2.28c

It had been two months since his last girlfriend. He had racked up a number; they were, in order:

Skanky

Needy

Cheater

Bossy

Easy

The last was a tremendous breakup scene, him trying desperately to extricate himself from a girl who wasn't who he thought he knew and her trying with equal desperation to make sure the whole world knew what she thought he was. Perhaps he had learned his lesson to never break up with anyone in the mall.

Laura was still there, waiting at the edges of his friend circle, neither so close as to become "sister" but not so far as to be "that chick." She had known him since the end of Cheater, two years before. She felt that now was his time to have a nice girl. It had to be her. So, when he pulled her aside that night, it was no surprise that her heart felt like birds were trying to hatch out her chest.

"Umm, Laura?"

She paused. She had to have the right response to be neither creepy and needy nor vacant and cold. She settled for an eyebrow twitch and hand shift. It would have to do. Ugh, nothing was right. She wasn't wearing the right shirt for this. This wasn't how she pictured this moment.

"Laura, I . . ."

This was it. This was the moment. He had to ask her now, right? They were perfect for each other. She was normal, he was . . . well, okay. With the exception of his horrible taste in women, he was normal. It was time for him to ask her and for them to live happily until whenever.

"I want to thank you for helping me through my last breakup," he said, too-fast and practically threw himself from the room.

She turned to the wall and threw it a grumpy frown.

"Bollocks."

2.28b

Sherlock picked up Watson and swam away toward the reef. He explained on the way.

"Watson, you know I have been to the edge, between worlds."

"Yes. You've told me. It undulates like a mentally unsound ray, as I took it. Is this important?"

"Indeed, for the vessel I have just described rides the edge between worlds."

Watson was silent for a moment. He just fidgeted in Sherlock's grasp.

"I'm not sure I'm comfortable with your conclusion, Sherri. It seems like a lot of hookum to me. I mean, things have to breathe, right?"

"Right."

"And there's nothing to breathe up there."

"So far as we know."

Watson fell silent.

"And? Your conclusion?"

"I'm worried for you, Sherri."

"Whatever for?"
"Because I know you, and I suspect what you're about to do will not be pleasant."

"Poppycock."

Sherlock hauled up to 221b Flounder where he and Watson lived and set the crab down. He began rummaging through the evidence from their last few cases. Finally, he grabbed the large, smooth, spherical, translucent shell from the Adventure of the What is this Thing and settled it firmly beneath his arm. He again picked up Watson.

"I'm sorry, old pal. But somebody has to do it." He shoved the crab inside the shell and clapped one hand over the opening.

"LESTRADE!" Watson bellowed from inside the shell.

Sherlock squirted for the edge between worlds. Behind him, Watson could faintly hear Lestrade say "What?" The sallow policeman never much liked leaving the Yard, but this was an emergency.

"LESTRADE I'M BEING KIDNAPPED."

Somewhere below, he hoped, the nurse shark was rallying to charge after him, when in fact Lestrade had merely said "You mean crab-napped," and gone back to sleep.

Sherlock was rapidly approaching the edge now, and Watson was all the time more worried about what he intended. He didn't have to wonder long. Right before the surface, Sherlock hauled up and threw the shell with all his might at the edge. The shell popped out unceremoniously into the wide open of the other side with Watson still inside.

2.28

[Well, this is the best I have done for a while now. I have 26 and the month is only two days longer than that.]

Students will . . .

1. write proper objectives, according to one and only one style.

2. create a lesson plan in exactly the same format as the teacher.

3. align objectives with standards, because we teach like robots.

4. write down assessment techniques to be used, in case the student forgets how to see/hear.

5. disappoint the teacher, despite doing their best.

6. submit to the authority of the teacher's opinion.

7. question little, if ever, and only in support of the teacher.

94. never, ever step out of line.

2.26

New blogger! Kyle Bob Barker (no relation) has decided to start blogging with us. I know Janelle has plenty of enjoyment for new people.

I have more things to write later; I'll just edit this post and add them. Right now, Kyle is going to go comment on my comment on his blog.

EDIT:

I can always feel how tired I am right behind my sternum and hanging on my collarbones. I can feel it like a rip in my being and an ache like my soul is slowly separating from whatever ties it to me. I can feel it like a pressing reminder that I am not immortal.

2.25

[Shut up I am in Central time and thus it is totally the 25th still. Shut up shut up shut up]

"But why are you asking me to go out with you?"

"Why I am I asking you to go out with me? I suppose because of the normal reasons: you're beautiful and it still hasn't disabled your brain, so best of both worlds."

"Yes, but why are you asking me to go out with you?"

"Why am I asking you to go out with me? Well for starters, it is simpler and more effective than asking you if you would be my wife-candidate, and more understandable than asking if you would 'engage in a societally generated courtship ritual which may end in unpleasant termination barring a less-likely positive end. And secondly, I'm asking you to go out with me because I intend on getting to know you and agreeing means you share the same goal. It's good to determine that you do, in fact, agree with my stated ends before I just jump in, assuming that you're beside me. It's also a verbal contract that you won't just run away and leave me hanging, and that you'll make an effort toward me, too."

"But . . . why are you asking me to go out with you?"

"Broken record much? As for why I am asking you to go out with me, I plan on getting to know you, knowing you better than anyone, asking you to marry me, fathering any children we throw together, living for a very long time together, arguing with you over who has to die first, and dying first because I would die if you died instead of me. But realistically, that entire train could derail at any stage and just end up crashing and burning. But as for my general plan, that's it. That's the why. I hope that's the end of this."

"But why are you asking me to go out with you?"

"I was afraid of that. Why am I asking you to go out with me? Because I couldn't very well ask someone else if you would go out with me, now could I? And you're pretty much the only person I want to be asking out. Because of the aforementioned beauty and brains thing. And I suppose I could ask your father, but it would be creepy and way too serious, and also fairly insulting to your personal control over your life. You get to decide, which is why I'm asking you."

"But why are you asking me to go out with you?"

"I thought I had answered this. Why am I asking you to go out with me? A few-fold answer here: I am asking because I'm not a pansy and I don't want to make someone ask for me. And because I don't want you to be with someone else, so it would be counter-productive for me to ask you to go out with some other man. I had a friend who did that once; he suggested a date for a girl he liked, just to get her out of his head. But he foolishly set her up with his friend, so he saw them both and saw how happy they were, and all it did was hurt. So that's why it's about me me me. Now what's your line?"

"Buuuut why are you asking me to go out with you?"

"Okay this is getting ridiculous. Why am I asking you to go out with me? Because telling you would have a bit of a violent edge to it, don't you think? It's not really a gentlemanly thing to do, and besides. It's not the way I want to start a relationship, just all suave and 'Hey, babby, you're dating me. *breathes on nails and rubs on shirt* Yuuuup I'm pretty awesome. I drive a Tercel.' Not what I want. So I'm asking. It also betrays a bit of intent on your part, which is really what I'm worried about right now. I want to know if you're interested. Done now?"

"Why are you asking me to go out with you?"

"I think I've stressed every word except for . . . are? That's a helping verb. Why am I asking? Hm. Because I didn't once, years ago when I had a chance. I was too weak and scared of rejection and the future. I realized I wanted to and I ran back to where you were and practiced my line in my head: 'I know you said you don't like walking in the rain, but you've never tried it with me.' And you were gone, and I gave up. Now I'm older and wiser and filled with regret and consumed with what if and yet not afraid of the future. I am asking. I am asking, because I want you to say yes. Unequivocally. Unconditionally. Unshakably. I want yes. Yes, okay, alright, yup, indeed, yes. And if you're not willing to deliver that, I suggest you go with 'I guess so.' I've gotten that once before and it didn't hurt so bad."

"Hm."

"Yeah, you think about that. I'll come up with another answer in case you ask again."

2.23

"No, see. It doesn't work like that."

"I personally believe quite firmly in--"

"But what about pre-WWII?"

"What? No, what I'm trying to say is that it makes sense if you look at it from a purely post-WWII perspective--"

"You can't just discount their perspective."

"Will you let me finish? Ugh, I'm just trying to say that postmodernism truly came into its own after WWII and everything was modernism and faith before that, so all of--"

"Faith? Nothing was faith then. Everything was shaky."
"But they still believed in things. Even though they had shakiness in their lives, they firmly believed. We can look back from our current perspective and accuse them all we like, but just because we see it one way--"
"But ideas always move forward. The past had problems, so we changed and moved forward. So our view of the past is more valid than theirs."

"That's ludicrous. We never move incessantly forward. Sometimes we move backwards. What was the Dark Ages?"

"The most current change to postmodernism was a move forward."
"We aren't even sure of anything! How can it be more correct if it says that everything and nothing is correct?! I'm just trying to say that their view is just as valid--"

"But it can't be!"

[pause] "Okay, look. This entire time you've been nay-saying and tearing apart my suppositions. What the heck do you believe?"

"I don't have to say what I believe if there are things wrong with your premise."

"If you don't have a premise and I do, mine is inherently more correct than yours. Because it exists. Stop being such a dillhole and state something. Put yourself out there. Sack up. Be a man. Have an opinion."

2.22

Newlyweds have a lot of change and accommodation to do. To re-learn another person is difficult at best.

She wanted him to look professional, so they were going to buy a suit. He tried a few on, and then she found the one. It was bold. It was young. It was new. It fit him to a tee, and she loved it. Then she asked that dreaded question: "What do you think?"

He could tell that she loved it on him and she loved him. The next few words would determine his future relationship with the suit, himself, and his wife.

So he told the truth.

"I feel like an organ grinder's monkey." She blinked once or twice and then paused.

"Okay. We'll find another one."

He inhaled.

He could have told her that he loved the suit, and they would have bought it. It would have hung in his closet for years and he might have worn it twice. Three times, at the most. But instead, he told her the truth, and didn't have to buy a suit he didn't like.

But more importantly, if he says something, she knows it. Not in the normal sense like "Well I suppose I can reason my way through to that conclusion" but in a sense wherin she doesn't have to think about it. She knows he won't lie.

And that's worth more than any suit.

2.20c

[correcting an oversight, thanks Lyssa]

His hair and smile and hands were perfect. He moved smoothly and with confidence. He didn't have to try; it came naturally. But when she asked him a question, stupidity flowed out in an effusive explosion of blaagh.

Jockdonkey.

2.20b

Rory was walking. He saw her from a ways off. Unpleasantness was soon to ensue.

"Good morning!" He was never one to let his morbid expectations ruin his chances.

She didn't even look at him. There was no one else around. He was loud. She was right there. She knew he was there and didn't even look at him. Was he human? Probably not.

It made him feel offal.

2.20

[I continually set out to write 3 line things and end up writing walls of text]

The girl was fine and she knew it. She walked with a sway and tossed her hair with tinkling laughter.

Disgusting.

2.19

Understanding comes in pops and bursts. You probably didn't realize your ice cream dripped until you felt cold. You probably didn't figure out a math problem until you worked it through in your head. You probably didn't understand the laughter the first time it was pointed at you. You probably didn't understand loss, or hatred, or lust until long after they slapped you in the face like so many wet fish fillets.

And every time a bubble of know pops on your head, you have two point five four seven six one one nine seconds to recognize whether it was a good know or a bad know. You have to figure out whether or not you really wanted that information or if you'd be better off without it. Within that two point and so on seconds, you can rationalize the understanding away. After that, it sticks with you. You can rationalize away that your parents had sex to make you. You can rationalize away that your friend is using you to get dates. You can rationalize away that you haven't talked to God since the last time you needed something. You can rationalize, but only for so long. And then it's done.

You have to remember that your ex broke up with you because of boredom. You have to remember that your dog died because of chocolate. You have to remember that your gym teacher complimented your butt surreptitiously. You have to remember that your nose is too large for your face.

But, if you practice, you can hit that two point and whatever seconds every time and continually forget what you've learned. You can stay with him even though he hits you. You can live there even though there's asbestos. You can be happy even though you have cancer. You can forget everything you ever knew.

So just aim for that roughly two and a half second gap and you'll live a long, happy, imbecilic life.

Because ignorance really is bliss.

2.18

[I have been gone. Welcome back, me!]

I paused, shuddered, and stopped thinking for a second. Why did she say that? "Any girl would be lucky to have you?" What? If any girl would be lucky to have me, and you know it, and you are a girl (inherently included in "any") why aren't you all over me right now?

No, that's your way of saying "Hey, buddy! I like you an a totally platonic way and want to preemptively make sure that you understand that this isn't going anywhere. So, I'll say a nice thing to you in such a way as to redirect your affections elsewhere!" That's not a nice way of going about it.

I turned around and looked at "any woman." Sarah walked past and didn't even acknowledge me. Kari was making out with her boyfriend. Daniella told me last week that she was interested in Mary, and Mary had told me a month before that she was interested in Daniella. Tashi took one look at my physique stick and walked away. Gloria got married to my best friend after telling me that she didn't want anyone but me. Annalee broke up with me because I was too "clingy." Tabitha turned me down because I had dated Annalee. Chelsea is so shy she won't talk to me, or look me in the eye, or respond to other people when I'm within earshot.

Woman, next time you say "Any woman would be lucky to have you," do your research. Viperess.

2.16

This blog was hyperactive last week. It has settled again. I suppose it's a good thing? Who knows?

Barkley was a mostly amicable fellow. He never bit anyone--a considerable feat considering--and he was just pleasant in general. But one thing he couldn't stand were vacuums. At that point, he ran howling and screaming.

I guess it was something about his hearing?

Or perhaps because his mom told him to.

It's what dogs do.

2.15

Today is the deadline for Legacy entries.

I have no idea what to put in. So I'm just going to go through my last few posts, maybe do some polishing, and then just fire them in because I'm trying to not care as much as I do.

So I'm sending in

For the Lack of a Nail

They Both Wanted it That Way

the post about fairness

If you have a suggestion, I have one more submission opening, I think. Anyway, these are all within the last month . . . so . . .

This is also amazing: A poem about Raptors.

AND THIS: This is like reading somebody better than me.

I wrote this nearly a year ago: a few days after asking a girl out and being accepted and I feel it again, so here it is

And I wrote this 9 days after being dumped. It's the first thing I wrote about it and probably the most poignant for that reason. Depressing.

If you guys have any suggestions, PLEASE let me know. I have nothing to give Ashley.

edit: this is the cutest conversation we ever had. I'm so glad I wrote it down.

2.14

[Today is the day to post drippy oozy sappy things, right?]

He took his happiness and pulled it out of himself. It felt like a sneeze coming out his middle. He rolled it up in his hands, just as tight as could be. It glowed with a gentle pulse that beat in time with his heart.

He handed it to her. It was hers to keep.

She ate it to keep it close forever. It dissolved into her until her veins pulsed with the light and the joy that he gave her. Their pulses alternated so that there was never a moment when either was still.

She took her sadness and pulled it out of herself. It felt like a band aid getting ripped off. She wadded it up and shoved it at him. He caught it and carefully rolled it out and smoothed it. He wrapped it around himself until it covered him and absorbed into his skin. Whenever he bumped into something, whenever someone touched him, whenever he fell down, flakes of sadness rolled off of him like snow. They were black to see and purple to touch and they got onto everything and wouldn't come off.

She was happy. He was sad.

They both wanted it that way.

2.13

"Allow me to posit a relatively toothsome ideology for your consideration: Not all men are created equal.

I understand your misgivings, but hesitate to assert their validity.

Permit me a digression.

Take Joshua, for instance. He's thirty years old, but lives near his parents so he can help his father with his construction and carpentry shop. The man has never wanted to be a carpenter, but rather a traveling man, on the go, always with something to say. A visionary, if you will. Someone with a mission to change the world. He has real talent for it too, and would do well even if he couldn't support himself. No matter. His talent is immense and he could create a following and some real social change. Yet here he sits. There's something wrong with that.

Now take William. He's thirty something too, and he lives in one of his parents' many houses. He doesn't work for a living. He may have gone to school, but it doesn't matter. He doesn't need an education where he's going. He will take over the family business when his forbears die. His future is assured, so he's taking it easy and living like a sultan. There's something wrong with that.

On the one hand, Joshua, a skilled, intelligent young man with somewhere to go, and no opportunity. On the other hand, William, a slothful layabout with no ambition nor care in the world.

Would it surprise you to learn that you know who these men are? One's a prince of Wales and the other's the son of God.

I posit therefore my theorem for your reconsideration: Not all men are created equal.

Correlating and interdependent theorem: Life is not fair."

He turned to his daughter.

"So, yes. Life is not fair. Now stop complaining about the cookie. You'd just spoil your supper anyway."

2.11b

Prompt: What would you do to make the world a little less screwed up?

For the lack of a nail, the shoe was lost.

His short-term plan was to wear a different color every day. Monday was red. Tuesday was orange. Wednesday was yellow, and so forth. He spent a small fortune on clothing that fit his needs. Soon, he assembled sets of clothing that fit his purposes. He started finally one Sunday with his purple. His wife rolled her eyes at him and went back to her magazine. He walked boldly down the street to the corner to buy life savers, eat all the purples, and give the rest away. On Monday, his friends at work gave his red suit a few weird stares, and then settled in for the long haul. He bought skittles, ate all the reds, and gave the rest away. Finally on Friday, his boss called him into his office.

He settled his blue into a chair. "Dan, what's happening?"

"I'm changing the world. Would you like a starburst? I have red, yellow, and green left."

There was silence for a few minutes, and then his boss stood up and motioned to the door of the office. As Dan opened the door, his boss asked "This won't change your work performance" but it was more like a statement, not a question.

"Of course."

Three weeks of color and it stopped being a novelty. His coworkers stopped sending pictures to their friends and telling their friends.

Three months of color and it stopped being interesting to them.

Every day he bought candy, ate all of the color he was wearing, and gave the rest away.

One day, he was picking up his daughter at school and one particularly popular 13-year old girl approached him. "Hey, Melissa's dad--why do you do this?"

"I'm changing the world. Would you like the rest of my jellybeans? I'm afraid I ate all the indigo."

She stood for a while, and said nothing. When she left, she decided to ignore Melissa for a while.

Thirty years later, no one cared. He was just the kook down the street. Finally, his daughter asked him why he dressed monochromatically every day. "Daddy, why?"

"I'm changing the world. Would you like a gummy bear?"

She paused, like everyone else always did. But she kept going, because she knew him.

"How?"

"I'm glad you asked." He smiled. "I dress like this because it's a daily reminder to be happy. Life is too short to spend it wearing black. If I dress in bright colors every day and share my joy with everyone I meet, I'm sure to change somebody's life."

She had never thought about her father as wise before.

She went back to the hospital where she worked with seven pairs of new, bright-colored scrubs. On Monday, she wore red. On Tuesday, she wore orange. On Wednesday, she wore yellow, and so forth. Soon, the nurses were monochromatic every day of the week. The hospital got on the news. Other people started picking up the habit. After a few years, government officials' ties, school teachers' shirts, preteens' fingernails, and truck drivers' hats were all color-coordinated. And everybody had a reminder to be happy.

For the lack of a nail, the shoe was lost,

for the lack of a shoe, the horse was lost,

for the lack of the horse, the rider was lost,

for the lack of the rider, the charge was lost,

for the lack of the charge, the battle was lost,

for the lack of the battle, the war was lost,

for the lack of the war, the kingdom was lost,

and all for the lack of a nail.

2.11

I'm sure I'm making a bigger deal of it than I should. I mean, it's only a letter, right? But I can't seem to sit myself down and force the pen across the paper. I don't tell anyone. The chore just goes without end for days and days. Finally, another letter comes. I haven't responded to the first! What am I supposed to be, a machine? I can't do everything.

So now I have five letters on my desk, an hour to burn, and nothing to write about.

My mother will have to wait a little longer.

P.S. I am a horrible son.

2.10

My breathing was ragged. I was sweaty and sore. My heart was galloping like a horse in fast forward. My whole body was burning on the edge of self-destruction.

But I had won. I had pounded him into the ground. I had utterly annihilated his sense of self-worth. And it felt

so

good.

He picked up his racket and tossed the ball to me. Pong, pong, pong it said as it bounced to me. "Good game, man." Yeah, it was. Good. Good for me, maybe, but not for you. You should be ashamed. "I really enjoyed it. We should play again some time." Keep telling yourself that, and maybe it will be true. Oh, and I'd love to play you again, if just for the chance to crush you a second time.

He smiled and stooped to walk out the door. Wait, no, that isn't right. Why is he smiling? I just obliterated him. I mopped the floor with the rags of his skill. How could he possibly be happy?

Does he have something wrong with him? That must be it. He must be just a little bit off. That has to be the answer.

But of course I didn't let myself notice the truth: it wasn't something wrong with him. It was something wrong with me.

2.9

With groaning and gnashing and gnawing of teeth--High School.

I slowed down to a walk where she could see me. InnerRobby spoke up. "This is retarded. The chances of her even looking this way are astronomical. She's talking to someone else."

OuterRobby rebutted: "I'm not doing this for her. But if she does happen to notice, that's none of my concern."

Inner Robby said "And even if she does look at you, her emotion will be closer akin to aversion than to arousal."

"Ooh, good alliteration."
"I know! I was so proud of it when I thought of it."

OuterRobby frowned a bit. "Well, she didn't see me. Shall we walk by again?"

InnerRobby shrugged. "It's your funeral."

So I walked a bit more. Once, maybe twice. I did a double take each time I turned around, like I had forgotten something. Something important enough to turn around for, but certainly nothing to hurry for. As I walked, I kept an eye on her just to see if she'd look up. I had to be surreptitious for fear that, if she actually looked at me, I would just appear weird. Play it casual, OuterRobby. Be cool.

After three laps and no response, I reformulated. Perhaps if . . .? But no.

InnerRobby came back to poke fun at me as I walked away in shame.

"No game, man. You have no game."

2.8b

Hooray! New friends possibly!

http://darkgreenribbon.blogspot.com/

This is a girl from Goddard's creative writing class last semester. I found her blog and creeped up the place by commenting out of nowhere. Apparently less creepy than I thought because she said she'd join us in internet fraternity and write things with us.

Don't freak her out too much? Perhaps.

2.8

There's just something about a man's voice that . . . trumps a woman's voice. I'm sorry, ladies. I wish it weren't so for my sake, but at least you all benefit too.

Exhibit A: @ 15 seconds in to 30 seconds

Gordon Bietz flows into Lisa Diller into Jan Haluska. Now, I'm not saying that I think Dr. Diller is any less capable or any less worthy than the other two. As a matter of fact, I think she would reconsider the A she gave me in World Civ if I did say that. What I'm saying is that it's a startling contrast between two male voices, both of which have command and presence, and Diller's thin contralto. There's more of all of them in there, but that's the best section.

Exhibit B: All of it

Peter Gregory is asian. Very. And when he got up to speak he said "Hello. My name is . . . Peter Gregory." And there was silence for as long as it takes to shiver and the entire audience went "what?" under their breath. It was fantastic. He held us enraptured just because of his voice, when no one else at "Intents" could do it. Not even Dr. Tilstra or Dr. King can claim that honor.

Exhibit C: It's very loud

There is nothing inherently funny about Curtis and I singing. We're both acceptable. We're in I Cantori. But we sound like children or prepubescent girls. It's funny because we sound like men most of the time.

Exhibit D: The Venture Brothers

Man who sounds like woman? Woman who sounds like man? Why? It's funny, that's why. And Dr. Girlfriend is more competent than the Monarch. I'm not saying it's because of her voice, but it certainly doesn't hurt.

Exhibit E: Richard of CSFPQ Breaking News

I can go into super tryhard mode and the results are plain to see. Even though I'm saying ridiculous things, I sound half-competent.

Exhibits F-Z: Every newscaster to ever live and not be Katie Couric. And Prairie Home Companion.

This ^ isn't creative, but it certainly unlocks a bit of humanity. How do we, as writers in a non-audio medium, tap into this idea?

Aubrey is five and thinks like a five-year old. "Daddy is home, thank God. Mommy always makes me clean things and set the table until Daddy gets home. When he's home, I can always get Mommy to let me play with him instead of doing work." Daddy is 30 and thinks like a 30-year old. It's better that Aubrey know how to read than that she play. So he reads her books. "Do you like Green Eggs and Ham?" "I do not like them, Sam-I-Am. I do not like Green Eggs and Ham." She sits on his lap and forgets to concentrate on the book. She likes the feel of his rumble on her back.

2.7

He threw his head back and laughed. It wasn't a shy laugh or a polite one. It was loud and full and merry, like the sound of elephants trumpeting or crowds cheering or a single cookie falling onto a plate.

2.5

[Janelle wrote her obituary, so I'll write an account of my funeral.]

The room was hushed and cast in muted hues. Tens of people gathered at the front of the church to wish Robert William Van Arsdale Junior goodbye. That is the first and last time his complete name will appear in print because it's quite a hassle to write. Groups of well-wishers approached his beleaguered family to wish them strength and luck. "I'm just here because his sister had such a hard time dealing with his death," said one supporter. "I think he's lucky to have them," said another of his family.

Robert died after a long battle with some disease or another (does it really matter which? I mean I wrote it down but it's on the other side of the room and nobody really cares how he died). Instead of that story, his will stipulates that I say that he died defending a shipload of orphans from space pirates by defeating the cyborg pirate captain in one-on-one combat, after which he died from awesomeness poisoning. Luckily his will does not stipulate how convincing I have to be of that fact.

The service was tasteful and not very long, both because his family had places to be and because not many people had things to say. The pastor's message was quite respectful of the deceased, and contained an enough information on Robert's life to convince the audience that perhaps it was better that they didn't have an open-casket service after all. After the sermon, there was an opportunity for those who knew him in life to come to the front to speak. The speakers were his sister, who shared her favorite memory of Robert: her eighth grade graduation, his mother, who told a story about how he was sick once and slept all day, his most recent ex-girlfriend, who told everyone she suspected he was a transvestite, a homeless man who came in to be warm but told a touching story about how he met Robert twenty minutes before and held his hand (the funeral home workers checked that the casket was, indeed, closed) and a single woman who cried for twelve minutes without speaking and then ran from the mic. The service concluded with a beautiful interpretive dance piece by Robert's brother and a tasteful reading of some of Robert's poetry. After the reading of the poem known only as "Hey Philip seriously don't let anyone read this but get a load of what I wrote last night when I was mostly asleep," the well-wishers wished well and then left.

Robert was put into the ground and mislabeled as Mrs. Betsy Peroe, a mistake which will undoubtedly increase his afterlife visitation.

2.3

She smiles so coyly over her glasses. It makes me want to go find a flower and pick it for her. I lick my lips nervously. She notices and cocks one eyebrow in a vicious arch. I laugh. We haven't said any words and it's starting to get dry in the empty space between us.

My "So, uh . . ." cuts over top of her "Anyway . . ."

We pause. This only ever happens in movies.

She rolls her eyes. "I'll go first. You work in plastics?"

"Swathed in it, yes."

Demure smile. Crap. I thought that was a good joke.

"But more seriously, you make . . ."

"Anything. Right now, ship parts. Next week it will be novelty clown shoes. Then, who knows? We don't make the orders; we just fill them."

"Fascinating."

"You're a good lier."

"I pride myself on it."

"Try another one."

"You're attractive."

I winced. "Ha ha. Very funny."

Our conversation meandered from the Paleozoic to the White House, and through three different types of wine. Two hours later, she laughed more and I made fewer jokes. Suddenly, her face turned grave and her eyebrows drew together.

"Why are you trying so hard to impress me?"

"What? I . . ."

She shushed me. "Think before you answer."

So I did.

She was certainly attractive enough. I think I usually try too hard around pretty women and I'm just sure it shows. I haven't had a date in longer than I care to admit, and that certainly hasn't helped my flirtatiousness one bit. I really want this to work out, because she imminently likable and fantastically right. She had that feel of right just oozing off of her and filling the air and my lungs. I was just drinking it in. It tasted like happiness and being pushed on a swing by your father in the middle of summer, right when you've forgotten about last school year and there seems to be an infinite July spread out in front of you. It tasted like the right sort of sad and crying and feeling clean and pure afterward because you were trying to get something off your chest. It felt like freshness and washed sheets before anyone has touched them and the smell of a new car before feet stain the rugs and the whip of wind in your face as you open a door and the sound of a city as you exit a cab and the feel of land beneath your feet after hours on a ship. She was everything I wanted to have and I was afraid it showed. So why was I trying so hard?

"I suppose," I started huskily, then paused for breath and took a drink. "I suppose," I started again and paused for effect, "I don't know. It might be my inner self trying to sabotage the first good thing that has happened to me in a long time. But I don't know. My inner self usually hates me, but I haven't talked to him since electroshock therapy." Smart, man. Go for the inappropriate joke. Ladies love that. Stupid.

She pursed her lips and pulled them to one side of her face. "I suppose I can live with that." She stood up.

Crap. I blew it. I blew it and it's all over. Perfect. Nothing left for me! I can just

"Are you coming?" She had stopped three feet away and turned around to wait. I grabbed the glass and downed the last of the liquid clinging to the sides.

"Let's roll." I took her arm and opened the door for her, but I never felt more like a king.

2.2b

Sherlock slid his hand along his jaw, as if to rest his head on his arm. (Janelle shut up.) This was, of course, a useless gesture as he was underwater. Watson just stared at him.

"Sherri."

Silence, but for the distant wooshing of seaweed.

"Sherri, you've been staring at this same thing. Seriously. Have you even deduced anything extra from it?"

"Watson."

Watson's eyestalks lifted perhaps a quarter of a centimeter more and he stood stalk still. If he shocked Sherlock by responding, the merman might go back into an intense concentration coma.

"Watson."

" . . . sherri?"

"Well don't make all that fuss about it. I think I have an idea. I have put a lot of thought into it, and I assume that this large thing is actually a vessel out of its element."

Watson just sat frozen but for one eyestalk which twitched a bit.

"I think, nay, know, that this mysterious object is, in fact, for riding above the water."

"Sherlock."

"Watson."

"Sherlock. You've been silent for three weeks. I was beginning to assume you were dead or that I had dreamed you all along."

"Preposterous."

"Oh, good. He's back."
"Have you been listening to any of the words I have been saying?"

Watson dropped an eyestalk in a deprecating fashion. "Sherri, you have been comatose. I am in a bit of shock. You'll have to repeat it."

"This is a vessel for riding on top of the water."

Watson's eyestalk took up the twitch again.

"I know what you're thinking. How can something go on top of the water? There's nothing up there! But that's just it. This object can't be anything else. It is the least hydrodynamic shape--this large flat portion would merely create excess drag. There must be different water on top of the water, that's less . . . "

"Watery?" Watson suggested.

"Precisely."

"Preposterous."
"Proponent."

"What?" Watson demanded.

"I'm not sure I understand the rules to that game. You'll have to explain sometime."

Watson carapaceclawed. [Which is a crab facepalm. Look it up.]

2.2

Vivaciousness.

I like my women to be stinking vivacious. All over. Twice.

But seriously, lively women are sexually intimidating and I like that?

When she snapped her fingers, he came running. She said "jump" and he didn't even ask "how high" he just jumped and hoped it was good enough. She walked quickly and he had to keep up.

But when he kissed her she melted.

[I know this is the kind of crap people like to read but it is just ridiculous. How healthy is that relationship? Not very, I'll wager.]

2.1

Gareth rolled his shoulders to loosen up. He bounced lightly on his toes and swung his arms back and forth. He was ready. He was good to go. This time the guys would respect him. He could hear them in the background booing and laughing. He'd show them. He would blow their socks off.

He wasn't sure where he had turned down this road. He remembered a time not too long ago with his aunt in the backyard hanging up the wash and he ran through it with a toy plane. He could remember the white cottage and the green hills and the flowerbed that was half full of his dumptruck.

The other man stepped forward and eyed Gareth, sizing him up. Gareth turned one shoulder to the man, and blew out his breath slowly. The other man sprang forward with his fist. Gareth sidestepped with the speed of practice and fear and threw his arm into the other man's jaw.

The impact shuddered farther into his life than just to his shoulder.