2.28a

He curled his toes, feeling the roughness of socks on carpet. She had looked at him with angry eyes when he tried to wear his shoes into her house. How was he to know? Nobody had ever made him take off his shoes before. She told him to sit on the couch and she'd be back. He sat, dutifully. She still hadn't come back.
He could smell old person smells oozing out of the wood panel walls. Cat urine and cough syrup and dead skin cells oppressed him.
The room was dark and oppressive, and the lamps did nothing to help. The furniture soaked up the pitiful light like sponges. Everything was dark. Everything was wood.

The carpet was old and thin. It scraped roughly against the bottoms of his feet.

2.25b

Whenever I see you, my brain releases a stream of dopamine that positively affects my mental state, tricking me into elation. If it weren't for the fear causing the concurrent stream of epinephrine that triggers my fight or flight response, I'd probably lose control and violate your personal space.

God, you're beautiful.

2.25a

Grandma always made the best food. It was rich, German cooking that filled you up after a single serving, but was so good that you had to go back for more. Cäse noodles? Case closed: yum.
The best was dessert. Mom never ever ever made desert. She was too concerned with our teeth. Grandma had different aims, however. She never cared about teeth, just about stomachs.

Chocolate cake--it feels decadent just saying it. And grandma made it just for us. We ate the meal with our eyes glued to the concealing tupperware lid. Under the white polyvinyl waited our cake. Dessert? Don't mind if I do!

And it tasted . . . bad. How?
Grandma realized. "Oh, I must have grabbed the wrong spice! I meant to grab cinnamon, but I got the paprika instead!"
Spicy chocolate cake, anyone? It doesn't sound decadent anymore.
Grandpa looked at his grandkids' funny faces and watery eyes, and then at Grandma.


He cut out a huge slice and slid it onto his plate.

2.23

I walk away whistling a jaunty tune.

Opening the door, I walk up the stairs. The whistle rockets at the speed of sound through the stairwell and bounces back to me. The discrepancy is enough to slow my brain to join with the tempo of the echo. My feet slow with the song, stamping with the beat. I slow more until the jaunt is out of my tune and I'm humming a dirge. I eventually slow to one note and one step. I stand on one step, humming a single note, long and low and reverent.

I run out of air and gasp into the silence. There's a twisted mouth on my face. It isn't mine. I'm supposed to be happy. The knotted eyebrows agree with my grimace. Whatever person lies under this face isn't thrilled about something.

I try humming again, but it doesn't feel right to disturb the cathedral of the stairwell. I try cursing instead. That's not much better. It at least sums up my mood, so I do it again, quietly.

2.22

He'll press the button and hold it for a long moment, staring at the blue screen in frustration and anger.

Release.

The fans will spin down and the hard drives stop whirring and the lights turn off and the beep stop and the monitor fade to black and the room will fall silent.

That's how they'll turn off my Grandma.

2.21c

Another c edition. These happen too often. I should update every day.

He danced a little in the snow and the breeze. The snow was so dry that it squeaked with every movement that he made. He could see his breath in the air, clouding to the sky. It was ripped out of his mouth by the wind.
He didn't mind, though.
She was coming.

He waited without impatience, in the snow, letting his breath solidify.
The air tore past him and stung his cheeks. His eyes watered in the wind and the cold. The tears slowly rolled down his cheeks. The trails evaporated. He squeezed his eyes closed and focused on the wind. He could feel every gust like sandpaper. He waited.

He could hear squeaking towards him. He opened his eyes and smiled.

2.21b

They're lounging on the bench, wrapped around each other and breathing down each other's necks. Every once in a while, you can hear air squeeze between them. It's like putting your ear to a shell--air hisses past crevices.
Vomitous.

2.21a

I'm so happy that everything I think of writing is happy too. I want to be depressing, but not be depressed. Is that so selfish?

He started ripping off the long strip of paper. Slowly and methodically, the fibers slowly separate from each other. His tear is perfectly straight and long and clean. The worst part is that he isn't even watching.
He lines up the ends and looks for the wider one. They're perfectly aligned. He doesn't care. He grabs the one that he feels is wider and ties it into an overhand knot. He pulls it tight and flattens it. He starts wrapping the strip around itself again
and again
and again
and again
and again
and he pulls it tight and flattens it again.
He pinches the sides of his pentagon and the paper roils and tents and crushes, fibers snapping and bending. He takes the fat little paper star and looks at it for a long moment.

He drops it into the bottle with the rest.
He starts working on the next star.

2.18a

I don't have anything to say, so I keep talking.

The committee just looks at me blankly as I rattle off facts about my project. I'm hoping that they accept my proposal, but with every minute my chances decrease. They keep asking me useless questions for which I don't have answers. I keep spouting the same statistics and the same platitudes. Soon, sweat is rolling down my back. My arms are chilly and my palms are clammy. I can feel fire creeping up my neck. I'm sure that I'm beet red.

I feel so insignificant.

2.17c

Hooray, another "c" edition of like lippincott. I fail a bit, but it's okay I guess.

He looked through the viewfinder, but couldn't find the view.

"Excuse me, sir? Can you please move a bit to the side? I'm trying to take a picture of my son, and if you don't mind . . . Thank you."

The camera whirred slowly as it struggled to focus on the distance. He started recording. Nothing happened for ages. Suddenly, he saw movement. A pair of boots moved up the ladder and disappeared into the shining white carapace. Only a few minutes left.

The proud father zoomed out to get a better shot. He could hear the speakers in the background yelling numbers, decreasing every half minute.

The time arrived; every nerve in his body tingled. His son had lived for this day. His son had worked for this day. His son had struggled and strove. He was so proud.

Ten to one and then

Ignition.

No lift, just fire. Too much fire.

The camera flew into the grass. It whirred slowly as it focused on his flying feet.

He was running to save his son from forces beyond his ken. Who would tell him that there was nothing left to save?

2.17b

He always thought the sappy stuff.

"Hey, I'm going to go to the fridge? Is there anything you need?"

I need you, more than anything else in the world.

Where did that come from?

"Wow, those fireworks look awesome!"

Not until they're reflected in your eyes.

That's stupid. Really really stupid.

"Why do you keep coming back?"
Because I can't leave you.

She'd laugh at me.

"You look happy!"

Because I'm with you.

Sappy. Stupid. Dumb. Dorky.

He always thought the sappy stuff.

He never said it.

2.17a

He fell to the floor, panting in exhaustion. Never before had he cared so little about so much. His feet ached, his legs felt like rubber, his chest felt like fire, his heart felt like death itself, his head felt like a migraine, and his hands he couldn't feel at all.

He couldn't remember his work, or his children, or his wife, or his mother, or his bills, or his depression. He just sat and listened to the blood rush through his ears, thumping with a dull woosh twice every eternity as time slowed to a halt.

Run: it's good for you.

2.14b

It's not technically the fourteenth anymore, but who cares? Here's my free-verse blank-form poem.

I couldn't think of anything to write.
so I asked a girl out
She said okay

I still can't think of anything to write.

2.14a

(Just so you know: this was prompted by VD. I'm not gonna lie about it, but I really really want to.)

When I'm married, I will hold my wife's hand.

I see couples wandering aimlessly, holding hands and wrapping themselves around each other and getting a good taste of each other and generally focusing on the high life and the heat and the passion and the good times and the rock and roll. The one thing they all have in common is that they're not married. It's like marriage knocks the wind out of people. Why is that? Is it because they realize that they have the rest of their life to discover the person standing in front of them? Why would they put it off?
I hereby solemnly swear to hold my wife's hand in public. She may be mortified and grief-stricken that her husband would commit such a grievous breach of protocol (is there protocol like that? I haven't seen the handbook) but by gum I'm going to do it and see if I don't.
I don't want to look like the adults I've seen: like two people who just happen to be living together and caring for the same kids.
If I love her, the world's gonna know it. I will hold her hand.

2.12b

Just the other day, a friend praised me for how fast on my (mental) feet I am. I am, apparently, swift. Just today, I was singing a song as I walked, and LO AND BEHOLD a voice hearkened forth from the dorm.
"Your voice sucks!"
My reply? "Why, thank you!"

I could have said "My mother doesn't think so," or "Your mother doesn't think so," or "Dr. Kibble doesn't think so," (which may or may not be true, and he may not even know who she is) or "Sometimes I'm used as a form of illegal torture, but I'm out of a job since Guantanamo shut down," or "I've heard that from a lot of gay guys before," or VIRTUALLY ANYTHING EXCEPT WHAT I SAID.

L'esprit d'escalier. Staircaise Ghost, is what the french call it. Coming up with an insult hours after the fact. I assume that it happens a lot to other people too. I just wanted to let you all know that it is, in fact, a shortcoming that plagues me as well.

2.12a

He didn't seem different than he was. It's college, and we're freshmen . . . we're supposed to be quiet. Just shut up and learn how to do your homework, already.

It has been a year. He comes to me now and tells me the most soul-wracking story about a girl with whom he fell in love. "Fell" is not the right verb: try plummeted.
She was taken.

Her man wasn't around, and she wasn't technically dating, and he never made romantic advances, so it was an innocent relationship. Except he does the ballsiest thing of which I've ever heard: he actually talks to her about it. He's straightforward, and he presents his case clearly, and she listens (when somebody bares their soul, you listen).
She turns him down.

They remain friends.

It tears him apart.

How long has he been depressed? A full year? I didn't know. I had no idea. He's one of my closest friends and I had no idea. I slide through life assuming that everyone is miserable and I miss out on the fact that one of my friends actually is (hands-down, no-holds-barred) depressed.

"Depression is like a blanket that you wrap around yourself. Eventually, it feels good to be depressed."

2.10

Pardonnez-moi, monsieur. Je ne l'ai pas fait exprès.

Translation: Pardon me, sir. I did not do it on purpose.
Who: Marie Antoinette
Note: As she approached the guillotine, convicted of treason and about to be beheaded, she accidentally stepped on the foot of her executioner.

Nobody's really being serious. They are answering a serious question: "What do you think should change? What do you want to be different?" But everyone is joking around.
"I want less food!"
"I want more backrubs!"
"Purple?"
There are serious requests, too. To darken the mood, I suppose.
"It's hard to make it to worship on time."
"Sometimes, I want to get away and have some 'me' time."
"It's too hard to clean the bathrooms by myself."

One girl speaks up. "I get way too many short jokes sometimes."

I fire back
"I'd tell you more, but they'd go over your head."

Stunned silence.
What? She wasn't being serious! I look at her face. She was being serious.
Dear goodness, everybody! She's never serious. Ever! She chooses NOW to actually mean what she says? I can't be judged for that! Besides, you guys were joking too! Come on, it was an amazing line, and you all wish that you were fast enough and clever enough to think of it. It's a one in a million happenstance! I could think for hours and not come up with something better than that!
I AM NOT TO BLAME!
Everyone castigates me with their silence.
She pierces me with her eyes.

If I were more polite, would you still chop off my head?

2.9c

It's a crowded room.

We're all seated, auditorium-style in a choir room full of singers. The director keeps running parts again and again until we're aching and sore with perfection.

I can people who don't know I'm looking. A bass to my right is texting his girlfriend three rows in front of him. She doesn't respond. A soprano on the opposite side of the room dances slightly with the music, swaying back and forth.

The director has the Tenors stand to sing. One girl turns around and glances up. her eyes lock on one man. I don't know who he is, but she does. Her eyes glow. She smiles. One look at her man gives her so much pride that it breaks out of her like a beam of light.

I feel ashamed, so I look away.

Does he know? Does he comprehend how lucky he is?

2.9b

Here is a poem and I hate writing poems but I did it anyway because you can't really rebut Keats in any form but a poem.

"'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,' - that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye
need to know." - Keats

Isn't sorrow also truth?
Tell your beautiful lies
to the children that starve every day,
to the men who lose their way,
to families that crumble,
to addicts that tumble.

Save your deceit for the deceived.

2.9a

I walked across the spongy ground, covered with styrofoam leavings. I was trying to avoid the security guard on the other side of the cliff. Security guards are notorious for chasing you for no reason.

"Holy WHAT?" I said to myself. A Mclaren F150 sat across from me, shining yellow-ly in the parking lot. What was it doing behind this factory? I bounced over, grateful for the styrofoam on my bare feet. The logo on the front of the Mclaren had some powder on it (hopefully not styrofoam) so I scraped it off. To my surprise, it wasn't a Mclaren at all, but a Maca Maca. I don't even know what that brand of car is.

I heard snuffling behind me, and so I turned around. I saw a large, furry, black mass, peeing on a Bentley. I didn't want to stop to see why the Bently had a Ferrari logo on it. I just edged slowly away from the bear. The Maca Maca's door swung open. In my horror, I focused entirely on the stupidity of leaving your sportscar unlocked. Oh, right; bear. I edged away and then bolted across the street into the woods, where my friend lived in his duplex log cabin.

I banged on the door and watched with horror as the bear crossed the street, following me. My friend opened the door, and I bolted inside. Just then, one of the bear's three cubs followed me in. My friend asked calmly "What's going on?"

"A BEAR is following me, dude!"

"Holy crud!" he yelled, and opened the door to look. He saw the bear careening towards the cabin, and failed to see the other two cubs bustling busily into the cabin. He slammed the door.

"Hey, I have an idea!" I said. Let's rub these cubs on ourselves to try to smell less like humans!

We did it, but I have no idea whether or not the bear was still attacking us. I woke up.

2.6

He twitched, involuntarily. She was making him lose his cool. Her piles of chips mocked the single plastic sliver that he held in his hand. Her hair rippled down past her shoulders and her ear peeked out. He had been staring at that ear all evening. It had lost him a straight when he folded on accident.

It was all or nothing. Win or . . . embarrass himself forever. He threw down his single chip. It bounced, rotating slowly, vaguely rolling through the air. It plinked to a rest on the pile of chips sitting in the middle of the table.

"All in," he whispered.

Her piles of chips cascaded down, slender arms shoving roughly. "I call your bluff and raise you for the win. All in."
He hyperventilated. She wouldn't have gone all in if she wasn't confident of victory. What could she possibly have? A straight? No. Two pair? Three of a kind? He shook, adrenaline coursing through his body. Her ear was perfect. He didn't care if he won or lost anymore, just make the ear go away or make it his.

At a certain point, he forgot to care about winning.

2.5b

He didn't have to understand it. Which is good, because he didn't.

He always attempted to explain it like this: "The movie Juno said that 'guys like him always like the weird chicks' or something like that. That's why. Stop asking me questions, I'm feeling persecuted."

He just called her "Hipster Girl" and let it be done. She was completely incompatible with him in every way: music, mentality, mhumor. (Shut up. If I can't kick my addiction to alliteration, then you'll have to deal with it) By all intents and purposes, he shouldn't be attracted to her. He shouldn't even look her direction again.

But he did. Maybe too much.

2.5a

He threw his book-bag on the floor. He stuck out his lips at it, like he was imitating a fish. His eyebrows knit together like grandma's free time. He picked it up gingerly and examined to see if anything was broken or bent. Nothing was. So he opened the window and hurled it to the floor three stories down. He walked down the stairs like a dinosaur and flung open the door like it was "Velociraptor vs. Flimsy Metal Door: Jurassic Park, the untold story." He looked at his book-bag and decided that it had had a hard enough day. The bottom was ripped open and the contents were scattered everywhere. He went through the mess and found the page he was looking for. He picked it up and walked back inside.

Life is hard when you don't understand zippers.

P.S. Don't even ask how he's gonna get his pants off.

2.3b

I'll write something short, since 2.3a is so long. I love that story, though. It rocks.

He hurtled through the sky like a piece of falling oatmeal. The thought churned in his head that perhaps he would never see his family again. Death? Unlikely. Not at this speed. Death means that you've stopped functioning; that your body no longer works. Death is caused by disease or old age or accident. This wouldn't be death because "to cease function" is too light a term when "vaporization" is also too light a term. He thought about it for a minute. Yes, it wouldn't be death. Perhaps . . . annihilation?

Horror-stricken, he realized that his mother wouldn't like it if someone came to the door to tell her that her son had been "ground into a pulp by his mach 5 contact with the surface of the planet." Well, at this point there was nothing to be done, so he did the only sensible thing. He panicked.

He started waving his arms and screaming and crying so hard that streams of water floated through the air behind him until the instructor pulled the chute and they came

gently

to the ground.

2.3a

He had always assumed that he knew what he was doing. You operate these machines for years, and you never have to read the manual. They don't malfunction. You hit a button: boom--it goes. You don't even need formal training. It's not like they give out degrees in button-mashing. There are no tests. No methodology. It's just PUSH and away go the parts, thump goes the machine, ding goes the cash register and you get to feed yourself for another week.

He always assumed that he knew what he was doing.

But now, as the antelope came down the production line, strapped to the belt, he wasn't so sure. For starters: how did an antelope come to be in Massachusetts in a car battery factory? More importantly, why did someone tie it to the belt? They would have to skip lunch, and that was just unthinkable. The union had worked long and hard to get them thirty three minute lunches, and there would be hell to pay if each worker didn't use all 1980 seconds of it. Somebody had decided to flaunt all that in the supervisor's face and instead tie an african herbivore to the machine.

The belt slowly churned towards him. A part went under the machine. He hit the button. WHUMP and out slid a shiny new part. The antelope shuddered. It was two parts away. Then he decided to think about his options here. A part went under the machine. He hit the button. WHUMP and out slid a shiny new part. He could hit the button when the antelope was under there, or he could halt the line. There was another button for that. It wasn't green: it was red. A part went under the machine. He hit the button. WHUMP and out slid a shiny new part. OR he could just let the antelope slide underneath without hitting any buttons. Let the next guy make the decision. What if it was against company protocol to halt the line for antelopes? He would lose his job, and the union wouldn't back him up. They wouldn't try to save the job of an idiot who halted the line for an antelope. What if it was just understood that you just don't halt the line for --

Oh, good. It was already gone. Someone else's problem, then. A part went under the machine. He hit the button. WHUMP and out slid a shiny new part.

2.1b

No more sappy stuff. I want to write something crazy.

The weasel had him cornered now. Drawing out his scimitar, the insatiable rodent charged at him, hacking and slashing.

Every thrust, every cut was skillfully blocked by his rapier. Sometimes, ingenuity is born from desperation. Sometimes, a rabbit with his back against a wall can out-maneuver a weasel raider.

The Rabbit thought of his family at home. Fourteen kids and a wife to boot. If he didn't make it home, what would happen to them? He thought of his country. They needed him now. If there was a nobler cause for which to die, he did not know of it.

He pushed back, swinging his rapier faster and faster until it became a blur of light, barely glancing off of the weasel's surprised attempts to parry.

2.1a

I'm tired of underlines in the dates. Periods are better.

Also: I couldn't sleep last night because I was in a romantic mood. I wrote down what I was thinking so that I could go to sleep. It didn't work. Here's some taste of what I wrote.

She was crying.

I have no idea how to deal with crying.

I sat down on the floor next to her and put my arm around her. I wracked my brain for something to say. But what can you say about that? There's only so much that a boyfriend can do to comfort.

She looked up at me and her eyes were puffy and red and her hair was frazzled. She was beautiful.

I suddenly realized that this was my window. It was now or never.

I had to say something amazing.

"If we were in a book, I would say the perfect thing to you, and we'd hold each other, and the woman reading the book would say "I wish my husband were like him" and we'd fall madly in love.

You make me want to be in a book. The truth is that I never know what to say."

And I guess that was good enough, because she hugged me closer.

Next time, I'm gonna write our story ahead of time so I know what to say.