Saturday, February 13, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: Mobility: Underrated
I can limp again. This is surprisingly better than it gets credit for. Most people see a hobble and think, “That poor guy.” It’s only when you mess your knee up so badly that you have to keep it curled under you like a dead fetus hanging off your hip that you appreciate the limp. Where once it hurt like blue blazes just to shift my body, now it hurts to limp. I’m mobile! Limping is mobility under repair. It deserves a better term than “shamble” or “lurch.” This is the Igor Strut. That’s what I’m doing. I’m desperately Igor Strutting my way to the bathroom at 2:00 AM. Mobility: highly underrated by the mobile.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: Feldman will Never be a Man
The three old ladies hovered outside the kitchen door. They chatted idly and watched Feldman chop vegetables for the stew. He worked quietly, hunched over as though to protect himself from the music and conversations in the living room.
Miriam, the youngest and whitest-haired, picked at her muffin.
“How can he ever be the man of this house? He does whatever his sister says.”
"She sent him in there."
“And I heard he cleaned this entire house last night for the reception just because she mentioned it.”
“I heard she made him pay out of pocket for the casket.”
“He does all their laundry, you know.”
“He's done that since their father got sick.”
“No backbone. Nothing like his father.”
“Or grandfather.”
“Now that was a man who could win a war.”
“I could make that boy do my laundry. Just snap my fingers.”
Miriam flipped her wrist like sassy colored girls did on TV, but arthritis wouldn’t let her fingers snap. The three chortled together.
“You should make him do my laundry.”
"And mow my lawn."
“He’ll mow all our lawns if his sister tells him to.”
“You’d think his father would have beaten a little pride into him.”
“A shame he had to pass. He was so young for cancer.”
“More people are getting it these days. I heard on the news that it’s something in soda pop.”
“I heard it was meat.”
“That’s mad cow, not cancer.”
“At least it was a nice service.”
“Pretty shabby, I think. The Catholic Church on Northridge would have done a better job. And it was such a cheap coffin.”
“You’d think they’d want the best for him, after all his father did for this family.”
At some point in the conversation Feldman had finished with the carrots. Miriam felt him behind her. The three glanced and saw him in the doorway, chopping knife still in hand. His hands and sleeves were stained bright orange.
“My sister said to be polite to you,” he said.
They turned to him.
“What’s that?” asked Miriam.
He cleared his throat and came through the door. His skin was pasty and he was scarcely taller than any of the old women.
“I don’t agree with everything my sister says,” he said into her eyes. “She says that you three are catty because you’re infirm, and funerals like this are hard on you because it reminds you what’s coming. She said to be polite to you because the occasion might make you sensitive.”
He turned the knife upside down so that its tip pointed at his stomach. He extended the handle to the old ladies.
“The stew's on. Why don’t you clean up the kitchen while I change?”
When they didn’t answer immediately, he pushed the handle in-between Miriam and Winifred. Their fingers closed around it unconsciously, two women holding one knife. A little carrot orange got on either of their hands.
In handing it over, he drew close enough that the old women could feel something detestable on him, something between young heat and the smell of housework.
"I inherited a lot of shirts that don't fit me this week. I need to go try one of them on." He unbuttoned his stained sleeves and rolled them up like he should have before he'd started cooking. Like he would have if he'd done this before. "Bring your laundry over later after dinner and maybe I'll throw it in with mine."
Feldman walked to the stairs.
There ends Afterlife Week. A story on the theme of afterlives has gone up every day this week. You can read the other four by going to the HOME page or clicking the 'Afterlife Week' label tab. Please vote for your favorite in the poll on the left hand side!
Miriam, the youngest and whitest-haired, picked at her muffin.
“How can he ever be the man of this house? He does whatever his sister says.”
"She sent him in there."
“And I heard he cleaned this entire house last night for the reception just because she mentioned it.”
“I heard she made him pay out of pocket for the casket.”
“He does all their laundry, you know.”
“He's done that since their father got sick.”
“No backbone. Nothing like his father.”
“Or grandfather.”
“Now that was a man who could win a war.”
“I could make that boy do my laundry. Just snap my fingers.”
Miriam flipped her wrist like sassy colored girls did on TV, but arthritis wouldn’t let her fingers snap. The three chortled together.
“You should make him do my laundry.”
"And mow my lawn."
“He’ll mow all our lawns if his sister tells him to.”
“You’d think his father would have beaten a little pride into him.”
“A shame he had to pass. He was so young for cancer.”
“More people are getting it these days. I heard on the news that it’s something in soda pop.”
“I heard it was meat.”
“That’s mad cow, not cancer.”
“At least it was a nice service.”
“Pretty shabby, I think. The Catholic Church on Northridge would have done a better job. And it was such a cheap coffin.”
“You’d think they’d want the best for him, after all his father did for this family.”
At some point in the conversation Feldman had finished with the carrots. Miriam felt him behind her. The three glanced and saw him in the doorway, chopping knife still in hand. His hands and sleeves were stained bright orange.
“My sister said to be polite to you,” he said.
They turned to him.
“What’s that?” asked Miriam.
He cleared his throat and came through the door. His skin was pasty and he was scarcely taller than any of the old women.
“I don’t agree with everything my sister says,” he said into her eyes. “She says that you three are catty because you’re infirm, and funerals like this are hard on you because it reminds you what’s coming. She said to be polite to you because the occasion might make you sensitive.”
He turned the knife upside down so that its tip pointed at his stomach. He extended the handle to the old ladies.
“The stew's on. Why don’t you clean up the kitchen while I change?”
When they didn’t answer immediately, he pushed the handle in-between Miriam and Winifred. Their fingers closed around it unconsciously, two women holding one knife. A little carrot orange got on either of their hands.
In handing it over, he drew close enough that the old women could feel something detestable on him, something between young heat and the smell of housework.
"I inherited a lot of shirts that don't fit me this week. I need to go try one of them on." He unbuttoned his stained sleeves and rolled them up like he should have before he'd started cooking. Like he would have if he'd done this before. "Bring your laundry over later after dinner and maybe I'll throw it in with mine."
Feldman walked to the stairs.
There ends Afterlife Week. A story on the theme of afterlives has gone up every day this week. You can read the other four by going to the HOME page or clicking the 'Afterlife Week' label tab. Please vote for your favorite in the poll on the left hand side!
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: The Other Place Sam Went
Don't cry, honey. Your friend is in two places now, rather than just here. When a werewolf dies he splits. Sam has gone to wherever humans go - I don't know where that is, but it's probably a nicer place than around here with everyone persecuting him. The wolf side, though, goes straight up. See the moon? That's the source of his wolfish side. See the dark blotch up there? How it forks on the right, like the ears of a bunny? You can kind of see his arm, and back there are his legs mid-stride. That's the rabbit in the moon. He's running from the great pack of werewolves. All the wolfish ghosts to ever die ascend to the moon, to chase that rabbit. They're ghosts, so they don't hunger. They don't need to catch him, so it's okay that they still haven't. They just chase him forever, with thousands of their own kind. All those thousands running are why the moon revolves, making it spin under the scampering of their invisible paws. Sam's wolf-self is up there helping the moon spin now. If you ever miss him, you can look up and cheer him on to catch that blasted bunny.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: Rent-a-Time
But we know the process doesn't work like that. You can't change the past and you can't listen to me when I say that. You want to save your girlfriend, so you lie to me that you're just going to say goodbye that morning. You insist you won't do anything to upset space/time continuum. And I know you're lying, but in saying that I just get us into an argument about me trusting you and you wanting your safety deposit on the time machine rental back. It's non-refundable, by the way. I'll waste the next hour trying to steer the conversation back to the fact that you literally cannot save her. You could rent a bulldozer and park it in front of her garage that morning, and she'd just catch a ride with someone else and that car would be hit instead. Tie her to the bed and she'll still die that morning, that same minute. Maybe an aneurysm. The driver will, too. Maybe a second aneurysm. He'll still crash, because you can't stop any of the major things from occurring. She dies, the driver who hit her dies, and his car is wrecked. If you believe in Quantum Economics, then you believe the city will wind up spending the same amount of money to clean up the wreck whether she's in it or not. Ah. It doesn't matter since you're not listening. Your eyes have glazed over. You're going back in time no matter what. You can't bring her to the present, you know? There's a safety on our time machines that makes them return to the present, ditching the patron in the past, if there's any threat of a paradox. But you're not listening again. You see the inside of this time machine as the only place you can sit down, because the only other place you'll sit today is at her funeral, and you just can't have that. Now son, we normally have a seventy-day waiting period after a tragedy before we rent one of these out. But I can see how this whole thing's going to go. I've been in the business long enough to recognize inevitability.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: It’s not a Purgatory
In this sect Heaven does not have gates. Heaven has soil. The literature fails to mention if there is a sky. All you know is that there will be stretches of flat earth and light enough to dig by. Millions of other people will be in these flatlands with you, but they are not communicative. They are busy looking for where to dig. You should get busy as well, says this sect. If you dig in the wrong place the ground will close up as soon as you remove your hands. To find your digging spot requires deeper senses than those that dominated your life, or great luck. Once you dig in the right spot, though, you have a lot of digging to do. No one else can help you and you have to do it with your bare hands. Once you dig deep enough you’ll find an object. The object is just for you – no other soul can touch it. It might be a sabre, or the fender of a car, or a teddy bear. If you’ve thought about life as you lived it, the sect says you’ll recognize the significance of the item and immediately transcend to the next level of Heaven – the good part, with all the relaxation and Beatles reunion concerts. If you’re like most people, though, you won’t recognize the item. You’ll have to meditate on it, trying to figure out why it summarizes what you did right and wrong in life. Generally the object relates to what got in your way. Maybe that teddy bear was the gift of the father who so emotionally scarred you that you took abusive habits in adult life. Likely, it will be more complicated than that. Only once you recognize the full meaning do you transcend. The sword, fender, teddy bear or whatever your token is will not transcend with you; it resumes being a part of you like it was throughout your life. The soil closes back up, to hide the next item for the next dead soul. The Soil of Heaven is sort of like most Christian Purgatories, that test for the masses before entrance, which validates and purifies. It’s not a Purgatory, though, unless you make it one.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: After This, Play Chutes and Ladders
It’s like chutes and ladders. There are several obscure tiers, each connected by many chutes and ladders. Instead of rolling a die to progress across the afterlife, you live a life. Similarly instead of progressing “three” spaces, you progress “average life plus helped out at soup kitchens a lot minus masturbated a little more than was necessary” spaces. How long that is really isn’t conceivable in a world where “three” spaces still makes sense. Anyway you progress based on your life, and if you hit a ladder you ascend, and if you hit a chute you descend. Then you live another life. The object is to get all the way across the board to that final ladder, presumably to Heaven or at the very least to the afterlife’s attic where the other board games are stored. Nobody who has climbed up there has bothered to come back down and tell the others, so we assume it’s really great. It’s also assumed that there are way more chutes than ladders, resulting in the bulk of humanity getting stuck on the bottom row. That’s why overpopulation is so common.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Afterlife Week
Tomorrow begins a special event on the Bathroom Monologues: Afterlife Week.
From Monday on we'll see pieces on what happens after death. It's not always after human death, and it's not always what happens to the person who died - it's werewolves, Purgatory, family matters, chutes and ladders.
It all begins at 9:00 AM tomorrow (Monday) morning! Please vote in the poll for your favorite afterlife.
From Monday on we'll see pieces on what happens after death. It's not always after human death, and it's not always what happens to the person who died - it's werewolves, Purgatory, family matters, chutes and ladders.
It all begins at 9:00 AM tomorrow (Monday) morning! Please vote in the poll for your favorite afterlife.
Bathroom Monologue: It Could be Worse
He laughs. He laughs until he coughs, and coughs until he needs his kerchief. When he pulls it from his mouth it is stained yellow with a little pink. His teen grandson sees it and grimaces.
“It could be worse,” he tells his grandson, crumpling the kerchief.
“How could it be worse?” his grandson snaps. He snaps in the tone of a teenager who hasn’t rolled his eyes at all of his grandfather’s politics today. The tone of a teenager who hasn’t texted complaints about how this place smells when he was in the bathroom. The tone of a teenager who hasn’t left his cigarette butts smoldering outside the windows of old ladies with oxygen tanks.
“How could it be worse, Grandpa? Nana’s gone and you’re alone. Your cane has four feet because you’re so crippled. You shit in a bag. I see you cringe in pain whenever you think I'm not looking at you! How could it be worse, Grandpa?"
His grandson tenses, some part of him beneath the anger afraid he’s going to be punched. He has never hit his grandson – has never shown more aggression than pumping his arms during Sunday football. But his grandson tenses.
He does not hit his grandson. He grasps his four-legged steel cane and trembles his way to the door. He faces away as he opens it.
"How could it be worse?" He asks, his hand shaking on the doorknob and his smile steady. "You could be staying longer."
“It could be worse,” he tells his grandson, crumpling the kerchief.
“How could it be worse?” his grandson snaps. He snaps in the tone of a teenager who hasn’t rolled his eyes at all of his grandfather’s politics today. The tone of a teenager who hasn’t texted complaints about how this place smells when he was in the bathroom. The tone of a teenager who hasn’t left his cigarette butts smoldering outside the windows of old ladies with oxygen tanks.
“How could it be worse, Grandpa? Nana’s gone and you’re alone. Your cane has four feet because you’re so crippled. You shit in a bag. I see you cringe in pain whenever you think I'm not looking at you! How could it be worse, Grandpa?"
His grandson tenses, some part of him beneath the anger afraid he’s going to be punched. He has never hit his grandson – has never shown more aggression than pumping his arms during Sunday football. But his grandson tenses.
He does not hit his grandson. He grasps his four-legged steel cane and trembles his way to the door. He faces away as he opens it.
"How could it be worse?" He asks, his hand shaking on the doorknob and his smile steady. "You could be staying longer."
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: Behold!
Its molecules have a special adhesive property that will not only bond to flesh on contract, but will seep through other materials like gloves so that anyone who picks it up will surely be stuck to it. Cutting edge subliminal messaging flashes on the screen to suggest reading the iReader’s preloaded books no matter what you’re using it for. None of the books were written by authors, instead generated through advanced focus testing on the levels of Novelty, Arousal, Superficiality, Chapter Brevity, and that weird kind of offensiveness that makes people tune into Howard Stern even though they hate him. Even if the books fail to snag an iReader customer’s attention span, a micro-gravity anomaly will force the iReader to remain between chest- and eye-level for the customer at all times. These are hard times for books, but the iReader promises to save us by finally producing a book that is impossible to put down.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: Planet Versus Spaceship
"Hey! Hey! What's going on here?"
"Hi! I'm a spaceship."
"Hi! I'm a planet. What are you doing?"
"I think I'm hurtling towards you."
"I know you are. That's why I was yelling."
"I wondered about that. Talking planets are kind of rare. How are you doing?"
"Having a great day, provided nothing crashes into me."
"I think I'm going to ruin that day, planet."
"Yeah, but why?"
"It's not really in my hands. I'm being piloted."
"Piloted? Man, that must suck. I just go around that star over there."
"It's a nice star!"
"Well thanks! Why don't you crash into it instead?"
"I'm afraid I can't. These pilots are nuts. It's out of my hands."
"Do you have hands? Because if you do, put them on that steering wheel! Let me tell you, ten out of ten ships prefer to crash into a star than a planet."
"Friendly as you are, I'm not sure I believe that! Regardless, I don't have hands. It was a figure of speech."
"I figured. But you can hope."
"You can!"
"You don't have a nuclear payload, do you?"
"Yeah. Sorry about that."
"I really wish spaceships would stop ramming into me with their nuclear payloads."
"You get a lot of them?"
"Boy howdy! Ten this year alone and I'm not nearly around the central star yet. I've lost all life on my surface. It's down to some microbes in my ocean."
"Which ocean?"
"Why do you want to know?"
"Making small talk, friend!"
"...You're not a talking spaceship, are you?"
"Sure I am!"
"You sons of bitches! You daughters of ugly planets!"
"Alright, so you caught us. But you're about catch us again right in an ocean!"
"Why are you doing this?"
"Life on you stinks! You pollute the galaxy!"
"I don't have any more life on me! Spaceship, listen to me!"
"We're not a talking spaceship. We're eradicating the last of an evil species on your surface."
"Spaceship, stop them! Think about how painful it is to crash!"
"The planet's gone mad. Prepare the payload."
"You'll be sorry!"
"We'll be done with you! Five seconds to impact."
"Get into positions, friends!"
"Three... Two... Is the planet talking to somebody else?"
"Get 'em!"
"Sir, we've stopped. We're six meters above the west ocean. We can't move."
"In your face!"
"What did that planet do?"
"I did nothing! My friends, on the other hand..."
"Sir, the ten other spaceships we sent..."
"Well, they're good-spirited!"
"The other suicide ships! They're here, and we're caught in their tractor beams! Looking all kinds of messed up. Did it rebuild them?"
"People die in suicide missions, but planets and spaceships? We just get pissed off."
"Sir, I can't detonate the payload! We're being hacked! The other ships are hacking us!"
"Eleventh spaceship buddy, here I come! Oh wait, what's that? You want to go home?"
"Communications going down. Can't signal the home fleet--"
"Oh, you want to go detonate at home? Want to take some friends?"
“Sure do, buddy!”
"Hi! I'm a spaceship."
"Hi! I'm a planet. What are you doing?"
"I think I'm hurtling towards you."
"I know you are. That's why I was yelling."
"I wondered about that. Talking planets are kind of rare. How are you doing?"
"Having a great day, provided nothing crashes into me."
"I think I'm going to ruin that day, planet."
"Yeah, but why?"
"It's not really in my hands. I'm being piloted."
"Piloted? Man, that must suck. I just go around that star over there."
"It's a nice star!"
"Well thanks! Why don't you crash into it instead?"
"I'm afraid I can't. These pilots are nuts. It's out of my hands."
"Do you have hands? Because if you do, put them on that steering wheel! Let me tell you, ten out of ten ships prefer to crash into a star than a planet."
"Friendly as you are, I'm not sure I believe that! Regardless, I don't have hands. It was a figure of speech."
"I figured. But you can hope."
"You can!"
"You don't have a nuclear payload, do you?"
"Yeah. Sorry about that."
"I really wish spaceships would stop ramming into me with their nuclear payloads."
"You get a lot of them?"
"Boy howdy! Ten this year alone and I'm not nearly around the central star yet. I've lost all life on my surface. It's down to some microbes in my ocean."
"Which ocean?"
"Why do you want to know?"
"Making small talk, friend!"
"...You're not a talking spaceship, are you?"
"Sure I am!"
"You sons of bitches! You daughters of ugly planets!"
"Alright, so you caught us. But you're about catch us again right in an ocean!"
"Why are you doing this?"
"Life on you stinks! You pollute the galaxy!"
"I don't have any more life on me! Spaceship, listen to me!"
"We're not a talking spaceship. We're eradicating the last of an evil species on your surface."
"Spaceship, stop them! Think about how painful it is to crash!"
"The planet's gone mad. Prepare the payload."
"You'll be sorry!"
"We'll be done with you! Five seconds to impact."
"Get into positions, friends!"
"Three... Two... Is the planet talking to somebody else?"
"Get 'em!"
"Sir, we've stopped. We're six meters above the west ocean. We can't move."
"In your face!"
"What did that planet do?"
"I did nothing! My friends, on the other hand..."
"Sir, the ten other spaceships we sent..."
"Well, they're good-spirited!"
"The other suicide ships! They're here, and we're caught in their tractor beams! Looking all kinds of messed up. Did it rebuild them?"
"People die in suicide missions, but planets and spaceships? We just get pissed off."
"Sir, I can't detonate the payload! We're being hacked! The other ships are hacking us!"
"Eleventh spaceship buddy, here I come! Oh wait, what's that? You want to go home?"
"Communications going down. Can't signal the home fleet--"
"Oh, you want to go detonate at home? Want to take some friends?"
“Sure do, buddy!”
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: Things I would say to J.D. Salinger's head if we were both cloned, decapitated and kept in a Futurama-like museum
-"Weird to spend all those years pissing in jars and then live in one, right? Maybe they can bring some over for company."
-"Never read Franny and Zooey. Got it on audiobook? Or maybe you could recite it from memory. Same for me."
-"Did you really write a story called Ocean Full of Bowling Balls? So we do have something in common!"
-"I'd take you in the Rye, JD, but you don't have arms to play catch."
-"Hey janitor! This isn't the real Salinger. He's some kind of phony!"
-"Yes, my plan is to get you to kill yourself. But don't worry: I won’t publish anything about it.”
-“Mind passing me that pen? Oh, that's right. We don't have hands!"
-"You look like you want to get something off your chest. Want to tell me about it, or should I call a hooker?"
-“So should we… oh yeah! No hands!”
-"I was thinking maybe we aren't really floating heads. Maybe you're just an insane asylum. ... Psych! That'd be such a lame ending."
-"Never read Franny and Zooey. Got it on audiobook? Or maybe you could recite it from memory. Same for me."
-"Did you really write a story called Ocean Full of Bowling Balls? So we do have something in common!"
-"I'd take you in the Rye, JD, but you don't have arms to play catch."
-"Hey janitor! This isn't the real Salinger. He's some kind of phony!"
-"Yes, my plan is to get you to kill yourself. But don't worry: I won’t publish anything about it.”
-“Mind passing me that pen? Oh, that's right. We don't have hands!"
-"You look like you want to get something off your chest. Want to tell me about it, or should I call a hooker?"
-“So should we… oh yeah! No hands!”
-"I was thinking maybe we aren't really floating heads. Maybe you're just an insane asylum. ... Psych! That'd be such a lame ending."
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: Describe UFO
The object appeared around dusk. It circled in the moon about once every ten seconds, leaving a white trail behind it that formed a visible circle. Amateur astronomers had no idea what the trail was made of or what the object was. Whatever it was, it kept adjusting its flight pattern such that its white circle was visible in the sky from earth throughout the night.
Leena’s telescope wasn't that advanced. At the highest magnification the object only looked like a white dot. She doubted sincerely that the object was just a white dot.
She looked up from the telescope again and wrote more on her pad. On TV the reporters shifted talk away from the object, saying they wanted to spend a minute on the day's protests in Washington, but they'd be back with a spokesman from NASA after commercials. Her roommate reached for the remote.
"Don't touch it, Sam," Leena warned, finishing her notes.
Sam groused. "Come on. I want to watch TV, and there's no way that thing is a UFO."
"Is it in the sky?"
Sam rolled her eyes and smoothed out her yellow pajama bottoms.
"Yes."
"So then it's flying. Can you tell me what that thing is?"
On the television, the Washington pundit disappeared, replaced by soothing ads for depression drugs. Her roommate mulled the problem over for a couple of commercials before proposing something.
"Maybe it’s a wormhole. No one’s ever really seen one."
"If a black hole opened in the middle of the sky the earth would be sucked in by now. Certainly the moon. That is not a wormhole."
"Okay, it's not a wormhole. But you don't know what it is either."
"Then it's unidentified. And if it's unidentified and flying, it's a UFO. Unless you can divine that it's not an object."
On the television, the ads were replaced with high definition footage of the object from a space satellite. Several thousand miles closer than Leena’s telescope and it still only looked like a white dot circling the moon.
"It could be an optical illusion."
"Shut up, Sam. Science is happening."
“I wish science would happen when House isn’t on,” she said, turning up the volume so Leena could hear better.
Leena’s telescope wasn't that advanced. At the highest magnification the object only looked like a white dot. She doubted sincerely that the object was just a white dot.
She looked up from the telescope again and wrote more on her pad. On TV the reporters shifted talk away from the object, saying they wanted to spend a minute on the day's protests in Washington, but they'd be back with a spokesman from NASA after commercials. Her roommate reached for the remote.
"Don't touch it, Sam," Leena warned, finishing her notes.
Sam groused. "Come on. I want to watch TV, and there's no way that thing is a UFO."
"Is it in the sky?"
Sam rolled her eyes and smoothed out her yellow pajama bottoms.
"Yes."
"So then it's flying. Can you tell me what that thing is?"
On the television, the Washington pundit disappeared, replaced by soothing ads for depression drugs. Her roommate mulled the problem over for a couple of commercials before proposing something.
"Maybe it’s a wormhole. No one’s ever really seen one."
"If a black hole opened in the middle of the sky the earth would be sucked in by now. Certainly the moon. That is not a wormhole."
"Okay, it's not a wormhole. But you don't know what it is either."
"Then it's unidentified. And if it's unidentified and flying, it's a UFO. Unless you can divine that it's not an object."
On the television, the ads were replaced with high definition footage of the object from a space satellite. Several thousand miles closer than Leena’s telescope and it still only looked like a white dot circling the moon.
"It could be an optical illusion."
"Shut up, Sam. Science is happening."
“I wish science would happen when House isn’t on,” she said, turning up the volume so Leena could hear better.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
"Writing for Millions" at Editors Unleashed
Today’s story is my essay for the “Why I Write” contest over at Editors Unleashed. You can read “Writing for Millions” here.
The contest is open to public vote in case you would like to support my writing. The forum requires a log-in to prevent theft of the essays. Sign-ups take a minute and there’s no spam.
You might ask how an essay is a story. A good essayist might pity you for asking that question, knowing the school system killed the essay for you before you even knew what it could be. Not being a good essayist, I'll only say that “Writing for Millions” is actually fiction; the argument of the essay isn’t why I write, but its style absolutely is.
I have a story on how this essay came about, which I'll share another day if there's desire amongst you readers. For now, thank you for reading.
John Wiswell's "Writing for Millions" at Editors Unleashed.
The contest is open to public vote in case you would like to support my writing. The forum requires a log-in to prevent theft of the essays. Sign-ups take a minute and there’s no spam.
You might ask how an essay is a story. A good essayist might pity you for asking that question, knowing the school system killed the essay for you before you even knew what it could be. Not being a good essayist, I'll only say that “Writing for Millions” is actually fiction; the argument of the essay isn’t why I write, but its style absolutely is.
I have a story on how this essay came about, which I'll share another day if there's desire amongst you readers. For now, thank you for reading.
John Wiswell's "Writing for Millions" at Editors Unleashed.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: “Monetize the eyes” –Advertising jargon
Welcome to life, newborn! Your eyes have been pre-loaded with 5,000 hours of 20/20 vision. Some blurring may occur within the first few days of usage. Still, most customers will attest that even half an eye is significantly better than none, especially when you’ve just discovered they exist! Your parents have selected the Budget Sensory Package, which includes some auditory and olfactory functions in addition to your magnificent 5,000 hours of vision. Hearing and smell sure are nice, aren’t they? You can probably smell that first bottle of Generic Formula cooking in the nurse’s station already. But nothing quite matches vision. The glorious miracle of sight, being able to see color and depth, all our rich world, is your privilege for the next 5,000 hours for which you wish to open your eyes. That’s two hundred days if you don’t close them! Sleeping is recommended both to rest the eyes and to pace out use of your hours. Additional hours of vision can be purchased from the hospital billing department, online through our handy pass code system, or at participating retailers (provided your skull has been stamped with a readable barcode). If you are short on cash, we recommend blinking more often. Did you know that frequent blinking can reduce the use of your eyes by up to 25%? Probably not as you were just born, but you should figure it out soon!
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: Trying a kidney joke at twitter length
For the third time that weekend Tim woke up in a tub of ice. He laughed. Those bastards were out of luck. He didn't have any kidneys left.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: Did you kick out His secretary, too?
In an unprecedented move this morning, the Vatican excommunicated God on the grounds of heresy. The Holy Roman Catholic Church has long acknowledged the theory of evolution to be true, but had never before taken action against the creator for committing evolution when scripture plainly says that everything happened in seven days. The Church's panel found that while it would be legal to start evolution today, having done it when the Holy Roman Catholic Church didn't know of it or disavowed it "was a severe retroactive heresy."
When reached for comment, God said He was working on other projects. When asked about those projects, He pretended He was listening for a while, then revealed various things that our senior reporter hadn’t confessed but should have. Our senior reporter is now in therapy.
God was last seen on Mars, where He was reportedly working in “mysterious but more explicitly obvious ways.”
When reached for comment, God said He was working on other projects. When asked about those projects, He pretended He was listening for a while, then revealed various things that our senior reporter hadn’t confessed but should have. Our senior reporter is now in therapy.
God was last seen on Mars, where He was reportedly working in “mysterious but more explicitly obvious ways.”
Friday, January 29, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: Three Story Statement
Listen to the audio edition or download the MP3 of John Wiswell's "Three Story Statement" here.
All comments and feedback are welcome!
When you compare the three short stories and realize that Wisenheim wrote them all in the same summer, I think it’s obvious he was making a statement.
"Talky" was dumb. I don't know why you'd write a story that’s all dialogue. There’s no way to get into the action. I guess it works as art, but not as a good story. Even as art fiction, meh. His point is so obvious in that one, too. The radio dispatcher keeps getting information that’s wrong. Somebody tells him the last turn is ten miles from the depot, he relays it to the convoy, and they wind up lost and looted. He sends soldiers to the docks and the ships that radioed they'd be in an hour ago aren’t there. Any directions using palm trees fail because it turns out there are no palm trees. He quits when he realizes that he can’t know anything from a distance like this because he’ll rely on others and others are always fallible. That’s pretty lame, but I get why you assigned it. It's easy for Freshmen to analyze.
"Faithful" was the funniest. The guy is so obsessed with his wife cheating on him that he actually gives her the idea to do it. She's a perfect wife the whole story, so sweet and picking up after him. Being so mean and accusing her of being a harlot convinces her to try it out. So he’s wrong the first half of the story, but he’s also wrong for the second half - because he's convinced he was wrong. He feels guilty about all the accusations. He convinces himself she’s the perfect wife that she was to begin with and gets so guilty that he doesn’t even get up to check the heavy breathing in the next room. He thinks they’re moving furniture, which is what she and his best friend were actually doing in the opening scene when he suspects they were sleeping together! That’s funny, but it’s also a statement. He is wrong on every single page and the topic he’s wrong about is his personal life. He interprets the bedsprings creaking, and her tone, and that she’s flushed when she walks in from getting the mail – all of it wrong, and both ways. He can never know for sure about anything that doesn't happen right in front of him, even the obvious.
The third story is just mean. The tone is so condescending and Wisenheim even titled it "Idiot." I think the main character is mentally handicapped. You say caricature, but I say offensive stereotype. And he’s constantly being taken advantage of. A blind guy sells him a bad painting by out-talking him. A deaf guy sells him a broken cello by convincing the Idiot that this sound will be in vogue next year. The cologne salesman has no sense of smell but is rich because he went on what was popular instead of what he might have liked. Then the blind guy’s painting turns out to be a notorious fake that’s worth more than the original because of the infamy. The story trips over itself by getting as many personal, obvious things wrong as possible – he actually plays the broken cello and doesn’t realize there should be more strings and it’s out of tune. Then those wrong things turned out not to be right, but even more wrong in a way that’s better than if they were right – like his girlfriend falling back in love with him because he’s so pathetic playing that cello. He’s wrong about everything that’s right in front of him, or right on him. He can’t even tell if he likes the cologne. He decides he hates it just before the girlfriend compliments how he smells. So according to Wisenheim you can be an Idiot with a capital 'I' about what's right in front of you.
But here’s the thing: Wisenheim wrote all three in the same summer. He had all three points in mind at the same time and didn't pick just one. But the points are totally contradictory! What’s he saying? That strangers, friends, your wife and yourself are all unreliable? That you can’t know about stuff that’s far away, close or even right before your eyes? That’s scary. How would he even know to write the stories if all that was true? Unless it's because fiction is something he made up and that's the only thing he could know about.
All comments and feedback are welcome!
When you compare the three short stories and realize that Wisenheim wrote them all in the same summer, I think it’s obvious he was making a statement.
"Talky" was dumb. I don't know why you'd write a story that’s all dialogue. There’s no way to get into the action. I guess it works as art, but not as a good story. Even as art fiction, meh. His point is so obvious in that one, too. The radio dispatcher keeps getting information that’s wrong. Somebody tells him the last turn is ten miles from the depot, he relays it to the convoy, and they wind up lost and looted. He sends soldiers to the docks and the ships that radioed they'd be in an hour ago aren’t there. Any directions using palm trees fail because it turns out there are no palm trees. He quits when he realizes that he can’t know anything from a distance like this because he’ll rely on others and others are always fallible. That’s pretty lame, but I get why you assigned it. It's easy for Freshmen to analyze.
"Faithful" was the funniest. The guy is so obsessed with his wife cheating on him that he actually gives her the idea to do it. She's a perfect wife the whole story, so sweet and picking up after him. Being so mean and accusing her of being a harlot convinces her to try it out. So he’s wrong the first half of the story, but he’s also wrong for the second half - because he's convinced he was wrong. He feels guilty about all the accusations. He convinces himself she’s the perfect wife that she was to begin with and gets so guilty that he doesn’t even get up to check the heavy breathing in the next room. He thinks they’re moving furniture, which is what she and his best friend were actually doing in the opening scene when he suspects they were sleeping together! That’s funny, but it’s also a statement. He is wrong on every single page and the topic he’s wrong about is his personal life. He interprets the bedsprings creaking, and her tone, and that she’s flushed when she walks in from getting the mail – all of it wrong, and both ways. He can never know for sure about anything that doesn't happen right in front of him, even the obvious.
The third story is just mean. The tone is so condescending and Wisenheim even titled it "Idiot." I think the main character is mentally handicapped. You say caricature, but I say offensive stereotype. And he’s constantly being taken advantage of. A blind guy sells him a bad painting by out-talking him. A deaf guy sells him a broken cello by convincing the Idiot that this sound will be in vogue next year. The cologne salesman has no sense of smell but is rich because he went on what was popular instead of what he might have liked. Then the blind guy’s painting turns out to be a notorious fake that’s worth more than the original because of the infamy. The story trips over itself by getting as many personal, obvious things wrong as possible – he actually plays the broken cello and doesn’t realize there should be more strings and it’s out of tune. Then those wrong things turned out not to be right, but even more wrong in a way that’s better than if they were right – like his girlfriend falling back in love with him because he’s so pathetic playing that cello. He’s wrong about everything that’s right in front of him, or right on him. He can’t even tell if he likes the cologne. He decides he hates it just before the girlfriend compliments how he smells. So according to Wisenheim you can be an Idiot with a capital 'I' about what's right in front of you.
But here’s the thing: Wisenheim wrote all three in the same summer. He had all three points in mind at the same time and didn't pick just one. But the points are totally contradictory! What’s he saying? That strangers, friends, your wife and yourself are all unreliable? That you can’t know about stuff that’s far away, close or even right before your eyes? That’s scary. How would he even know to write the stories if all that was true? Unless it's because fiction is something he made up and that's the only thing he could know about.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Circle of Friends
Both Michael Solender and Barry Northern recently gave me one of their Circle of Friends Awards. While I try to keep The Bathroom Monologues to stories alone, I'm going to do this one today.
But there is still a story today. "Crossdressers for Rights" is the next post down.
Come to think of it, that title sounds like another web ring.
First is Randall Nichols and his Mojo Wire. A college friend, fellow fan of anime and professional wrestling, a comic book writer and aspiring screenwriter. He holds the distinction in my life of being the only person to defend both barbed wire deathmatches and Milk. This week he's running a series of "Best Horror Films of the Decade" lists. My list is actually up there today.
Second is A Shift in Dimensions, home of excellent emerging writer Laura Eno. She's way more popular than I am so I'm not sure why I'm promoting her. I must like her writing.
Third is the photo blog of another dear friend, Shelly's Caution: Turtle with a Camera. She has resolved to take and post at least one photo a day as she hones her craft. I comment there more than on any other site on the web. You'll have to read my comments to find out why.
All these years and I cannot spell "fourth" with any confidence. Why does the command have to be "Go forth?" That screwed me up from elementary school on. Anyway, 4th is Jodi MacArthur's creatively titled Fiction Writer: Jodi MacArthur. She's on hiatus right now as she writes her big novel. She is a determined writer and wonderful buddy. I must like her because hers is the only blog I will ever link you to that has a soundtrack on it. So, go forth. Fourth. God dammit.
Fifth goes to the crew at Geektress. Theirs is one of the few podcasts I download every week. Both the podcast and the main site deal with nerddom, mostly with television, film and comics. Seldom do I hear conversations about these topics that are so upbeat. I may even show up on the podcast as a voicemail sometime.
But there is still a story today. "Crossdressers for Rights" is the next post down.
Come to think of it, that title sounds like another web ring.
First is Randall Nichols and his Mojo Wire. A college friend, fellow fan of anime and professional wrestling, a comic book writer and aspiring screenwriter. He holds the distinction in my life of being the only person to defend both barbed wire deathmatches and Milk. This week he's running a series of "Best Horror Films of the Decade" lists. My list is actually up there today.
Second is A Shift in Dimensions, home of excellent emerging writer Laura Eno. She's way more popular than I am so I'm not sure why I'm promoting her. I must like her writing.
Third is the photo blog of another dear friend, Shelly's Caution: Turtle with a Camera. She has resolved to take and post at least one photo a day as she hones her craft. I comment there more than on any other site on the web. You'll have to read my comments to find out why.
All these years and I cannot spell "fourth" with any confidence. Why does the command have to be "Go forth?" That screwed me up from elementary school on. Anyway, 4th is Jodi MacArthur's creatively titled Fiction Writer: Jodi MacArthur. She's on hiatus right now as she writes her big novel. She is a determined writer and wonderful buddy. I must like her because hers is the only blog I will ever link you to that has a soundtrack on it. So, go forth. Fourth. God dammit.
Fifth goes to the crew at Geektress. Theirs is one of the few podcasts I download every week. Both the podcast and the main site deal with nerddom, mostly with television, film and comics. Seldom do I hear conversations about these topics that are so upbeat. I may even show up on the podcast as a voicemail sometime.
Bathroom Monologue: Crossdressers for Rights
The airline knew something was up, but you couldn’t do anything about it. The ladies didn’t protest at the metal detectors or pat downs, even the 6’4” ones who were very obviously not women. There were thirty in the party, all in sundresses, some with unshaved legs, many with masculine cheekbones. Three were downright gorgeous slender goddesses, but they had ‘M’ stamped on their passports like their friends. They giggled and chattered, putting up no fight at an additional security check. There was no reason not to let thirty friendly, paying customers on the plane, and so they boarded. Maybe it was a transvestite support group heading on a French vacation. The thirty had booked their seats specifically so that they took up half the plane. Everyone seated to the left of the aisle was a man in heels. They groaned and kicked off their heels as soon as they sat down. They watched the demonstrations, buckled safely, and joked about floatation implants. They took drinks and talked amongst themselves, only murmuring about their mission. The flight attendants knew something was up, but what, they couldn't say. They had to take off. Only once they got into French air space did the ladies let it slip, thirty ladies reaching into their carry-ons and putting on burkas. They scared the heck out of the pilots and other passengers, despite being cheery and remaining in their seats. They landed and were met by very confused police nationale. After they were released from detainment they told reporters, still wearing their floral dresses and black veils, that it was only illegal for women to cover their heads in this country, but no matter what you felt about it, men should wear anything to make a point.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: Feedback on the Best of a Century
Dear _____,
I’m writing about your Best Short Stories of the Century anthology that you put out with ______ Press. I realize it’s about eleven years old now and you probably don’t get much mail on it, but my dad got it for me since he said if I want to be a writer I need to know what serious writers write about, not all elves and lasers and crap. Those are his words, not mine. I don’t even like scifi much. My brother was also a big fan of yours until the Iraqis killed him. So I figured I’d give you a chance.
I don’t mean to be rude but you have shit taste in stories. I don’t like science fiction, but how come none of the best short stories of the century were scifi? Or fantasy? Or detective stuff? Or funny? I can stop my door with your book and not one story in here is funny. That’s fucked up. Mark Twain was funny, and I know he was before that century, but fuck man. Was nobody funny after Mark Twain? Every story in here is sad or melancholy, and melancholy is just sadness that jacks off when no one’s looking. Those are my brother’s words. He was very funny and he liked you. That’s why I don’t understand why you’d put this book together.
These don’t seem like the best stories of any century. I was a kid for the few years of that century I was around for at all. Maybe you had to be there. But Jesus! Nothing happens in most of them until the end, and then it’s like the writer is making up for doing nothing by killing the guy or making somebody leave. They’re so whiny. Like, I get that a racist story about a black guy is going to an angry story. But what the fuck is up with all the disgruntled immigrants, rich people, middle class, and everybody? Also, there’s only one story in here about black people. My brother would have totally called you on that if he read this. He was into equal rights.
He never wrote you fan mail because he was a little slow. He could read, but wasn’t so good at writing. It intimidated him. You missed out, because he was an awesome guy. If you played him three songs off any album he could imitate their stuff so well and make it hilarious. He was smarter than they thought. Too slow for college, but smart enough to get into the military. We had a plan. He was going to do all the legwork, make money. I was going to go to college instead. I’d be the brains. Those were his words. Now his brains are on a street somewhere. They wouldn’t ship the body back so Mom could see it. That’s fucked up and if he was alive he’d make fun of it. Why doesn’t anyone grab life by the balls in your book? Nobody makes fun of death. Nobody works until his little brother makes it to Yale.
That’s what’s wrong with your book. A whole fucking century and not one story that’s honest to your fans. Sure, Dad likes all your stuff, but this is not the shit my brother would like. Mom thinks you have a psychotic complex against women and I think you’ve got shit taste in stories. That means 2/3 people in my house think you suck. When my brother was alive it was tied. Now it’s 2/3.
This is my English assignment to you, from Mrs. ___’s tenth grade English. Write something funny that’s great. It’s a new century. It’s my fucking century. So give me and my brother’s memory something different than the same angry/sad shit that was apparently all the 20th century made. You can write about my brother if you want. You can even write about him being blown up. It was a bomb disguised as a brown paper bag on the side of the road. But don’t you only write about that shit. You write about how he nearly made me piss my pants making fun of the Jonas Brothers on the last call home he made. If you make that story sad, you will fucking fail my century.
Also, don’t you think it’s kind of sad that you put one of your own stories in there? Remember in high school how lame it was when a kid editor put her own shit in the paper? They do it all the time and it only gets lamer. I won’t do that shit when I’m famous.
Sincerely,
________
I’m writing about your Best Short Stories of the Century anthology that you put out with ______ Press. I realize it’s about eleven years old now and you probably don’t get much mail on it, but my dad got it for me since he said if I want to be a writer I need to know what serious writers write about, not all elves and lasers and crap. Those are his words, not mine. I don’t even like scifi much. My brother was also a big fan of yours until the Iraqis killed him. So I figured I’d give you a chance.
I don’t mean to be rude but you have shit taste in stories. I don’t like science fiction, but how come none of the best short stories of the century were scifi? Or fantasy? Or detective stuff? Or funny? I can stop my door with your book and not one story in here is funny. That’s fucked up. Mark Twain was funny, and I know he was before that century, but fuck man. Was nobody funny after Mark Twain? Every story in here is sad or melancholy, and melancholy is just sadness that jacks off when no one’s looking. Those are my brother’s words. He was very funny and he liked you. That’s why I don’t understand why you’d put this book together.
These don’t seem like the best stories of any century. I was a kid for the few years of that century I was around for at all. Maybe you had to be there. But Jesus! Nothing happens in most of them until the end, and then it’s like the writer is making up for doing nothing by killing the guy or making somebody leave. They’re so whiny. Like, I get that a racist story about a black guy is going to an angry story. But what the fuck is up with all the disgruntled immigrants, rich people, middle class, and everybody? Also, there’s only one story in here about black people. My brother would have totally called you on that if he read this. He was into equal rights.
He never wrote you fan mail because he was a little slow. He could read, but wasn’t so good at writing. It intimidated him. You missed out, because he was an awesome guy. If you played him three songs off any album he could imitate their stuff so well and make it hilarious. He was smarter than they thought. Too slow for college, but smart enough to get into the military. We had a plan. He was going to do all the legwork, make money. I was going to go to college instead. I’d be the brains. Those were his words. Now his brains are on a street somewhere. They wouldn’t ship the body back so Mom could see it. That’s fucked up and if he was alive he’d make fun of it. Why doesn’t anyone grab life by the balls in your book? Nobody makes fun of death. Nobody works until his little brother makes it to Yale.
That’s what’s wrong with your book. A whole fucking century and not one story that’s honest to your fans. Sure, Dad likes all your stuff, but this is not the shit my brother would like. Mom thinks you have a psychotic complex against women and I think you’ve got shit taste in stories. That means 2/3 people in my house think you suck. When my brother was alive it was tied. Now it’s 2/3.
This is my English assignment to you, from Mrs. ___’s tenth grade English. Write something funny that’s great. It’s a new century. It’s my fucking century. So give me and my brother’s memory something different than the same angry/sad shit that was apparently all the 20th century made. You can write about my brother if you want. You can even write about him being blown up. It was a bomb disguised as a brown paper bag on the side of the road. But don’t you only write about that shit. You write about how he nearly made me piss my pants making fun of the Jonas Brothers on the last call home he made. If you make that story sad, you will fucking fail my century.
Also, don’t you think it’s kind of sad that you put one of your own stories in there? Remember in high school how lame it was when a kid editor put her own shit in the paper? They do it all the time and it only gets lamer. I won’t do that shit when I’m famous.
Sincerely,
________
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: Global Heating
He’s not a mad scientist. Dr. Todd’s just disgruntled. Back when the popular hysteria was global cooling, he saw a global warming trend. Now it’s all the rage and he gets none of the credit. All the endowments going to the younger and better spoken environmentalists. He’d been working on the problem for sixty years. Now they had his technology and were going to start a green movement without him! He couldn’t afford the rent and some ex-vice president was breaking the box office. So you see, he didn’t go insane. Anyone could in that circumstance, but Dr. Todd didn’t. He went angry. His research went into reverse. You want to fight global warming? He’d pull all those nasty carbon particles from the atmosphere, and the atmosphere with it! He’d bake this ungrateful planet like a potato, starting with the carbon over his ex-wife’s house.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: Sick Day Thoughts
The flu did weird things to Peters. He was wonky enough that, for a moment, he thought a malicious goblin might be spying on him from behind the Cheerios on fridge.
He scratched his head rapidly and set his teeth. His mind was addled. He slunk back to bed, sure there couldn’t be such a thing.
And there couldn’t. The only malicious goblins were hiding behind the Raisin Bran. It was gremlin behind the Cheerios, making feverish hand gestures to the other creatures.
He directed the amateur succubus from the table, the imps in the silverware drawer, and teeth-eating tooth faeries behind the pepper and salt shakers. They kept very still, moving around to other sides behind their respective boxes with the gremlin’s commands, keeping out of Peters’s field of vision. It was essential to remain in secret.
He would catch a real glimpse of them someday, though. Perhaps when he picked up the Epsom salts too quickly and found legged serpent, or turned around too quickly and saw the sailors in the painting on his wall were actually alive. Then all the wee critters would have to come at him and bring him down. They simply couldn’t let him know his apartment was a den of evil miniatures.
Yes that was probably what was up, Peters thought to himself as he settled down in bed. You could have fantasies like this when you were sick. It was the only time you could get away with them.
He switched on the television and laid his head on the pillow. It was fortunate that a music video came up, or else he would have heard the gnome squeak under his pillow. Then they would have had to bring him down.
He scratched his head rapidly and set his teeth. His mind was addled. He slunk back to bed, sure there couldn’t be such a thing.
And there couldn’t. The only malicious goblins were hiding behind the Raisin Bran. It was gremlin behind the Cheerios, making feverish hand gestures to the other creatures.
He directed the amateur succubus from the table, the imps in the silverware drawer, and teeth-eating tooth faeries behind the pepper and salt shakers. They kept very still, moving around to other sides behind their respective boxes with the gremlin’s commands, keeping out of Peters’s field of vision. It was essential to remain in secret.
He would catch a real glimpse of them someday, though. Perhaps when he picked up the Epsom salts too quickly and found legged serpent, or turned around too quickly and saw the sailors in the painting on his wall were actually alive. Then all the wee critters would have to come at him and bring him down. They simply couldn’t let him know his apartment was a den of evil miniatures.
Yes that was probably what was up, Peters thought to himself as he settled down in bed. You could have fantasies like this when you were sick. It was the only time you could get away with them.
He switched on the television and laid his head on the pillow. It was fortunate that a music video came up, or else he would have heard the gnome squeak under his pillow. Then they would have had to bring him down.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: War of the Rings
You’ve got a magic ring. He’s got a magic ring. That you’d feud is natural. That he’d become your nemesis is a blessing. There’s nothing so great as a nemesis, as everything they do validates everything you want. You never have to bother with reason. A nemesis will invariably do something to justify your feelings, no matter how hypocritical, no matter how much you have to twist what he does to fit it. I cannot think of a better gift to give than getting someone to hate you that badly.
Hate doesn’t help the fights. Your ring responds to willpower, his to fear. Perhaps hatred is what lies between the two, or it’s the friction produced by will grinding against worry. I don’t know. But you need to understand why you can’t beat him. Again, I think it’s great that you can’t: the nemesis that doesn’t end is the gift that keeps on giving.
But it’s not because he’s got more experience with his ring. It’s not that his imagination is more powerful. How many times has he summoned giant crabs with that thing?
The problem is how your rings eat emotion.
Yours runs on your willpower. You worked your way through school and beat alcoholism. You’ve got will in spades.
His runs on fear. However worried you are plus however terrified be can make the city before you get there. That’s a lot of fuel, but you can match it. Routinely, you do.
Yours runs on your willpower. His eats the fear of others so you just assume it only eats their fear. That’s your mistake. His ring eats his insecurities, too. He’s riddled with them. He’s built up an artifice, the cool exterior. The terrorist villain who is unmoved. Every time he puts up that face, he’s pretending. He’s actually terrified you’ll finally kill him. Nobody attacks a city because they’re secure in themselves. Nobody summons giant crabs that many times because he’s steady in the head. What he’s done is build a bulwark of his fears, brace them against each other to prop up the appearance of being collected. All the while, the anticipation of your next move, the apprehension about his morality, the nerves about getting caught – all that is churning inside him, feeding his ring. That’s why he never runs out of magic even when you stop being afraid of him. That’s why you haven’t beaten him.
Surely there’s something you can do with that knowledge to ruin his day, right?
Hate doesn’t help the fights. Your ring responds to willpower, his to fear. Perhaps hatred is what lies between the two, or it’s the friction produced by will grinding against worry. I don’t know. But you need to understand why you can’t beat him. Again, I think it’s great that you can’t: the nemesis that doesn’t end is the gift that keeps on giving.
But it’s not because he’s got more experience with his ring. It’s not that his imagination is more powerful. How many times has he summoned giant crabs with that thing?
The problem is how your rings eat emotion.
Yours runs on your willpower. You worked your way through school and beat alcoholism. You’ve got will in spades.
His runs on fear. However worried you are plus however terrified be can make the city before you get there. That’s a lot of fuel, but you can match it. Routinely, you do.
Yours runs on your willpower. His eats the fear of others so you just assume it only eats their fear. That’s your mistake. His ring eats his insecurities, too. He’s riddled with them. He’s built up an artifice, the cool exterior. The terrorist villain who is unmoved. Every time he puts up that face, he’s pretending. He’s actually terrified you’ll finally kill him. Nobody attacks a city because they’re secure in themselves. Nobody summons giant crabs that many times because he’s steady in the head. What he’s done is build a bulwark of his fears, brace them against each other to prop up the appearance of being collected. All the while, the anticipation of your next move, the apprehension about his morality, the nerves about getting caught – all that is churning inside him, feeding his ring. That’s why he never runs out of magic even when you stop being afraid of him. That’s why you haven’t beaten him.
Surely there’s something you can do with that knowledge to ruin his day, right?
Saturday, January 23, 2010
The Puzzlemaker's Wife at Tweet the Meat
Today's Bathroom Monologue is a very short one - so short the zine couldn't run its title. It's "The Puzzlemaker's Wife." You can read it over at Tweet the Meat. Tweet the Meat is a super-short zine that only runs stories that fit into a single tweet.
You can send comments to me on Twitter at @Wiswell, or leave Comments in this post.
Read John Wiswell's "The Puzzlemaker's Wife" here.
You can send comments to me on Twitter at @Wiswell, or leave Comments in this post.
Read John Wiswell's "The Puzzlemaker's Wife" here.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: Checkered Treasure
They came to the last trap. The guide carried a torch, while Lo carried a giant rolled up carpet. It was very brave of him to face the trials without weapons, and the guide praised him for it with the enthusiasm of a man who knows a hefty tip is in sight.
“Stupendous avoidance of the snakes, maestre! I don’t know how the rug helped you, yet you clearly knew what you were doing. We’re already at the end. The treasure is virtually in your hands. I’ve never seen a man make it so far.”
“Thanks for the crib notes.” Lo grinned. Having someone, like the guide who’d watched so many adventurers die down here, tell him how half the trials worked made life easier.
“Anything for a generous employer! Yet I must apologize, I’ve never seen this one passed.”
The guide stopped before what looked like a giant checkerboard. It stretched twenty yards in both directions, made of man-sized white and black tiles. Beyond was an archway, mounds of gold glittering in the torchlight. Lo admired the view as the guide stooped to read the inscription at the foot of the trap.
“What have we got?” Lo asked, setting the carpet down.
“Many men have come. Many men have died.” He chortled, “This was etched back when the trials were installed. Very cocky of them to guess many would die.”
“The whole trapped-temple design kind of belies cockiness. Tomorrow, hopefully we’ll be rich enough to be that cocky. But is there anything practical on there?”
“Well. For every white tile you touch, you must walk three tiles left. For every black tile you touch, you must walk one tile forward. If you deviate you will fall into the Pit of Dragons.” The guide reached out and knocked on the nearest tile. It echoed hollow and deep below. “I don’t know if there any dragons under here, or if they are still alive, but metaphorical or literal, the fall will probably be bad.”
“It’s a diabolical temple,” Lo nodded matter-of-factly. “I’m pretty sure I’d die somehow. But does it say if going the one forward necessitates going three left again? And if the two black ones I touch going left count necessitate going two forward?”
“No, maestre.”
“It doesn’t say what I have to do when I reach the left wall either?”
“No, maestre.”
“And it’s not so old a dialect that it’s a vague translation problem?”
“Positively not, maestre. My mother still speaks this dialect when she wants to swear. It’s quite familiar to me.”
Lo laughed, hanging his head. “The book I read said it was a dialect problem. Should have known.”
“You know of this?”
“Oh yeah, there’s a poem. Three great conquerors try to cross.” Lo pointed. “They start from the right side. One conqueror goes three left, one diagonal, and falls in. One conqueror goes three left, two diagonals, and falls in. The third writes a book about leaving to take over their lands with them dead. It’s great.”
“So you had help for every trap in advance?” The guide clapped his hands in the way of a man who still sees hope for that tip. “Such a wise man. What is your plan?”
Lo nudged him aside and kicked the carpet. It unfurled across the board, a frumpy red weave flapping over marble and obsidian. It finished rolling with only four tiles to go.
“Four.” Lo grumbled. “I knew I should have bought the long one.”
The guide stared at it. It was quite likely the ugliest thing that had ever been in this temple.
“You think that will work?”
Lo stretched his legs.
“Well, if I jump at the end.”
“Stupendous avoidance of the snakes, maestre! I don’t know how the rug helped you, yet you clearly knew what you were doing. We’re already at the end. The treasure is virtually in your hands. I’ve never seen a man make it so far.”
“Thanks for the crib notes.” Lo grinned. Having someone, like the guide who’d watched so many adventurers die down here, tell him how half the trials worked made life easier.
“Anything for a generous employer! Yet I must apologize, I’ve never seen this one passed.”
The guide stopped before what looked like a giant checkerboard. It stretched twenty yards in both directions, made of man-sized white and black tiles. Beyond was an archway, mounds of gold glittering in the torchlight. Lo admired the view as the guide stooped to read the inscription at the foot of the trap.
“What have we got?” Lo asked, setting the carpet down.
“Many men have come. Many men have died.” He chortled, “This was etched back when the trials were installed. Very cocky of them to guess many would die.”
“The whole trapped-temple design kind of belies cockiness. Tomorrow, hopefully we’ll be rich enough to be that cocky. But is there anything practical on there?”
“Well. For every white tile you touch, you must walk three tiles left. For every black tile you touch, you must walk one tile forward. If you deviate you will fall into the Pit of Dragons.” The guide reached out and knocked on the nearest tile. It echoed hollow and deep below. “I don’t know if there any dragons under here, or if they are still alive, but metaphorical or literal, the fall will probably be bad.”
“It’s a diabolical temple,” Lo nodded matter-of-factly. “I’m pretty sure I’d die somehow. But does it say if going the one forward necessitates going three left again? And if the two black ones I touch going left count necessitate going two forward?”
“No, maestre.”
“It doesn’t say what I have to do when I reach the left wall either?”
“No, maestre.”
“And it’s not so old a dialect that it’s a vague translation problem?”
“Positively not, maestre. My mother still speaks this dialect when she wants to swear. It’s quite familiar to me.”
Lo laughed, hanging his head. “The book I read said it was a dialect problem. Should have known.”
“You know of this?”
“Oh yeah, there’s a poem. Three great conquerors try to cross.” Lo pointed. “They start from the right side. One conqueror goes three left, one diagonal, and falls in. One conqueror goes three left, two diagonals, and falls in. The third writes a book about leaving to take over their lands with them dead. It’s great.”
“So you had help for every trap in advance?” The guide clapped his hands in the way of a man who still sees hope for that tip. “Such a wise man. What is your plan?”
Lo nudged him aside and kicked the carpet. It unfurled across the board, a frumpy red weave flapping over marble and obsidian. It finished rolling with only four tiles to go.
“Four.” Lo grumbled. “I knew I should have bought the long one.”
The guide stared at it. It was quite likely the ugliest thing that had ever been in this temple.
“You think that will work?”
Lo stretched his legs.
“Well, if I jump at the end.”
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: “Report: One in five women have dumped partners over gaming” –Stephany Nunneley, vg247.com
Report: One in five women need to shut the hell up and stop walking in front of the TV when I’m… hey, where are you going? Get me some Mountain Dew while you’re out!
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: Purple Happy Birthday
As you can plainly see, each of my hands holds a gun. Inside one of them is some festive confetti and a little purple flag that says ‘BANG.’ In the other is a .357 inch bullet that would take the horns off a bull. I can’t figure out which is which. I spray-painted them the same color – purple was all I had. They have about the same heft. Neither has a safety, since like the Flying Graysons, I don’t believe in playing with nets. Which magnum is which? The suspense is killing me. What about you? Since it’s your birthday, I’ll let you pick which I’m going to stick in your mug and fire. You’ve got sixty seconds. After that, I’m going to fire both. Now come on! Left or right? Left or right? Stop asking yourself if I’m right-handed. I tied my tie with my toes this morning, and you’ve got forty seconds. Left or right? Left or right? Come on! Quit looking at my hands and pick one! Be impulsive! Live a little before you get your head blown off. Don’t make me flip a coin. That’s another guy’s gimmick! Twenty seconds! Help a guy out here. I’m no good at picking birthday presents. I was going to go in with Riddler and some ex-cons on a cake, but that’s so impersonal and fattening. I want to lighten up your life. Ten seconds, by the way. I wanted to do something that would touch you on the inside. Real, deep down. Five. Four. Three. Two. Happy birthday, Mr. Wayne!
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: The Flower Pit
The year after the church burned down, the town still hadn’t done anything about it. They’d cried, mourned those who had been trapped inside and talked considerably about rebuilding or erecting a memorial. Yet a year later and it was still an ashy hole.
When the anniversary rolled by many people visited the hole. They thought hard, prayed, wept, or stood silently and tried to think of something profound to say. Someone threw daisies into the ashes.
A half hour later new visitors saw those daisies and threw in some lilies. On the way home they spread news of the flowers, pollinating an idea. An hour later people of various gardens came with proper bouquets.
Some left floral arrangements where the steps had been. Others tossed handfuls of posies and roses.
By the next morning the site was a pit of wilting flowers. The city folk didn’t stop coming. They left their own flowers picked up from road stands and promised to return with some grander on Sunday. Some did, that Sunday and every Sunday, such every week the ash of the church was littered with colorful petals and an underbed of decay. These visitors were few, but a steady trickle.
Lots turned out for the second anniversary. More than half brought expensive flowers to pursue the ritual. They were surprised to find new flowers blossoming through the old offerings.
When the anniversary rolled by many people visited the hole. They thought hard, prayed, wept, or stood silently and tried to think of something profound to say. Someone threw daisies into the ashes.
A half hour later new visitors saw those daisies and threw in some lilies. On the way home they spread news of the flowers, pollinating an idea. An hour later people of various gardens came with proper bouquets.
Some left floral arrangements where the steps had been. Others tossed handfuls of posies and roses.
By the next morning the site was a pit of wilting flowers. The city folk didn’t stop coming. They left their own flowers picked up from road stands and promised to return with some grander on Sunday. Some did, that Sunday and every Sunday, such every week the ash of the church was littered with colorful petals and an underbed of decay. These visitors were few, but a steady trickle.
Lots turned out for the second anniversary. More than half brought expensive flowers to pursue the ritual. They were surprised to find new flowers blossoming through the old offerings.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: Cloud Garden
He gets up every day with the sun. Sometimes she wakes up first and makes the coffee, but when he wakes up he lets her sleep in. The sun lives by her schedule and he figures she needs rest.
He knows more about her than others because he lives above the clouds. He’ll walk out of his house barefoot, feeling the condensation between his toes. It reminds him of Spring grass after a rain. He’ll mull it over with a cup of coffee from the moon before he gets to work.
He rakes the clouds for a few hours, until she shines overhead. When the sweat beads up on his neck, he starts seeding. He throws handfuls into the clouds, not sticking them in like the rice he planted in his youth. He’s not that sort of farmer anymore. Up here he can be carefree, with space overhead, practicing the art of cloud plowing.
They spring up quickly. That’s a flower. That’s an old lady. That’s a jacket. That’s a fish. If you watch a cloud long enough, you’ll see them blossom, his seeds and their moisture working analogies out in the sky.
You never see him, though. He waits until everyone is on their way back home, including the sun. Only then does he dangle his legs from several miles up, watching people. That one’s a plumber. That one’s pregnant. That one’s going to be a president someday. Is he right? He doesn’t know, nor does the sun. Neither of them knows who seeds the people down there. They don’t think about it much. They just like to see what they see in people.
He knows more about her than others because he lives above the clouds. He’ll walk out of his house barefoot, feeling the condensation between his toes. It reminds him of Spring grass after a rain. He’ll mull it over with a cup of coffee from the moon before he gets to work.
He rakes the clouds for a few hours, until she shines overhead. When the sweat beads up on his neck, he starts seeding. He throws handfuls into the clouds, not sticking them in like the rice he planted in his youth. He’s not that sort of farmer anymore. Up here he can be carefree, with space overhead, practicing the art of cloud plowing.
They spring up quickly. That’s a flower. That’s an old lady. That’s a jacket. That’s a fish. If you watch a cloud long enough, you’ll see them blossom, his seeds and their moisture working analogies out in the sky.
You never see him, though. He waits until everyone is on their way back home, including the sun. Only then does he dangle his legs from several miles up, watching people. That one’s a plumber. That one’s pregnant. That one’s going to be a president someday. Is he right? He doesn’t know, nor does the sun. Neither of them knows who seeds the people down there. They don’t think about it much. They just like to see what they see in people.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: Nation Building
Hi. I’m the first president of Matsustan, a brand new federated archipelago in need of a population. I’ve been told to advertise my country to you, but I’m not going to. In an increasingly liberal world, our politics won’t be appealing to most of you weak-souled folk. We don’t hold back here. We will cane you for being an asshole. You do not have the right to speak freely or write whatever you want. If you deny the Holocaust, we will send a police officer to your house and he will kick your left knee in. All other genocide denials will be met with knee-related justice. In Matsustan you will have the right to a comprehensive healthcare system and the right to pay the taxes that cover it. You will not have the right to dodge taxes as we will garnish directly from your wages and audit you annually. Everyone will be audited every year by two separate tiers of audit specialists to ensure even audit specialists pay their fair share. You will not have the right to decide what your fair share is. Since we can’t afford another thirty seconds for this Superbowl commercial, let me close with our national motto: go ahead and try it, that’s why I carry a bat.
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