January 30, 2016

Run On, Sentence. Run On.



Hey.

I drew a Fat Hen.

Have you ever gotten in a situation where you're just casually walking down the street and someone tries to overtake you—you can hear their footsteps getting closer and closer, and you can feel them breathing down your neck—and right as they're starting to pass you, you speed up, but only just enough to match their speed, and then they're awkwardly stuck beside you?

I have.

On purpose.

Because I am Evil.

January 23, 2016

Telomerus



Hey.

Doodle of the week: Cocoon!

Here's a post that's been kicking around my drafts for a while. This is my grade 12 biology report, which we were free to present in any format we chose.

I, of course, chose poetry.

Most of my stories are tongue-in-cheek, and that was my intention here, although it got bogged down by the actual goal of the project (i.e. summarise my research). I remember being both inspired and terribly impressed by the size of John Milton's ego.

I guess writers tend to be a little vain.

Anyway.


January 20, 2016

Three More Short Vignettes



Hey.

An actual conversation that happened. 

I figure I should just keep typing random words. They'll end up meaning something eventually.


1. The ChapStick®

The ChapStick® waited in the bowl of forgotten items on the little table by the front door.

"Hey honey," said the owner of the house, "can you clean this bowl out?" She was in the middle of summer cleaning frenzy.

"Sure," said her unfaithful husband. The ChapStick® knew he was unfaithful because it had seen his mistress. He had taken his mistress into the sanctum of the family home and sullied it, and the ChapStick® had witnessed everything.

He took the important items from the top of the bowl—the keys, the wallets, the garage-door opener—and dug through the rest of the items for loose change. Then, he threw the entire contents of the bowl into a garbage bag.

"I'm done," he called into the house. "Have to head to a meeting, see you later!"

The ChapStick® was frustrated. Why couldn't she see that he was clearly cheating on her, the same way he cheated when he threw out the bowl of items? Who had meetings at four in the afternoon?

It was hot outside, and the black garbage bag sucked up sunlight like a sponge. The ChapStick® sighed as its insides slowly melted away into a puddle of gloop. After all, this was what it had signed up for.

In the bathroom, she scrubbed away at the tub. A stray thought floated across her mind. She made a note to check her husband's phone later.


2. Gianni's Pawn Shop

The flickering neon sign in the window of Gianni's Pawn Shop said the store was "Open," but no one was at the counter. Joanna looked forlornly inside. It was crammed with various odds and ends, mostly guitars and electronic equipment. A crude, printed sign was taped to the door.

"If I'm not here," it said, "I'm having lunch next door."

Next door was a Persian restaurant. Joanna did not feel comfortable stepping inside to ask for anyone, Gianni or otherwise. She walked back to the pawn shop and sat on the front step.


3. Joanna

A fly hovered around the week-old Chinese take-out box. Its lazy buzz made Joanna want to kill something, anything, especially the fly, but not really. She didn't move from the couch.

The phone rang. I should probably get that, Joanna thought. But she didn't.

She stared at the television screen. Nothing was on, not even the television. Still, she giggled to herself. The blank screen was hysterical, the funniest thing she'd ever seen. It was just so, so dark. Something that could entertain people so much, all over the world, was just a black void.

She didn't know how long she'd been sitting there, laughing weakly at the screen.

Why am I so stupid? she thought to herself. She stopped giggling. No! Stop thinking about it!

The more she told herself to stop thinking about it, the more it forced its way into the forefront of her mind. It taunted her, teased her.

There was a knock at the door. Joanna didn't move. Like the person on the telephone, they would go away. More knocking, louder and louder and louder—

"Jo!"

It was her husband. "Jo, open the door!"

Jo didn't open the door.

A key scraped against the lock. She knew it didn't fit anymore.

"Dammit Jo, just let me back in."

No, she answered in her head. No. You threw away my ChapStick®.


January 14, 2016

Zebras



Hey.
ZEBRA.

In one of my translation classes, we had to write a blog post introducing ourselves. I couldn't think of an interesting way to write one, and I ended up writing a story. There's an entire other story about what exactly happened to that blog post, but here's the original story:



Zebras

Once upon a time, there was a zebra. Let's call her Cinnamon.
Cinnamon had reached the official age of zebra adulthood. At this age, all zebras needed to make a choice about the nature of their stripes—were they black with white stripes or white with black stripes? As you would expect, the ones who chose the former went to study how to live as a black zebra with white stripes, while the ones who chose the latter went to study how to live as a white zebra with black stripes.
"Cinnamon," said Cownose the Supreme Zebra Overseer [1], "you must choose by sundown."
"But Your Supremeness," she said, "that's not enough time to think, let alone make such an important decision."
"You must choose by sundown," he repeated with grave finality. "This life-altering decision that will affect how you live and think for the rest of your adult life must be made in the next fifteen minutes."
She spent the fifteen minutes dithering instead of rationally laying out the pros and cons of the two choices. When the time came and Cownose asked her for her final answer, she chose the first thing that sprang to mind.
"Black with white stripes," she said.
It didn't really fit with how she saw herself, but it felt like the better option of the two.

Cinnamon was promptly shipped off to the School for Black Zebras with White Stripes. She enjoyed her first two years there and learned many relevant skills. And yet, it seemed like her enjoyment was rather different. It was like she was looking out of a fishbowl and enjoying what she observed instead of actually being immersed with the rest of the zebras.
"I'm going to be the greatest black zebra with white stripes ever," her classmates would proclaim. "I'm going to go to an even more advanced school for black zebra with white stripes."
Cinnamon did not want to do that.
"I don't want that," she would say. "It sounds interesting, but I don't want that."
"Oh," her classmates would reply. Then, they would chatter excitedly about Advanced School for Black Zebras with White Stripes.

Cinnamon decided to join the Trivia Club, which was open to zebras from all schools.
During the introduction circle at the first meeting, everyone had to state their name, school, and favourite board game. Cinnamon thought this was very strange because zebras had hooves, and board games were very difficult for animals without manual dexterity.
Near the end of the introductions, the club's vice-president stood up. "Hi, I'm Oxtail. I'm from the School for Pink Zebras with Black and White Stripes."
"What?" Cinnamon exclaimed. "I didn't know that was an option."
"Sure it is. It's super interesting, and my life was not complete until I went to this school. You should give it a try."
And she did.

Cinnamon loved the school. This was what was missing from her first school. It was like her baby blanket—which, incidentally, she did not bring to school—warm and comfortable and just the right size. In the back of her mind, however, she could not shake the thought that she was an imposter, that she was still a black zebra with white stripes.
"You are," said the soft-spoken zebra adminstrator at the School for Pink Zebras with Black and White Stripes. "For all intents and purposes, you are still, and will always be, a black zebra with white stripes. We're just letting you visit for a bit before you go back to your actual school."
This, while expected, was still a disappointment for Cinnamon. "Why can't I be both?"
"Because that's just the way things are," the administrator replied. "When you call yourself a black zebra with white stripes, that precludes the possibility of you having visible black stripes."
"So what can I do?"
The soft-spoken administrator did not know, and neither did Cinnamon.

There's no ending to this story because Cinnamon and the administrator still haven't come to a satisfactory solution.

Footnotes:
[1] Cownose's official title is as follows:

The Right Honourable Cownose, Supreme Zebra Overseer, Lord of the North Eastern Plains, Left Hoof of Our Majesty of Striped Equids, Middle Toe of the Great Odd-Toed Ungulate, Archduke of the Nth (that is not a typo [2]) Circle, and Psychic Lance of the Ultimate Psionic Overlord.


[2] This is not a part of Cownose's official title.