Written December 13, 2008
The hallway was silent. It was completely empty except for an old man sitting in a wheelchair. He didn't appear to be going anywhere. He just sat there, occasionally moving forward.
His face was empty of all emotion. His cheeks were loose and his eyes hollow. Every last drop of energy had been wrung from his body.
He puked, and the slimy, white substance oozed down his flannel shirt and onto his pants.
He struggled to clean it up, smearing it with his red handkerchief.
He had once been strong and powerful, with the ability to do many great things. He was invincible. But now, the simplest act of moving was out of his reach. He couldn't even keep his food down.
Ashes to ashes
Dust to dust
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Ashes to Ashes
Friday, October 2, 2009
Puzzle
With great care I chose all the items that I valued the most.
All the rest had to go.
As I sorted through my things I began to make a pile. This pile was for items that I didn't want, and would later give away, throw away, or (if I thought it would be funny or interesting) would drop randomly around the city.
The items I wanted to keep, I began to place in boxes. I wanted to put my things together in the smallest possible volume, so I arranged my things so that no space was wasted.
Fitting all the items together in square boxes was like a puzzle. It was a constant sorting and searching for the exact piece that would fit where I needed it.
As the night went on, I sorted, resorted, searched, and arranged.
I was amazed at how the objected related to one another. It was like they were designed to fit together, even though the objects had no connection at all. For some reason a textbook and a novel fit perfectly on the bottom. A sticky note and a calendar filled in the strangest shaped gap. My poker chips fit in my chess box - four rows by four columns stacked exactly eighteen chips high. No remainders, no gaps - a perfect fit.
And I realized that every publisher, every box designer, every person who decided that a certain object would be the shape and size that it was, all unknowingly made those decision for a purpose - to make everything fit. They didn't know about it at the time, but that's what they were doing. Without them, this moment in time would not have existed. No, if it weren't for them, it would now be a different moment of time. It would be a time where my boxes are filled with items that fit in a completely different way.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
The Crockpot
This crockpot has been cooking for fifteen hours.
Yes, that's right - fifteen hours. Fifteen hours ago I cut up the potatoes, carrots, and onions and put them on top of this big chunk of meat. I threw in a can of mushroom soup, cranked up the heat, and put on the lid.
But that's not all I did - I also made sure to check the crockpot every fifteen minutes thereafter. I've watched this crockpot's every move! I've observed every tiny detail of what has happened to it! I have invested fifteen hours into this roast!
Thinking back, I remember what happened. As the night went on, the potatoes, carrots, and onions all began to get soft. The juices from the vegetables began to leak out and combine with the juices from the meat. The smell was absolutely wonderful. It filled the entire house, and no matter where I went, I could smell it. My mouth was watering, and my anticipation was high. It was torture, but at the same time pure bliss. I couldn't wait to sink my teeth into that beautiful roast.
Everything was going perfectly fine! This roast was going to be the best roast I ever made!
And now, I sit here with this meat sitting in front of me. I just took a bite, and you know what?
This roast sucks! It's dry and tasteless - like chewing on cotton!
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Harold Loves Beans
Harold loved beans. He loved the smooth, rich taste of lardy beans the best. He would open the can and mix in lots of lard and eat it by the spoonful. But even when the beans didn't have lard, he still loved them.
Harold rarely cooked. No, instead he would open a can of beans and gobble it up like a dog. No need for a stove or microwave! The only tool that Harold needed was a can opener.
Harold was perfectly adapted for his beany diet. Over the centuries, his family lines had developed the perfect genetics for a bean-only diet. No gas, no upset stomach. It was wonderful, and it suited Harold just fine.
One day, Harold was invited over the Johnsons who lived across the street. Harold was a bit scared to go over, because he wasn't sure if the Johnsons were a beany sort of family. What if they cooked some food that he didn't like? What if they didn't have any beans?
When Harold got there, he could smell the aroma of steak and burgers wafting from the back yard. Harold scowled. There had better be beans along with those steaks.
When Harold got inside, he looked around and saw that the table had lots of food on it. Buns, salad, lots of condiments, but no beans. Damn!
From that day on, Harold hated the Johnsons. What sort of stupid family would have no beans?
THE END
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Pants
I had always been a sober, level headed person. I prided myself on being logical and not jumping to conclusions. I had always believed that fear was rooted in misunderstanding, and once you understood something, the fear no longer had it's power.
Knowing this, you can understand my complete shock, when I started to notice strange, unexplainable things happening around me. They were things that completely defied my previous way of thinking. They've changed my life forever.
I was sitting in church, just as I always do on Sunday. I was listening with great interest and occasionally making a note about what was being said. As I was doing this, I couldn't help but notice my pants. They seemed bigger than normal. Were they longer? Maybe more baggy? I couldn't quite place what it was, but I quickly brushed aside the idea - after all, there could be no doubt that these pants were the same pants that I always wore. What a silly idea to think they were not my own.
As the days went on, I continued to notice my pants. There were things about them that made me question their identity and true character. The thoughts became very disruptive for me, occurring at all hours of the day. I would be in a meeting, or in the grocery store, and all of a sudden, I would look at my pants, and start to sweat. I would become very afraid and have to excuse myself to the restroom. There I would remove my pants and carefully examine every hem and stitch. I would look for something - anything - that would verify their identity. Only until I found something I recognized, would I put them back on and go about my business.
I hoped that time would solve my problem, but it didn't. In fact, it only made it worse. So I decided I would throw away every pair of pants I owned, and buy new ones. This seemed to solve the problem, but after a few days, the new pants began to take on the same qualities as my previous ones. I didn't trust my pants. They were not mine, and I would not wear them.
I quit my job, because I could no longer wear pants. I stayed at home and did what I could to make ends meet. I lived very cheap, and I learned how to make money on the internet. Things were going well, until one day, when I noticed my hand. It was typing something that I did not what it type, and I quickly pulled it away from the keyboard.
I looked at my hand, and carefully examine every detail. I moved each finger individually feeling every motion and knowing it was my own. I saw the scar from the time my neighbor's dog bit me. I saw my chewed fingernails and the large bony knuckles. It was indeed my hand. There could be no doubt.
But seeing what I had just seen, I could no longer trust my hand. It had stepped outside its bounds and had disobeying my orders and direction. I walked to the kitchen and opened the drawer under the counter. With my left hand (careful not to let my right hand know), I pulled out a large knife. My right hand would pay for its insolence. And it did.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Kasparkovich And The Energy Containment Apparatus
Kasparkovich was cold! He was colder than he had ever been before, and he knew that without immedite action, he would freeze to death.
"Computer!", he screamed, "I need an energy containment apparatus, immediatly!"
There was a moment of silence and then Hal spoke.
"I'm sorry, but inventory data reviels there are no more energy containment apparatus' on board."
Kasparkovich screamed, wrapping his arms around himself. Tears began to stream down his face.
"Hal! I will die if I cannot contain my energy!"
Hal began to make a series of beeps and drones. He was obviously thinking very hard.
"Security camera data indicates that there is an abandoned energy containment apparatus located in Housing Unit 1123 Section B."
Kasparkovich began to run, his body beginning to crack from the cold. He screamed in pain, but he force himself to continue. He knew he only had a few more minutes before he would die.
As he ran, he carefully considered the fastest route to Housing Unit 1123. Teleportation would be the fastest way, but his body might not survive decomposition. It was a risk he would have to take. He entered the teleportation room and stepped onto the platform.
"Hal! Teleport me to Housing Unit 1123!"
Hal beeped in such a way to indicate his disapproval.
"Your vitals indicate that you may not survie decomposition."
"Yes, I know, you idiot! I have no choice! I need an energy containment apparatus! Now, do as I say, and teleport me!"
A flash of light immediatly filled the room, and Kasparkovich screamed as his body was decomposed. For a moment of time, his consciousness floated through space. He looked on the stars and the planets and his life flashed before his eyes.
And then he saw the platform for Housing Unit 1123.
Upon being reassembled, he realized that parts of his body were not viable!
"My left leg is gone!", Kasparkovich screamed.
There was no sense crying over his leg, so he began to hop toward Section B, his body cracking and flaking with every jump.
He approached Section B and then he saw it! There, sitting on the floor was a pretty-pink wool sweater! Kasparkovich quickly put it on. He lied there, trying to regain his energy, but alas, the energy containment apparatus did not meet galactic standards for energy containment. Kasparkovich breathed his last, laying there in his pretty-pink, wool sweater.
Campfire Stories
Zeke, Jeb, and Carlo sat around the campfire. It was a pleasant night, and the three men were tired from a hard day's work.
"Say, Carlo", said Jeb, "Hows about you tell us a little story?"
Carlo smiled, and pointed his finger at Jeb.
"I say, Jeb, that's a mighty fine idea you got there!"
So Carlo told a story. He told a story that was the most exciting story Zeke and Jeb had ever heard. By the time it was over, Zeke and Jeb had just about had all the excitement they could handle. They decided to call it a night, so they lied down to get some sleep.
The next day, the three men went back to work. They rode their horses and rounded up cattle. On occasion they would shoot an Indian or two (only the mean ones). It was hard work being a cowboy, but the three men loved it. They especially loved finishing the day so they could go tell stories.
That night, Jeb decided to tell a story. And, Oh boy, it was a real dinger. It just about knocked the socks off his two companions.
The next day, work went just as usual. The three men went about their daily business, and it was a pretty good day. Still, Jeb and Carlo seemed to be a little bit down about something. Something was out of place.
That night, it was silent around the campfire. Nobody spoke for the longest time, and then Zeke chimed in.
"Heys you two? What say I tell you a story?"
Carlo and Jeb exchanged glances.
"Uh... yeah. Sure Zeke.. that sounds like a good idea. Let's here that story..."
So Zeke told a story, and as usual, it was absolutely terrible. In fact, it was the worst story that Carlo and Jeb had ever heard. Still, the two men dutifully listened, occasionally pretending to be amazed and excited about all the boring and mindnumbing things that were happening in the story. Carlo and Jeb were just too kind hearted to tell Zeke the truth about his story telling skills.
And so it was that Zeke remained a crappy storyteller. He could have gotten better. He could have eventually learned how to tell a good story, but he never even knew he was bad. Way to go, Carlo and Jeb.
THE END
Friday, March 6, 2009
Cheap Whiteboard
How-To: Dirt Cheap Whiteboards
My idea:
- Buy the material to cover an entire wall in whiteboard.
- Buy lots of multicolor markers.
- Set a camera on a tripod and take pictures of the wall every time you draw on it.
- When the wall is full, timelapse the photos.
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