in the pantry.
But one day John didn't come home from work at the appointed time.
Lucy brushed it off, he'd be home. He always was. One of the trains must have lost power, that was the only thing that ever kept him from coming home late.
Lucy dialed John's cell phone. No answer.
"Hello," her husband's voice droned. "You've reached the mailbox of John Patterson, I'm not available right now, but if you'll please leave your name, number and the ..."
Lucy clicked off the cell phone.
"Must be on the road," she muttered. "I'll bet he had that damn radio jacked so loud he couldn't even hear the phone ring. Typical."
Still, better get supper going, she thought.
Lucy walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge and pulled out the day-old pasta with the hamburgers ground up in it. She decided it was good enough for a reheat and popped the dish in the microwave. As it cooked she dug around and mixed up a quick batch of the green Jell-O.
The meal was ready to go. She flipped on the news and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
It was 9 o'clock and still no John. Lucy began to wonder what was wrong.
10'o clock. Still no John. Lucy tried her husband's phone again, but was greeted with the same droning voice.
"Hello! You've reached the mailbox of John Patt ..."
Lucy hung up. This was really unlike her husband to not call. Had something happened? Where was he?
11 o'clock came and went. Lucy sat helpless at the dinner table staring at the now completely rotten spaghetti and meat. She suddenly felt a tinge of guilt for forgetting to stick the food back in the fridge. At least the Jell-O hadn't gone bad.
"Where is he?" she asked herself. "I wonder if I should call ... "
A knock.
Lucy's heart jumped into her mouth and her stomach began to close in on itself.
"Maybe that was just the wind ..."
Another knock. This time louder.
Lucy answered the door. It was the police.
***
It had been five years since a freak electrical accident killed her husband, but Lucy still set a place for her husband at the table.
Her young twins would often ask about the empty space, but Lucy would just tell them it was for their Dad.
"He's still with us," she said. "We can't ever forget that.
"So who wants some Jell-O?"
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