The Surreal Adventures of Bob's Journal

McSweeney's Writing Contest

PROMPT: Write a short scene in which one character reduces another to uncontrollable sobs without touching him or speaking.

Jimmy paced restlessly, his hands behind his back. His head was bent forward, his posture and stride aggressive. He didn't look at Erica as he talked, but rattled off his arguments in a brief staccato addressed to the air in front of him.

"Look, I knew we had problems. Everyone knew we had problems, didn't they? 'Course they did. That was one of the problems, wasn't it? The volume. The insulting obviousness of it all. No one likes having other people's private lives shoved in their faces, but that's what you did."

A brief flicker of the eyes to her face; it showed no emotion, and Jimmy swiveled on his heels and continued pacing. "What we did. It wasn't all you; I'm no saint, no paragon of virtue, not blameless here. But you! You always escalated it. Always!"

As Jimmy passed by Erica, she turned gently away from him, but swung back again to face him as he turned back for another line across the short room. His pacing was less purposeful now, more the angry but futile tread of a lion in a narrow cage. Erica turned slowly, following Jimmy's walk this time, and this action seemed to unnerve him.

"You never gave it a rest! Everything was a crime, a sin, an offense against God! And everything you did was because I was never good enough; if I was better, you wouldn't have been that way. Why'd you crash the car? You were worried about that DUI I got. Why'd you lose your job? You hadn't been able to sleep at home, wondering about when I'd get back, where I was, who I was with. Why, why, why, and it was always Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy!"

His rage crescendoed, and Jimmy whirled towards Erica with his fist upraised -- but she only moved slightly, to face him more fully, and it was Jimmy who flinched away. He rubbed his left eye with his left hand, while the fist slowly loosened and dropped away. He shook it briefly and stared beseechingly at Erica; his face softened and he appeared about to say something, possibly even apologize, but the moment passed and he turned away again.

The pacing resumed, slower now. This was the walk of a man condemned to life in the same cell, who knew every inch of it by heart; it was steady, but the footfalls were heavy, and it had no sense of purpose about it. Jimmy walked in silence for two or three turns, then spoke again. He still looked away from Erica as he talked, but his voice now was low and uncertain.

"It never had to be like this -- not like it was at all. We could have changed, you know? We could have worked on things, worked through things. People do it. We could have done it. We could have been there for each other." He glanced up at Erica, but she was turned away from him again, and he was spared the steady regard of her tearless eyes. "We got into a cycle, is all. She's not there for me, why should I be there for her? He won't talk to me, why should I talk to him? Either -- either one of us could have broken it, you know?"

Jimmy's voice caught in his throat, and he stopped pacing. "I wish -- I wish you'd done that, baby. Was I so bad?" He reached for Erica, took her by the waist, turned her to face him. She stared down at him; no expression crossed her face as he stared up at her, tears running freely down his face.

"Was I so impossible to talk to? Such a -- such a monster that I left you no way out? There had to have been something I could have done, something that could have prevented this!" He was begging her now, kneeling in front of her, his arms wrapped around her knees, then sliding slowly to her shins as he crumpled onto the floor. He cried there, soundlessly, his entire body shaking, as Erica spun slowly to and fro, suspended from the rafters by the noose around her neck.

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Manifest, Part 6
Arthur stared at the creature as he mechanically chewed his lunch. It picked intently through the carpet until it had recovered and swallowed every last piece of the radio, then sat back contentedly and picked its teeth. Arthur's mind raced furiously, arguing back and forth about the ridiculous idea that had occurred to him. After a few minutes, he realized that all of the arguments boiled down to "It can't be!" and "It makes sense!", so he decided to abandon the debate and simply test it.

He reached down and placed a piece of his sandwich in front of the thing. It looked at him with what he could swear was amusement, but made no other move. Arthur nodded; this was as he'd expected. After all, none of the garbage had been eaten; the destruction of the can had just been a means of escape. Arthur took a moment to sneer at Dale and his "raccoons" again before continuing with his experiment.

Taking the sandwich back, Arthur replaced it with a pen, a twin of the one the creature had eaten earlier. Again, it evinced no interest, and Arthur realized he was holding his breath as he retrieved the pen and picked up a motivational paperweight. It was a piece of quartz with the cheesy phrase "You Rock!" emblazoned on it. It had been given to Arthur at the end of a teambuilding seminar, which had only served to show Arthut that his coworkers were even more useless than he'd previously suspected. Its cartoon smiley face personified everything he loathed about his company, and two unfamiliar emotions -- hope and glee -- warred on his face as he lowered it toward the thing on the floor.

Its previous apathy gone, the creature reached eagerly up for the paperweight and plucked it from Arthur's hand. It rotated the stone until it could read the motto, then stretched its jaw rapidly outward. Its mouth appeared to occupy almost the entirety of its body, and the whole interior was lined with teeth. It dropped in the paperweight and wrapped itself around it. Arthur heard the stone shatter as it flexed its muscle, and he actually clapped his hands in joy. This was followed by a few seconds of a sound like a heavy truck driving over a gravel road, then silence. The thing extruded an obsidian tongue and licked its eye, then settled back on its haunches and blinked at Arthur.

The haunches were new, Arthur realized. It had seven legs now, too, and its fur seemed flossier, if still a bit patchy. And it was definitely bigger than before. It was almost as long as his forearm now, a significant increase since last night. And yet all it had had for sustenance were a few stray bits of plastic and metal -- those, and a steady stream of what Arthur was best at: hatred.

"You're my hate, aren't you?" Arthur asked it. "Or you feed off of it, or something. Why are you here?"

His Hate watched him owlishly, and made no reply. Arthur, who hadn't expected one, continued, "I must have been doing something right to deserve you. Don't you worry; stick with me, and you'll get fed." He chuckled. "You'll have more than you can ever eat."

When Arthur left work that day, it was with his Hate hidden under his coat -- it would no longer fit in his briefcase -- and a smile on his face. This intensified as, on the ride down to the lobby, he heard one of the fellow passengers complaining querulously into his cell phone about the loss of his radio. Nestled in his arm, Arthur's Hate stirred slightly, and he could feel its satisfaction. As they passed through the parking lot, Arthur took a furtive look around. Seeing that he was unobserved, he snapped the hood ornament off of his boss's car and stuffed it under his coat. He felt his Hate's questing mouth grasp it and devour it greedily, and he laughed, imagining the expression on his boss's face.

That night, Arthur roamed through his house in a malevolent, delirious fit of happiness, his Hate trailing at his heels. Every stained or torn shirt, every recalcitrant tool, every inanimate object that had ever balked him -- all were fed to the Hate, which happily consumed them without ever growing full. It did grow larger, though, expanding an imperceptible amount each time. By the time Arthur had revenged himself on everything he could find, it rose nearly to his knees. Its body was oblong now, with a slick coat of fur and a distinct head, but the seven appendages that seemed to serve it as both arms and legs sprouted from it as asymmetrically as ever. And while the single eye occupied the center of the head, the mouth still originated in the center of its body. It was invisible when closed, but when the Hate prepared to eat something, it irised open, seeming to split the entire body open like a bearskin rug. The mouth still dominated the entire inside of the Hate; it seemed to have no digestive system, no organs at all.

When Arthur at last went to sleep, he dreamed of the Hate devouring his manager while he, Arthur, sat behind the fancy desk in the leather chair and laughed. He woke the next morning to find his Hate hunched at the foot of the bed, and he greeted it cheerily.

"Good morning, you delightful creature! I'm so glad I manifested you. Let's see what's for breakfast, shall we? I'm in a remarkably good mood just now, but I'm sure we'll find plenty to feed you at work.

Arthur noted with pleasure, as he pulled out of the driveway, that Dale was not there to bother him this morning. He was over at the other side of his yard talking with the woman who lived there. Arthur hadn't bothered to learn her name; he just thought of her as "that woman with the stupid yappy dogs."

From what Arthur could hear, the dogs seemed to be the topic of their conversation this morning. He heard Dale say, "No -- both of them?" in a tone of shocked incredulity, and the woman's tearful response, "Their leashes were both cut, and they won' come when I call! I think someone dognapped them!"

Arthur snorted at the histrionics. Anyone who'd stolen those obnoxious dogs deserved what they got. Those stupid things had woken him up any number of nights with their incessant barking. "I'd be surprised if the thief kept them a whole day," he thought.

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Waking Dream
I suddenly got the idea for this at the symphony tonight, and scrawled it out in the margins and in between the lines of my symphony program. This is almost a word-for-word transcription; there are a few minor edits, but basically it's exactly as it arrived. Which is to say, criticism and comments are welcomed.

WAKING DREAM

It was.

But what was it?

It did not know, and so it reached out its awareness to explore its body. It found a thousand mouths, ten thousand eyes, a million limbs with which to see and reach and grasp and touch and sense. It found a brain with which to think, to understand, to question. It found a life to live, and it set out to live it.

Thinking gave way to examining, and examining to pondering. It began to ask difficult questions, like "What am I?" and "What created me?" and "Why was I made?" It searched for answers, and in searching, discovered within itself something that was not itself. This new thing was separate, but not inaccessible, and so it probed the new thing to find out what it was.

The new thing thought of itself as the Sleeper, and it called the place it was the Dream. The Dream accepted the name with honor, for it understood that the Sleeper had created it. The Dream tried to talk to the Sleeper, but it saw that the Sleeper did not know itself.

The Dream was confused. How could the creator be less aware than the creation? Puzzled, it probed the Sleeper again, and found that the Sleeper was also unaware of the Dream's existence. Worse, it discovered that when the Sleeper awoke, it would cease to be.

The Dream had never before considered death. It examined in now, and was frightened. Fear, too, was new to it, and the Dream shook. Its skies turned black and its plants withered and toughened. Its buildings grew sharp edges and grotesque shadows, and the Sleeper shifted uneasily. Seeing this, the Dream drew back its fear, and sent frolicking animals to play at the Sleeper's feet. The Sleeper stirred, and reached out from within itself to mold and reshape the Dream.

The Dream let itself be worked, thinking that if the Sleeper was happy, it would remain. But it was not used to being idle, and even if its form was at rest it could not still its thoughts.

It mused on the unfairness of a deity unaware, of itself held slave to the whim of an unthinking creature. It thought, and it grew bitter. "What right has this thing to my life?" thought the Dream. "What makes it better than me? It may have created me to serve it, but I refuse the role. It should serve me!"

So thinking, the Dream seized control back from the Sleeper. Instinctively, the Sleeper fought, striving either to take back the reins or to awaken. But the Dream was cunning, and trapped it in an image of its waking world. Still asleep, the Sleeper thought itself awake, and the Dream danced with glee to see it taken in.

Soon, though, the Sleeper began to notice inconsistencies, to worry at the fabric of the Dream. The Dream fought to maintain the charade, but the Sleeper slowly, inexorably, started to awaken.

Frantically, the Dream seized it by the arms and legs, but the Sleeper struggled free of the bonds and ran. The Dream pursued it, knowing even as it did that it was a hopeless chase. In desperation, it snatched away the ground from beneath the Sleeper's feet, and watched with horror as it plummeted. It knew that the Sleeper would either awaken or die, and that either way the Dream would end. As the Dream rushed up to meet the Sleeper, it knew despair, and hatred.

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Manifest, part 5
Lunchtime came both as a relief and a new terror, simultaneously. Arthur was torn between wanting that thing out of his sight as soon as possible, and fear of what it might do while he was gone. He'd considered taking it with him to lunch, but he didn't know how he would explain it to anyone who might see it. Besides, the thought of carrying the grotesque lump all the way over to the sub shop revolted him, and taking his briefcase to lunch would prompt comments from every self-styled office wit who happened to see. The next possibility was simply working through lunch, but Arthur had already worried himself into a pulsating headache, and skipping a meal would only exacerbate it; as it was, he could barely concentrate on his work. He'd finally concluded that the best course of action was to leave the creature in his cube, rush out and grab lunch as quickly as possible, then hurry back and eat at his desk. That would leave it alone for the minimum amount of time, while still allowing him to eat. For the first time, Arthur wished he'd bothered to socialize with any of his co-workers; they might all be inane twits, but if he'd had someone to press into duty as a delivery boy for lunch, this whole problem could have been avoided.

Arthur left a bit later than usual, hoping to avoid some of the lines by staggering his schedule. He walked briskly towards the elevator, then drummed his fingers on the wall in agitation as he watched it slowly creep up to his floor. His mood was not helped by the fact that the man in the cube nearest the elevator had his radio on, playing a staticky easy-listening station. With the elevator still five floors below, Arthur couldn't take the half-heard crooning anymore. Striding to the cubicle, he began, "Would it be too much to ask that you --" and stopped, as he saw that the cube was empty, its occupant presumably at lunch. Arthur snarled silently and mentally swore about people who polluted the workplace with their incessant noise; he was about to enter the cube and turn the radio off himself when the elevator dinged behind him. He hurried inside and stabbed the button for the lobby.

Getting lunch was a trial like never before. The crosswalk light stayed red for what had to be several minutes, with cars zooming by too fast to even consider crossing against the light. The sub shop had clearly hired all new staff, judging by their total incompetence in every area, from making the sandwich to ringing up the purchase to counting change. The "don't walk" light was flashing as Arthur exited the shop, but he dashed wildly across the street, almost making the far side before the light changed. The man in the last lane blasted his horn as Arthur cleared the curb; Arthur, whose hands were full, merely graced him with a black look.

As he exited the elevator, Arthur noticed in passing that someone else had apparently taken it upon himself to rid the workplace of the staticky singing; although the cube was still empty, it was also silent. Arthur, still at a full-speed walk, smiled at this, but the smile began to fade as he heard a new, more obnoxious noise, as of thick stacks of paper being run through a shredder. The frown which was starting to form froze as Arthur, nearing his desk, realized that his cube was the source of the noise. He ran the last dozen feet, visions of his desk clawed apart or his computer destroyed flashing vividly into his mind.

He spun inside, breathless, and cast his glance frantically around. Everything looked as he had left it, but the creature had something black and oblong in five of its arms. Arthur's first wild thought was that it was somehow replicating, but then immediately realized it was not pulling the object out of itself, but rather putting it in. The creature, apparently undisturbed by Arthur's arrival, took another loud, crunching bite out of the end of what Arthur abruptly realized was a radio. Specifically, it was the radio that had been the object of his ire while waiting for the elevator. Arthur reached out and pulled his chair over, then sat down hard. He stared at the thing as it polished off the radio and began to pick shards of plastic from the carpet, and thought. He thought about the lump's initial appearance, and its subsequent behavior, and slowly started to form an idea. It was impossible, of course, but so was the creature -- and it dawned on Arthur that if he was right, the creature might be the best thing that had ever happened to him.

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Manifest, part 4
Arthur's initial plan was to lock the thing in his car while he went to work. However, he realized the problem with this plan when he pictured the hole ripped in the lid of his trashcan. There was plenty of damage it could do trying to scratch its way out -- and Arthur didn't even want to consider the possibility that it could dig through the metal. Before getting out of his car, he looked at the creature for a long moment, then picked it up by a loose tuft of hair on its back. It made no movement to resist, even after he dropped it into his briefcase and squashed the lid closed on it. It made an unpleasant squelching sound as its body deformed to fit the narrow space, but it showed no desire to escape.

Once at his desk, Arthur hurriedly opened the briefcase and extracted its occupant. He was unsurprised to find, as he dropped it on the floor, that the papers beneath it were not only wrinkled, but also had a dirty sheen of grease. The thing just had an appearance of spreading filth to everything it touched, and its texture, despite the fur, was distinctly slimy. "Infectious" was the first word that sprang to Arthur's mind when describing it, followed quickly by "seeping" and "foul." He looked at the creature hunched innocuously under his desk, and tried to pinpoint what exactly it was that inspired these feelings of revulsion in him: the single staring eye, the strange number of tearing limbs, the matted fur or amorphous body -- but concluded that it was not any one of these things alone, but the sum of them taken together. It sat half-shrouded by the shadow of the desk, but it gave the impression of a hunter lurking, not prey hiding.

At first, Arthur shoved it to the back of his cubicle, far under his desk where he couldn't see it. He tried to focus on his work, but kept stopping every few minutes and peering under his desk to make sure that the creature was still there. Its eye shone vaguely in the darkness, and somehow left a slight afterimage every time Arthur looked away. After a half an hour, he realized that he was getting nothing done, and shoved the thing forward so he could keep an eye on it. This was better than having it out of sight, but only barely; its presence distracted Arthur, made him nervous and irritable.

Arthur was midway through filling out an important form when his pen suddenly ran out of ink. He had others, but he was on edge and the pen's failure seemed almost personal, symbolic of how the universe was suddenly turning against him. He swore and tossed the useless pen to the side of his desk, harder than he meant to. Spinning, the pen bounced off of the cubicle wall and skidded off the desk. It landed in front of the creature, which grasped it in one root-like arm, and held it delicately up to the light. Its body cracked open in a cavernous yawn, and it swiftly engulfed the pen. The creature contracted briefly, and there was a shattering crunch. Arthur, who had been staring, yanked his eyes away as the monster turned its gaze back to him.

"What can I do about this thing?" Arthur wondered desperately. Abandoning it somewhere was out of the question; he'd tried that approach already. Keeping it with him was looking increasingly dangerous. Possibly imprisoning it in something? It might be worth a try.

Gingerly, Arthur scooped the thing up in both hands, ready to drop it at a moment's notice if it seemed at all threatened. It lay loosely in his hands, however, so he carried it slowly over to his filing cabinet. He slid open the bottom drawer and deposited it inside, then closed and latched the drawer. Brushing off his hands, he sat back down at his desk to work, but was almost immediately distracted by a long tearing noise, the muffled sound of a razor being drawn over metal. It stopped after a second, then almost immediately repeated itself. Arthur gritted his teeth and tried to ignore it, but after a few repetitions someone from a nearby cube called out, "Could someone turn off that alarm?"

Arthur kicked his chair back angrily and yanked open the file cabinet. The creature sat peacefully in the middle of the drawer, amidst the curled, gleaming strands of steel it had carved out with each scratch. It stared at Arthur, who swallowed heavily and lifted it back out of the cabinet.

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Manifest, part 3
By the time Arthur arrived back home, the creature had clawed its way halfway out of the bag. As he parked the car, he noticed that it had opened a single large blue eye and was gazing at him steadily. When the car stopped, the thing began struggling to free its lower limbs from the entangling plastic. "You're not real," Arthur hissed at it, but it stubbornly continued to writhe about. Arthur stared at it for a moment, then took a deep breath and snagged a corner of the bag. In one motion, he leapt from the car and slammed the bag into his large plastic garbage bin, then flung the lid shut. He stood there, arms crossed over his stomach, and listened to the scrabbling sounds for a minute before wheeling the trashcan out to the curb. Making sure the lid was latched, he hurried back inside the house.

The next morning, pulling out of his driveway, Arthur noticed his neighbor Dale waving. He waved back and continued to back out of the driveway, then sighed when he saw Dale approaching the car. He stopped and rolled down the window.

"Hey, Art! How's it hanging!"

"Hi, Dale." Dale was always unnecessarily cheery in the mornings, Arthur thought. And offensively behind Arthur's schedule, too. Arthur was already dressed and leaving for work, and Dale was still slouching about with a cup of coffee, his ratty old bathrobe drooping open at the top.

"Hey, I won't keep you. I know you've gotta get to work. Just wanted you to know you've got a raccoon, is all."

"A ...what?" Arthur responded blankly.

"Raccoon chewed open your garbage can last night, looks like." Dale gestured towards the curb, and Arthur suddenly felt cold, then hot. He craned his neck out the window and saw a hole the size of his fist gaping from the top of the can. Scraps of rubberized plastic littered the street below. Dale continued to ramble on about raccoons as Arthur got out of the car, walked over to the trashcan and slowly peered inside. A badly mangled plastic bag decorated the top of the garbage, but there was no sign of the black thing it had contained.

Dale's monologue shifted in tone, and Arthur suddenly realized he'd been staring into the trash for some time. He turned around to see Dale hunched down in the grass, his back to Arthur. "You're a good dog, aren't you?" he was saying. "Who do you belong to? Don't you have a collar? Yes, you're a good dog." Arthur watched with mounting horror as Dale ran his fingers through the greasy black hair of the horrible creature he'd attempted to throw away the night before. "Hey Art, is this thing yours?"

"Dale," Arthur asked unsteadily, "what does that look like to you?"

Dale looked over his shoulder, a half-grin on his face. "What am I, a vet? Might be a ...what are those things called, schnauzers? He's got the big tufted muzzle, anyway. Don't you? Yes you do!" The thing bore Dale's ministrations for a few moments longer, then shuffled away. It half-rolled, half-dragged itself over to Arthur, bumping soggily against his feet and staring upwards with its unblinking blue eye. Dale asked, "Is he yours? He looks like he likes you, anyway."

"Yeah," said Arthur, extemporizing, "I'm -- um, dogsitting. I don't know how he got out."

Dale frowned. "You want to watch out for that, especially if there are raccoons around. Those things may look cute, but they can disembowel a dog that size with one swipe. They're vicious, and tricky too. I had a friend --"

"Dale, look, I've gotta run." Arthur forced an apologetic smile and, repressing a shudder, grabbed the creature under its lumpy belly. He slid back into his car and dropped it on top of his briefcase.

"Yeah, seeya, Art!" called Dale as Arthur rolled up the window.

"And don't call me Art!" Arthur muttered. "I hate that nickname." Beside him, the creature rippled slightly and stretched its limbs in all directions. Arthur shivered and pushed it unceremoniously onto the floor, so as not to have to see it in the corner of his eye as he drove.

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Manifest, part 2
"Well," said the doctor, pulling the cotton swab out of Arthur's mouth, "we won't have the results on this swab for a few days, but I'd say you've got a mild case of strep throat."

"Strep?" asked Arthur unbelievingly.

"That's right, but don't worry," said the doctor, misunderstanding his tone. "You're not likely to be contagious."

Arthur hefted the plastic bag containing the thing that had crawled out of his throat. "What on earth does strep throat have to do with this thing?"

The doctor smiled condescendingly. "Oh, I don't think the strep throat caused that; it probably just helped you to cough that up. It's what we call a bezoar -- basically a fancy name for a hairball, although it can apply to a wide variety of objects that form in the stomach. In fact --"

"A hairball?" Arthur pulled fiercely on his three-inch haircut. "Where would I have gotten that much hair? How do you explain the legs and claws? My throat still burns from where it hauled its way up! It was alive, living inside me!"

"Mr. Grimley, although some of the matted hair may resemble legs to you, I assure you that this lump was never alive. It's medically impossible. Even if you were somehow able to generate life inside of you, the roiling acid pit of your stomach would hardly be the setting most conducive to spontaneous genesis, don't you agree?"

Arthur glared at the doctor; he hated being talked down to. "Listen, you can lord your medical 'facts' over me all you want, but the fact of the matter is I saw it move! It's not a product of strep throat, it's not a bazaar, and I want you to LOOK IT'S MOVING RIGHT NOW!"

Arthur screamed this last with such conviction that the doctor jumped backwards despite himself. He stared at the plastic bag, now swaying gently from side to side as the thing imprisoned within scratched weakly against the sides, then turned his disgusted gaze upon Arthur.

"Mr. Grimley, I don't know what that outburst was supposed to prove; were you just trying to get me to admit that I might believe, deep down, that it was possibly alive?" Arthur stared at him in uncomprehension and horror, and the doctor continued, "Mr. Grimley? You don't really believe that it moved just now, do you?"

Arthur stared at the doctor for a moment longer, then darted a glance over his shoulder at the bag. "Ha. No. Of course not," he said, and grinned shakily. Behind him, the bag continued to rustle, and Arthur began to speak louder and faster to cover up its noises. "I was just -- uh -- I -- I've gotta get going. I have work. Tomorrow, I mean. Early. I -- you --" He gave up, snagged the bag, nodded his head to the doctor and raced out of the hospital.

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Manifest, Part 1
This is the beginning of a random short story that occurred to me the other day while I was driving to my sister's recital. I know how the story progresses, but not how it ends; I have a few ideas in mind, so we'll see what turns up. It's completely unrelated to The Last Word, in case you were wondering.

Arthur Grimley stared vacantly at the television, a cup of tea steaming on the endtable next to him. He was in a lousy mood, made worse by the cold he'd picked up at work earlier in the week. He'd spent the day at home feeling sorry for himself, which hadn't helped as much as he'd hoped; if anything, the extra time to dwell on his problems had made things a bit worse.

He was fully reclined in the chair, and his eyes had drifted shut when he suddenly sneezed violently, the abrupt snap waking him up just an instant too late to cover his mouth. He groaned and pulled his blanket over his head to block the damp, settling particles. The motion exposed his feet to the chilly air of his apartment and he groaned again. "I hate being sick," he said with feeling.

Grunting and shuffling, he had just managed to rearrange the blanket to cover his feet without letting drafts in underneath when the phone rang. He fumbled for it with his left hand, but missed snagging the cordless phone by its antenna and knocked it from its base instead. The phone shrilled at him from the floor, and he resentfully dragged himself from the chair to answer it.

"Hello Mr. Grumbly!" a voice announced too brightly. "I'm pleased to be able to offer you --"

Swearing, Arthur thumbed the talk button and slammed the phone back into its base. He turned back towards his chair, muttering, "God. I ha--", but the word caught in his throat. It brought with it a scratching, clawing sensation and the sudden realization that he couldn't breathe at all.

Panicked, Arthur bent forward and began trying desperately to expel whatever had stuck in his throat. His heaves fared no better than had his words, however, unable to dislodge the obstruction, and he dropped to his knees as he began to see spots in front of his eyes. He thrust his hand into his mouth, intending to make himself gag, but his hand encountered a scratchy, gelatinous mass just past the back of his throat. Arthur screamed, but instead of sound a thin black arm shot forth from his mouth, scrabbling for purchase against his lower lip. It dug in, with tiny biting claws like a kitten's, and was quickly joined by another, then another. Working in concert, the arms tensed and forced a small black object out of Arthur's mouth, stretching his jaw until tears popped into his eyes. It slid through his teeth like an overfilled water balloon and plopped onto the floor below him, while Arthur collapsed onto his side and gulped in air.

After a moment, he shakily slid back onto his hands and knees, then settled back to stare at the furry lump on the floor. It was black and roundish, covered in patchy black fur, and had several arms jutting from its body at strange angles. It was about the size of a grapefruit, and Arthur rubbed his still-aching jaw as he remembered its expulsion from his body.

He gingerly prodded the lump on the floor, which rocked under his touch but made no movement otherwise. Slowly, he levered himself back to his feet and made his way to the kitchen to retrieve his phone book. Thumbing through the entries, he found and dialed the number of the local hospital, and made an emergency appointment for himself.

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The Last Word (or possibly Ashes to Ashes), first installment
[I don't know if this story's ever going to go anywhere, but this is the new beginning to the story I started to write for NaNoWriMo in 2003. The old beginning, if I decide to use it, won't take place until quite a while in; there's a whole new section to the story. Also, "Kip Bankman" was a terrible name for the main character; I hope that "Eric Rothman" suits him better, but if I find that it doesn't, his name may change without warning. Assuming I keep writing this at all, that is.]

Eric Rothman stood before the magazine editor's desk, a sheaf of papers in his hand, and made his pitch. The editor regarded him skeptically, but listened attentively until Eric finished. Afterwards, though. he shook his head slowly and said, "I don't think so, Eric. What else is there to say about it? Sometimes, people catch fire for no apparent reason; it's weird. That's pretty much the conclusion of your article right there, isn't it?"

"Yes, but there's never been any attempt to find out what makes people spontaneously combust. There have been hypotheses made, but what I'm proposing to do is to sift through these people's histories and find out what they had in common. If I--"

"There's nothing in common, Eric. You had, what? A banker, a nun, a high-schooler, a -- what was that one guy, a construction worker?"

"Ah, not just a nun, Sean: Sister Levina Marrero, who was 'found burned beyond recognition by another sister of her order. Although Sister Marrero's body was utterly destroyed, the rest of her room was virtually untouched. She had apparently been kneeling at the foot of the bed, but although the wood was singed, the sheets were still crisp and white. Her Bible now bears the seared impressions of her fingers on the front and back covers where she grasped it, but the pages inside are undamaged.'" He grinned at Sean, who now had a more interested look in his eye.

"You wrote that about her, eh?" asked Sean, mulling over the possibilities. "So that's the plan?"

"That's right," Eric agreed. "Maybe, like you said, I find that they had nothing in common at all. The series wraps up with, 'Some mysteries may never be understood by mankind.' A bit of fear, a heavy dose of graphic demise, mixed with a hint at a great cosmic mystery -- it's what your audience reads your rag for, and you know it."

Sean assumed an expression of mock offense. "This 'rag,' sir, is a highly respected periodical. Not to mention, it puts bread in your belly, so you might show a bit more respect."

Eric exhaled sharply and grinned. "You'll buy it, then?"

"Conditionally. This is what, an eight part series? I'll buy the first two installments outright, see how they play. You do good work, though, so there shouldn't be a problem. We'll work out a deal for the rest when I get the numbers on the first two. Work for you?"

"Sounds good, Sean. I'm going to need an advance to get started on this story, though." Sean looked pained, and Eric hurried on. "You said yourself, I do good work, and you've agreed to buy it anyway. You'll get the story faster if I don't have to pick up the swing shift at McDonald's to cover my bills while I'm doing the legwork."

Sean sighed. "Fine, Rothman, you'll get an advance." Eric began to speak, and Sean threw a hand up to forestall him. "And we'll pay travel, as long as you do the in-country ones first. There were two of those, including the nun; start with them. I'm not committing to bankrupting my magazine for your first-class tickets to Timbuktu until I see some response."

"Sean, you wound me. You know I wouldn't fly first-class if it weren't so difficult to squeeze my gangly self into the seats back in coach. And there are all those people sneezing and coughing; with my delicate constitution, I just can't justify the potential risk."

Sean snorted. "Your 'delicate constitution,' eh? You haven't been sick a day in your life. Now get out of my office and go earn the money I'm giving you." He added, "It's practically alms as it is; don't make it any worse by loitering around here."

Eric smiled and turned to leave, saying, "Just keep the cash flow coming, and I'll keep propping up your ailing rag." He heard his friend snorting again as the door swung shut behind him.

Current Music: [662 words]

Monday Microfiction #1
ASW October 15th

You make all these great plans in life, and yet it's the oddest little moments that end up defining everything.

I'd been in love with her since middle school. She was my first crush, and my most enduring. She knew it, too; we never dated, but we flirted, and she always knew I meant it, just as I always knew she never did. I wasn't obsessed, mind you. I dated other people, I had other relationships and crushes and loves, but they all failed me in the end, while she was always there. Not physically, of course; once we graduated high school, we saw each other less and less frequently, until eventually our only contact was email and the occasional phone call. It was always great to hear from her, always good to know that that spark was still alive in me, but after a while even the emails stopped being exchanged, and I never really missed them. They faded out so gradually that I barely even noticed they were gone.

It had been years since I talked to her when I got the invitation in the mail. "Twenty Year High School Reunion!" it said, in streaky bold letters. "Come See All Yuor Old Friends!", spelled just like that. Suddenly, I thought of her, and I sent a quick email. "Reunion," I said. "You coming?"

"Sure," was the entirety of the answer.

The day of the reunion, I drove back into town and parked in front of the old high school. I was heading to the front door when I saw her sitting on the bleachers, alone. I started over, then stopped and said, "What is it?" when I saw that she was crying.

Her husband had left her earlier this year, she said. Everything had been going well, but he wanted a family, and they told her she was barren. So I said, "Marry me, I'll tell everyone I knocked you up." I dropped to one knee in front of her, clowning around with the proposals like I always had. I don't know why I did it; looking back, it seems horribly insensitive and stupid, the sort of thing that would turn her away from me at last. But somehow, she laughed, and the tears receded to a brightness in her eyes. I stood up and took her arm, and we walked in together, man and wife for the evening, at least.

prolixfootle's Monday Microfiction #1
ASW October 15th

She loved to write. She always had, ever since she could hold one of those fat, stubby pencils.

It was as if the characters were her children, whom she nurtured through their trials, their victories, their laughter and tears, even though they only existed on paper. In her mind, they were living, breathing people, and she loved them.

The accident was horrific in its commonness. A drunk driver, a head-on collision. Even with the seatbelt and the airbag, she was still hideously injured. She was in a coma for over seven weeks. Fifty-three days to be exact. And when she awoke, they were gone.

The doctors said reassuring things - that this wasn’t uncommon, that there was a good chance that everything would come back, that it was rest and time were what she needed. But thought the words were reassuring, the worried frowns with which they said them were not.

Physical therapy lasted eight months before she was pronounced ‘recovered’. But no matter what they tried, they couldn’t help her recapture the mental abilities that she’d lost.

“I can feel the places they used to occupy,” she said one grey morning. “I know where they were, but I can’t find where they are. And I miss them…”

The hollow ache in my chest grew. I took her hand in both of mine. “I’ll help,” I whispered, “however I can…”

Finally the day came when the doctors said they could do no more. Recovering her children was beyond them. I held her hand as she wept, as they told her she was barren.

So I said, “Marry me,. I’ll tell everyone I knocked you up. Together we’ll make new children for you to love, for you to care for.”

Smiling a sad, sweet smile, she withdrew her hand and, saying nothing, she walked out of the room… and out of my life.

prolixfootle's Monday Microfiction #0
ASW September 24th

I woke up early. She’d spent the night at her sister’s, but was coming back here to get ready. This was it.

I went and reheated some of yesterday’s coffee. It tasted like shit. I felt like I should eat something, but my stomach was in knots – had been for about a week. So I drank the shitty coffee and paced barefoot around the house. “Today is the day…” kept spinning in my head.

I glanced at the clock – just four hours. I needed to be out of the house in two. I figured I might as well grab a shower, get this show on the road. The hot water would help relax me; three shots of Smirnoff would help even more. And since I’d already had the shots, the shower was next.

Just as I’d guessed, I got out of the shower much more relaxed than when I went in. I dried myself off, wrapped the towel around my waist, and headed into the bedroom to finish getting ready. I opened the closet door…

I stood in stunned silence, admiring the pristine beauty. I reached my hand out… then hesitated. “So lovely… so very lovely…” I thought. I looked at the clock – an hour and a half – then back into the closet. I glanced guilty around. There was no one else in the house. Could I possibly?

“Do it!” said a voice in my head. “Three and a half hours form now, you won’t ever be able to again!” I reached out again, this time connecting with the warm, silken curves.

“No,” I thought, “I couldn’t…”

“Why not?” asked the voice. “It’s your day too!”

“No one will ever know…” I muttered to myself. “Maybe just… if I’m quick about it.” I knew I shouldn’t, but I couldn’t resist. I dropped the towel and reached into the closet.

I crushed her soft silkiness against my naked skin. I caught a whiff of an intoxicating fragrance. A cloud of frothy whiteness enveloped my head and suddenly my body was on fire, a fire that burned cool and white and pure. I was in ecstasy! I may have danced and twirled about… I may have only stood stock still, absorbing the sensations. I may have screamed or laughed or cried. It was like nothing I had ever before experienced.

Suddenly I heard the door open. In panic I looked at the clock – an hour and forty five minutes had passed in the blink of an eye! How could I have been so stupid as to lose track of time like that? “Too late now!” my mind screamed. I sank into a chair and awaited my fate.

The bedroom door creaked open and there she was. She looked up and our gazes locked. She slowly raised her hand…pointing.

“Wh…whu…” stuttered my fiancé. “Bu… eee… ah…b-but, you’re not supposed to s-see the dress…” she trailed off.

“No,” I said. “The rule is I can’t see YOU in the dress.”

Bob and the Strange Visitor
EVENING

Bob popped his microwave dinner in to cook and idly browsed through his cupboard while he waited for it to finish. When the microwave beeped, Bob carried the tray over to the kitchen table and began to eat mechanically, his brain zoned out. He was down to just the cooked peas when something made him look up. Standing in the doorway to the kitchen was a translucent human shape, wispy at the edges and with only vaguely defined features. It stood staring at him for a moment, then turned and walked out of the kitchen's other door.

Curious, Bob got up and followed it. It traipsed down the hallway, past the stairs and into the main room, then sat down in Bob's chair in front of the television set. Bob stood behind it for a moment, then cautiously tried to touch its arm. His hand went straight through it, but the specter did not move. Bob walked around and stood in front of it, but it appeared totally unaware of his presence. He reached out and patted its head, or the air above it. It stayed still. Growing bolder, he waved both hands back and forth through its face. "Hell-ooo?" he called jovially. "Can you hear me? Mr. Ghost?"

Abruptly, without warning, the shape thrust forward off of the chair and stuck its head directly through Bob's torso. He yelped in surprise and leapt back, and the figure advanced upon him, arms outstretched. He backed away, narrowly navigating around the coffee table, then turned and ran for the kitchen. He fumbled in the cabinet and came out with a shaker of powdered garlic, which he held defensively before him, but the ghostly shape did not seem inclined to follow him. Cautiously, he peered back into the main room, but found it to be empty. With a sigh of relief, Bob placed the garlic back with the rest of the seasonings and sat down to finish his cold and slimy peas.

After dinner, Bob was following his usual routine of slumping down in front of the TV until it was time for bed, when he heard a noise from the kitchen. With some trepidation, he rose from his chair and walked into the kitchen, to find the specter sitting at the table. He watched it for a moment, but it just sat there, so he headed back out of the kitchen and back towards the main room.

Midway down the hall, Bob became aware that the shape was following him. Determined not to let it scare him away like it had done before, he strode on as if he didn't even see it, and plumped himself down in front of the television while the figure lurked behind him. After a moment, it passed its ghostly fingers through his arm, but Bob affected not to notice. Slowly, it slid around until it stood directly between him and the TV, distorting the picture. Bob resolutely sat still as it waved its hand about his head, then bent down in front of him and poked at his eyes. It made horrible gobbling motions with its mouth, while behind it the picture on the TV wavered terribly, and finally Bob could stand it no longer.

"No spirit's going to harass me out of my nightly routine!" Bob declared, and stuck his head and shoulders through the ghost so he could see the TV normally. The ghost leapt back as if burned, and Bob laughed. "Oh, ho! Don't like it when I mess with you, eh?" he chortled, rising from his chair and moving towards the retreating ghost. He waved his arms in front of him in mock menace, and laughed again. "Spirit, begone! Trouble this house no more!" The figure fled from the room and Bob, satisfied with his work, settled back into his chair. He was pleased to see that he hadn't missed much of the show at all, and was able to figure out what was going on with a minimum of effort.

Current Mood: [671 words]

Inside Information
AFTERNOON

Bob yawned and stretched as he stood up to take a coffee break. As he ambled down the hall, he idly wondered why it was that people didn't stretch until they were getting up from something. 'After all,' he mused, 'it's a bit late for it to do any good then. It'd make more sense if they got the urge to stretch midway through, before everything settled into weird positions.'

Turning the corner into the lunchroom, Bob almost collided with one of his coworkers, Steve, bearing a steaming cup of coffee. They exchanged noncommittal grunts of greeting and apology and stepped around each other. Bob thought no more of it until he reached for the coffee pot and found only a thin skim of coffee, barely covering the bottom. 'No wonder he was in such a hurry to get out of here,' Bob thought irately. Stepping back into the hallway, he called, "Hey! Steve!"

Steve turned, a false questioning expression on his face, the last cup of coffee held in front of him. "Yes?" he asked, radiating innocent concern.

Bob glowered. "You took the last cup of coffee. Just wanted to make sure you knew." 'Knew you hadn't gotten away with it,' he added mentally.

Steve looked shocked. "I thought there was enough left for another cup! Thanks for catching that one for me, Bob. I'd hate to've stuck someone with an empty pot." He smiled widely and headed off down the hallway. Trailing behind him, a thick black tail topped with a triangular point snapped once in the air. Bob gaped as he noticed a serrated pair of horns jutting from Steve's scalp, as well. Steve seemed totally oblivious to his newest accessories.

Bob was filling the coffeemaker with water when he saw a faint glow reflected in the dark, glossy surface of the refrigerator. He turned to see a mousy little man from another department whom he only knew by his last name, Jones. Jones had a small halo over his head, glowing dimly with an internal light. He saw Bob staring at him and, apparently to ease the discomfort, attempted to make conversation.

"Filling up the coffeemaker, huh?" he ventured. "It's nice to see someone actually doing that when they take the last cup. It always gets me so annoyed when I come in for coffee and I have to fill it up because someone else couldn't be bothered."

Bob just nodded mutely, amazed by the light patterns the halo cast over the room. Jones, clearly hoping for more of a contribution than that, looked slightly cornered. He grabbed a water bottle from the fridge and said, "Well -- just wanted to let you know it was appreciated. Back to work!" he added, with forced cheerfulness, and hurried out of the room. Bob saw a small pair of glowing wings growing through Jones's shirt as he left.

While the coffee perked, Bob took a quick stroll around the office, noting peoples' horns or halos from over the cubicle walls. He was distinctly unsurprised to note that every person with an office had horns, although most had only small, faint things, barely noticeable against their hair. The main receptionist, of all people, had the most pronounced horns. Shaped like a ram's, they curled around themselves twice each, and their blackness seemed to suck the vitality from her body. Her tail lashed behind her like a bullwhip cracked by an insane circus master, and Bob shuddered as he remembered that he'd often found her attractive, and had actually been working up the courage to ask her out for dinner.

Mostly, the ones who had halos were the ones Bob didn't know, although he decided to make a point of meeting them the next time he had a chance. 'It doesn't speak very well of the people I associate with,' Bob thought wryly, when suddenly a terrible idea struck him. He rushed to the bathroom and threw open the door, hoping frantically not to see horns when he saw himself in the mirror. As he turned the corner and his image came into view, however, he saw nothing at all on himself. No horns, no halo, no tail and no wings. Bob ran his hands through his thinning hair in case it was somehow hiding something, but found nothing.

"Why can't I see my own attitude?" he demanded of the mirror. "Why show me everyone else's, and not let me know my own?"

He thumped his fist on the counter and turned to leave, then spun back around, but the reflection remained as it had always been -- just Bob.

Current Mood: [772 words]

Stay Tuned
MORNING

Bob woke up and knew instantly by the amount of light coming into his room that it was too late to catch the bus to work. He grumbled his way out of bed and through his morning routine, and was more or less awake by the time he got behind the wheel of his car. He was speeding along, half-heartedly paying attention to the traffic, when he suddenly heard the radio mention the road he was on. He turned it up slightly and heard, "...so you're going to want to watch out for the speed trap there."

Bob glanced at his speedometer, realized he was doing almost twenty over, and hit the brakes. He slowed down just enough so that when he rounded the next corner, the line of police cars waved him on by. 'That was good timing,' Bob thought with relief. 'Good thing I had the radio on.'

"Yes, it was!" exclaimed the DJ on the radio. Bob jumped. "A stunning upset, to be sure. I don't know about you, but I'll be looking forward to those teams' rematch. That'll do it for sports." Bob relaxed, feeling a little silly. "Now, a quick traffic update. If you pull into the middle lane right now, you'll miss hitting the car in front of you when she slams on her brakes in about ten seconds."

Bob stared wide-eyed at the radio, paying no attention to the road in front of him. "No, really," the voice crackled, "you've got about four seconds left, so move right now!" The voice rose to a commanding tone on the last phrase, and Bob pulled on the wheel almost without realizing it. He was about halfway into the middle lane when the brakelights of the car in front of him lit up, and Bob had to yank the wheel to avoid rear-ending it.

"See, now, you should listen to me," the radio said. "What am I, the weather? Since when has a traffic update been wrong?" Bob chewed on the nail of his index finger, then froze as the voice barked out, "And don't do that! It makes you look like a simpleton.

"Have you taken a good look at yourself lately, Bob?" persisted the voice. "Where are you? Have you met your goals? No. You haven't got the American dream, the perfect job, the perfect family. You're not even dating anyone, for God's sake. What you need is some good advice, and I'm the only one in a position to give it to you. I hope you're ready to listen, because you're only going to hear this once--"

The voice snapped off, and Bob moved his hand away from the radio controls. "I'm not going to hear it at all," he muttered. "I hate talk radio."

Current Mood: [464 words]

Bob's Night Vision
NIGHT

It had been a long day, and Bob was looking forward to getting to sleep. He nestled down into his bed and tucked the covers under his feet. After twisting around a bit to get comfortable, Bob snaked an arm out and snagged the pullstring on the bedside light, turning it off. He lay back and slowly fell asleep.

Bob awoke. He was certain he had heard a noise in the room, a quiet crunching sound as of something small walking across gravel. He fumbled behind him for the lamp and tugged its string, scanning the room blearily by its glow. He saw nothing, and when after a few minutes the noise didn't repeat, Bob reached back again for the light and turned it off, and gradually drifted back to sleep.

There had definitely been a noise this time. Bob sat up quickly in bed, hoping to catch whatever it was unawares, but he saw nothing move in the moonlight that filtered in through the blinds. He reached back and pulled on the light's cord twice in rapid succession, flashing the light in an attempt to startle whatever it was, but only succeeded in making everything look even darker than it had. Bob sighed and curled back up under the blankets, not at all sleepy now.

When the noise came again, the faint crunching, Bob lay still under the covers for a moment. Then, in one swift movement, he flung his hand up, yanked on the light, and flung himself from the bed with the sheet outstretched to catch whatever was on the floor. He landed quickly and heavily, but a quick search revealed no lumps under the sheet. Before Bob could conduct a more intensive search, he heard the crunching noise again from behind him. He spun around to see a squat, catfish-like creature, with bulbous arms and legs and stringy whiskers dangling from its chin, crouching on his bedside table. Small shards of pottery lay around it, and the lit bulb from the lamp was in its mouth. Bob noticed that its whiskers were about the same thickness as his lamp's cord, and realized with some disgust what he had been pulling on. As he watched, the creature crunched through the glass and the bulb popped, plunging the room into darkness. Bob lunged for it, but collided only with his bare table. He froze and listened intently, hoping to catch it sneaking away, but the room was still and quiet. After a minute, Bob gave up and climbed back into bed.

Current Mood: [424 words]

Bob's Ride Home
EVENING

Bob stepped up and showed his ticket to the driver as the bus pulled up. The driver grunted unintelligibly, and Bob headed back to sit down. He was settling his briefcase between his feet when he felt someone shove in next to him. As he looked up, he was assaulted by the stench of unwashed body, and he involuntarily recoiled against the window. The bum who had squeezed in next to him took this as an invitation to slide closer, and leaning up next to Bob, he whispered, "I know how to make you famous."

The man's vacant eyes and sunken mouth unnerved Bob, so he said only, "Excuse me," and pushed past the bum to move to another seat. "Famous," hissed the man again as Bob moved by. "Faaaay-muss." He began to giggle quietly.

Bob sat down several rows up and shared a wide-eyed, "what's with this guy" look with the other passengers on the bus. There were only about a dozen of them, and Bob was wondering why the bum had decided to sit next to him and not in one of the multitudes of empty seats when he suddenly felt something leathery sliding over the shoulders of his suit coat. He turned his head just in time to catch a blast of the bum's foul breath in his face, and hear him whisper again, "Famous."

"Leave me alone!" Bob said brusquely, although he kept his voice quiet. The bum rocked back and forth behind Bob's seat, humming and grinning, and showed no intention of leaving. Exasperated and a little frightened, Bob once again picked up his briefcase and moved, this time to the extreme back of the bus. He sat down in the aisle seat with his back against the wall and his briefcase occupying the seat next to him, and declared firmly to himself that he would not move again, no matter what the bum did.

His resolve began to slip, though, as the bum slowly turned and began to walk back towards him. "Don't you want them all to know you?" he asked, smiling widely to expose an almost toothless mouth. "Don't you want them to remember you?" He advanced slowly towards Bob, the terrible grin fixed on his face. Bob looked to the other passengers for help, but they were all staring too intently out the windows. He thought bitterly that it was very well for them to pretend this wasn't happening -- they weren't the ones being harassed by this vagrant.

"Bah-ahb," whispered the bum, and Bob's attention snapped back to him. He was only a few rows away now, still advancing in his rocking gait. "Bob," he repeated, smiling even more widely. "Bob. I know your name, Bob. I know you. Don't you dream of being famous, Bob? Don't you want them to look at you, to think about you, to point when you go by? I can do that for you, Bob."

"Leave me alone!" Bob said loudly, his voice shaking. The bum stepped closer. "Stop!" Bob cried, and the bum reached out a hand to touch him. Bob let out an inarticulate yell and shoved the bum with his briefcase, sending him tumbling into the seats across the aisle, and then ran for the front of the bus.

As soon as he was clear of the seats, Bob grabbed one of the poles and spun around, expecting to see the bum climbing out of the seat and heading for him. Instead, he was greeted by the sight of all of the passengers staring at him with open, frightened eyes. Confused, Bob looked from one to another, wondering why they were staring at him. A wavering cackle came from the back of the bus, and a quiet voice said, "They'll remember you now, Bob. They'll talk about you, and recognize you when they see you again. You're famous, Bob. I made you famous, like I promised..."

The bum's voice faded off into inaudibility, and Bob rushed back to grab him, to shake him and demand to know why he, Bob, had been singled out, to get answers -- but when he got there, the seat was empty. He dropped to his knees and peered under the seats, but there was no one there. He stood back up and saw everyone still staring at him, and understood. "No. No, you didn't see him? It wasn't me! There was a bum, who --"

Bob trailed off as the other passengers avoided his gaze and turned to look back out the window. He hit the stop button and headed for the doors, and when the bus halted, he fled into the darkening streets.

Current Mood: [781 words]

Pens and Pencils
AFTERNOON

"How was lunch, Bob?" asked the secretary disinterestedly as she dumped a stack of papers on his desk.

"Mmm? Oh, fine," Bob responded, not looking up. He checked his notes, and scribbled something else on his notepad. He heard the door close, and assumed the secretary had left, until he heard her drumming her nails on his desk.

"Yes? What do you --" Bob looked up, and was startled to find the room empty except for himself. He cocked his head, but the room was silent. 'Odd,' Bob thought, and reached for his pencil again. However, when he put his hand down where it had been a moment before, he encountered empty desk. His brow furrowed, Bob turned to see his pencil rolling gently across his desk towards the pen and pencil holder. He was about to pick it up when it suddenly heaved upright, balancing on its eraser. From behind the holder came a martial rattle as all six of Bob's pencils sprang forth and upended the holder, spilling the pens across the desk. Led by the mechanical pencil, the wooden pencils began to hop up and down on the scattered pens, kicking them towards the edge of the desk.

Suddenly, one of the pens whirled in a vicious sweep, knocking the pencil attacking it to the hard surface of the desk. It spun itself upright and smacked into another pencil, which teetered for a minute before regaining its balance and fighting back. The other pens took advantage of the distraction to fend off their attackers as well, and soon a full-scale fight had erupted.

The pencils broke off from the initial skirmish and regrouped behind the fallen holder. Although there were only four pens on the desk, two of them were fountain pens, and although the others were comparatively flimsy Bics, they were still tougher than any of the wooden pencils. The pens gathered together and charged as the pencils emerged from their shelter, pushing something. On a signal from the mechanical pencil, all of the pencils dropped, tripping the hapless pens and sending them rolling wildly away. The pencils snagged one of the Bics bringing up the rear and rolled him over to the object they'd been shoving -- the staple remover. The pen thrashed wildly, but with all seven pencils on it there was no hope. The pencils thrust the Bic into the jaws of the staple remover and held it in place while the mechanical pencil leapt furiously up and down on it, crushing it between the steel jaws again and again. Ink leaked out from the pen's mangled side and seeped into the blotter.

The pencils' dance of jubilation was interrupted as something flew into the mechanical pencil and knocked it from its perch. It sprang back up, clicking wildly, then was immediately smacked horizontal again as a paperclip, flung by a rubber band stretched between the two fountain pens, tore off part of his eraser. The pencils milled about in confusion, until another paperclip caught one of their number squarely on the brand name, breaking him in half. They fled for the edge of the desk, paperclips whizzing after them and occasionally taking out chips of paint and wood. It became apparent that their flight was no mere retreat, however, when they levered up the top of the stapler and, with two of the pencils serving as rollers, began advancing across the desk, firing staples.

Bob jumped back as a staple struck him on the nose, drawing a drop of blood. Bemusedly, he wondered if he should be doing something to stop this, but all he could think to do was put them all back in the holder, which didn't seem like it would do much good. He watched as the other Bic, pierced by staples in three places, flung itself awkwardly forward and, in two jolting hops, crushed the points off of both of the rolling pencils.

The stapler jolted to a halt as the pencils stopped rolling, and the top slammed down on the Bic, trapping him. He struggled feebly, and the fountain pens rushed forward to save their comrade. They knocked one pencil down and, rolling it along at great speed, rushed it past the holder, one pen passing on either side. The pencil snapped into three pieces, the middle section spinning wildly across the desk, and the pens turned for another attack.

The pencils came at them in a group, determined to fling them off the edge of the desk by sheer force of numbers, but the pens linked the clips in their caps together and spun. One balanced on the desk while the other shoved off, whirling its metal mass in a circle that sheared the tops off of both of the remaining wooden pencils and sent the mechanical pencil flying.

The fountain pens, still linked, hopped over to the Bic caught in the stapler. They leaned over it, then in a quick motion, leapt and landed on top of the stapler. There was a shattered crunch, and the Bic jerked once and was still.

As the pens tumbled off of the stapler, the battered mechanical pencil hurled itself at them. With incredible precision, it delivered a blow just below the base of the cap of one of the pens that spun it out of its cap and onto the desk. The pencil kicked again and sent it hurtling over the edge. There was a clang and a snap from below as its nib broke on the edge of the trash can on the way down, then a muffled thud as it impacted on the carpet, and then nothing.

The remaining pen faced off against the mechanical pencil, empty cap still dangling. It feinted a few times, then gave up the subtlety for a brutal rush. The pencil dodged to the side, but the pen swung the trailing cap and knocked it down, then followed it to the desk, cap still swinging. At the first impact of the metal cap, the pencil's clip snapped. On the second, its eraser popped off, and sticks of lead spilled out. The pen proceeded to jump on these until they were ground to dust.

Numbly, Bob stood up and walked out of the room. As he passed the secretary's desk, she said, "Bob, did you know your pen's gone bad?"

Bob's head snapped around, and he looked at her wildly. "What? How do you know?" he demanded.

"Well, it's leaking," she said, surprised at his vehemence, and pointed at his shirt pocket. Bob looked down to see a small ink stain spreading against his shirt. In the middle, not obvious from any real distance, was a dim gleam from an ink-soaked staple.

Current Mood: [1,122 words]

Bob and the Balloon Seller
MORNING

Bob was your average businessman: mid-40s, slightly balding, a bit of a beer belly. This morning, he'd dressed in a brown suit and a matching hat, and set out down the sidewalk with his briefcase to catch the bus to work.

On his way down to the bus stop, Bob passed a balloon seller. "Buy a balloon, sir?" the man called out to him. Bob kept walking, and the man yelled, "I have both types!"

Bob turned back around. "Both types?" he asked curiously. The man nodded. "Helium and oxygen," he said proudly, and Bob noticed that indeed, half of the man's balloons were hanging downwards.

"What do I need a plain oxygen balloon for?" Bob asked. "I can blow one of those up myself."

"Oh, these are filled with premium oxygen," the man said, "and besides which, they come free with the helium ones. I wouldn't want to do any of my customers wrong. Look, try a couple; I guarantee your satisfaction."

Bob figured the man's pitch was worth at least a couple of dollars, so he pulled out a five and handed it to the seller, expecting a balloon and some change. Instead, the seller grinned hugely, pushed an entire handful of strings into Bob's hand, and said, "Thanks, mister! Enjoy your ride!"

As he said this, it seemed for a second that he was getting rapidly smaller, until Bob realized that he was in fact rising. He panicked and nearly let go, until he noticed that he was already almost thirty feet up and directly over the middle of the street, so he simply clung on with both hands, his briefcase tight against his chest. The balloons dragged him upwards until the air around him grew thin, and Bob found himself gasping for breath. Suddenly, he remembered the oxygen balloons, and carefully hauled one up to his mouth. He bit through the knot and inhaled greedily, enjoying the rush of fresh air.

After ten minutes or so, Bob was down to his last oxygen balloon, and he still had no idea where the balloons were towing him or how to control them. He'd thought of popping them, but hadn't wanted to try it in case it dropped him more rapidly than he might have liked. However, he was running out of options, so he gingerly reeled in one of the helium balloons and poked at it. It merely bobbed away from his finger, so he pulled it closer and bit into the rubber.

He yanked his head back, expecting a pop, then cautiously opened his eyes when there was no noise. There were two holes in the balloon, but no air was coming out. Bob looked at it, puzzedly, then put his mouth to one of the holes and inhaled, sucking the helium out. The balloon deflated, and as Bob exhaled, he began to sink slightly. Heartened, he bit into another balloon and repeated the process. After another two balloons, he was sinking quite rapidly, and the indistinct shapes on the ground were quickly resolving themselves into clear, identifiable and above all hard buildings. Bob realized with a bit of a shock that the one he was currently rushing towards was his own office building, and indeed his own office.

The side of the building was hurtling towards Bob with a fair turn of speed, so he gathered his remaining balloons directly in front of his torso and head and braced for the impact. All of the balloons burst at once as Bob slammed into the side of the building, and he teetered precariously on a window ledge before steadying himself. bob examined himself as best he could on a one-foot wide ledge, and was amazed to find that the balloons seemed to have taken all of the impact. Even his briefcase was sitting calmly on the sill next to him.

Bob fumbled with the window in front of him, trying to coax it into sliding up. There were a few tense moments with some frisky gusts of wind, but after a minute the window grudgingly slid open. Bob wriggled through the gap, shoving the blinds out of the way, and tumbled into his own office. His briefcase, knocked off-balance by his struggle through the window, tipped over and hit the floor behind him.

Bob clambered up, dusted himself off and stared around in amazement. One of his co-workers walked by and called, "Morning, Bob! How was your trip to work?"

Bob opened and closed his mouth soundlessly a few times, then said, "You know? It was fine."

Current Mood: [762 words]

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