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.”

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.

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.

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.

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,
________

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.”

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!

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!

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.

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.

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.

Bathroom Monologue: God of Rebellion

There is no God of Rebellion. Okay, there is, but there isn’t. You see, he climbed out of his father’s head (like many gods do at birth) and immediately swore off his godhood. He has all the powers and immortality of a god, but refuses the office. That’s true to rebel fashion, I think you’ll see: happy to keep what advantages you have even when damning their source. At first he simply refused to go to Olympus or Parnassus, but when he heard that glorious Jupiter might have owned the earth, he took to a houseboat in the Mediterranean. That is the domain of his uncle, Neptune, but since he never talks to that deity he feels comfortable there. Should there ever be a God of Houseboats, though, he will likely abandon it. Officially, he refuses to cause or endorse any rebellions. Protests and revolutionary wars may continue to happen, but no matter what you hear, he has nothing to do with them. Never mind that a thing can’t happen without its God signing off on it. He is not being paid under the table by his father to keep rebellions going. He has nothing to do with them.

Please don’t hit me.

Helping the Nice Guy

Today's story, "Helping the Nice Guy," is over at Short.Story.Me. It's a crime story about a pickpocket who messes with the wrong guy: the nice guy. The Family is unhappy and now somebody's car is on fire.

Comments and criticism are welcome. You can leave anything you'd like to say in the Comments below this post.

You can read John Wiswell's "Helping the Nice Guy" here: http://www.short-story.me/crime-stories/129-helping-the-nice-guy.html

Bathroom Monologue: If there’s one piece of advice

Sometimes I feel too preachy about my craft. Today I'd just like to talk about one piece of simple writing advice that I got from the oddest of sources. If there’s one piece of advice I take from Tom Clancy, it’s this:

“Now I want you to remember that no bastard ever won a war by dying for his country. He won it by making the other poor dumb bastard die for his country.”

What? No. That’s George C. Scott from Patton.

Sorry.

The one thing Tom Clancy taught me is:

“Use the force, Luke.”

That is not Tom Clancy. That’s Obi Wan Kenobe from Star Wars.

“There’s a legend ‘round here: a killer buried, but not dead.”

…What?

“A curse on Crystal Lake. A death curse. Jason Voorhees’s curse. They say he died as a boy, but he keeps coming back.”

Is that the opening from Friday the 13th Part 7?

“Few have seen him… and lived.”

That’s not helpful literary advice. I think that’s plagiarism.

“Some have even tried to stop him. No one can.”

Are you in my house?

“I’d like to play a game.”

Is that the killer from Saw? Where are you?

“I'm sick from the disease eating away at me inside. I’m sick of people who don’t appreciate their blessings.”

I guess that’s illuminating on appreciating the ability to write… Are we done?

“Frankly Scarlet, I don’t give a damn.”

Bathroom Monologue: No Sam For You

Today's Bathroom Monologue can be seen on the Clarity of Night blog. No Sam For You can be read here.

I've submitted it as an entry into the "Silhouette" contest. The object was to write a 250-word story based on the above image by Jason Evans.

You can leave comments here or on the post over there. Reader's Choice voting begins in a few days if you're so inclined.

Again you can read John Wiswell's No Sam For You here: http://clarityofnight.blogspot.com/2010/01/entry-155.html

On a related note, are readers okay with stories I publish elsewhere serving as the story for the day on this site? It seems economical to me, and if you like my writing here then it stands to reason you'd like it elsewhere. I just want the opinion of the readership. Thanks!

Bathroom Monologue: The Pen is Mightier than the Ultimate

“Penultimate” is a funny word. It means “second-to-last,” which is a neat little utility word. You see, “ultimate” means “last.” That we use it to indicate “best” is a testament to our faith in happy endings, or the power of car commercials. One or the other. Yet if “ultimate” means “last,” and “penultimate” means “second-to-last,” then what does “pen” mean? We know it can mean a pointy or felt-tipped think from which we dispense ink to write checks and essays about Apartheid before the end of class. But this can’t be the only meaning if it turns “last” into “second-to-last.” It’s got to mean something like “right before.” We don’t see it in other places. Taking a girl out to dinner and a movie isn’t “pensex.” In fact seconds after coming into usage, “pensex” would probably mean something far different. “Pen” seems to play this prefix utility almost exclusively for “ultimate,” as though the pen exists to keep us a little further away from the end. Maybe that’s why it’s so intimidating to write first lines, and why so few books finish – the pen is cursed. Maybe the pen is trying to keep us from the real ultimate – from obliterating each other, through forcing us to think things through, cross out and temper our words. Maybe that’s why polemics are increasing in number and popularity since the keyboard has trumped the pen. “Penultimate” is a prettier word than “keyboardultimate,” not the least because one’s looking out for us, and where we’re going.

Bathroom Monologue: Why the trick didn’t work on Devin

That trick hadn't worked on Devin since seventh grade.

Back then, to get out early you needed a blue slip from the Principal's desk, and most kids carried them out all day, like personal emancipation proclamations. They proclaimed to all the suckers who would have to stay through ninth period Math. They'd march to the curb with them, and hold them in one hand until Mom or Dad drove up, which was when the slip lost its power.

But there was one boy, Trey Galloway, who stuck the slip in his breast pocket and made no fuss about it. If you asked Devin, Trey was an absent-minded idiot, but a fashion trend was born. Ignoring the leave-early pass was a whole magnitude of cool above making sure everybody saw it. Soon all the boys wore their slips in breast pockets.

From there, the trend escalated to a boy named Gary (Devin forgot his last name) who stuck his pass in his pants pocket and was stopped in the hall by a teacher. No one had even known he'd had this magic pass until that moment. Gary was forced to show the pass in front of dozens of his peers, a minor social infraction, yet it put a limit on the coolness: not caring about your pass was cool only so long as everyone else saw it.

The limit was a good thing for the trend. It defined the optimal coolness: for everyone to know you had something they wanted and you didn’t care about it. For many seventh graders it reinforced the need for breast pockets on days they were leaving early, but it inoculated Devin against this strain of ostentatious apathy for the rest of his life. How trivial a game, how lame to feign emotionless over something you should want, and how juvenile to tease others with your goods. It was probably why he detested so many popular musicians.

He was on his way to interview another rock star today, waiting for the train. That seventh-grade inoculation was why Devin didn't give the blonde with the plunging neckline a second look. And that was why he was the only one on the platform that didn’t see her jump down onto the rails.

Bathroom Monologue: So Much Moral Ox Feces

The Lenati knew everything. They had measured, weighed and calculated every ounce of the galaxy (and keeping ounces instead of metric was a heck of a struggle). They knew the factors increasing likelihood of abiogenesis down to a single atom of silicon on a planet, how fast light traveled when it was in a hurry, and what time it was on the sun.

Then some punk in freshman philosophy asked the least academically popular question (and most web-search popular question) of the hecallenium: “If all perception is subjective and all science is based on perception validated through further perception, how do we call anything objective?”

This wouldn’t have been such a big deal if, just at that moment, the sun hadn’t gone out.

Philosophy began about two minutes later.

Bathroom Monologue: Simple Discourse on Allergies

We’ll call him Webster. Webster suffers from a terrible allergy to dogs. When he gets a whiff of them, his eyes swell shut and his lungs spasm. People without a severe allergy don’t understand how it works and generally react by removing the offensive entity once alerted by a simple and socially viable sentence.

Webster backs away from the Doberman and says, “I’m allergic to dogs.”

This could be the end for his problems, but it isn’t because the owner speaks another sentence. Unfortunately this sentence has the same social viability as Webster’s. It is just as simple and everyone accepts that, just as his sentence means you must get the dog away from him, this sentence means he no longer has a right to avoid the dog.

The Doberman’s owner smiles, leaving enough slack on the leash her dog continues to advance on Webster.

“He’s hypoallergenic,” she says with a plaintive smile.

These socially viable sentence-long excuses allow us to skip conversations that are annoying, boring and one participant never really retains anything from anyway. When Webster uses a sentence like his, he’s defined the conversation as a simple one. The owner has responded in kind, so the brevity of discourse cannot be changed. It does not matter that even if her dog didn’t shed that its inevitable flesh dander would still aggravate Webster’s allergy. It doesn’t matter that all the crap the dog has picked up on its fur will agitate other allergies he has. It doesn’t even matter that Doberman Pinschers are not hypoallergenic. To explain any of this simply would make people think he was odd and downright rude.

If Webster were to back further away and say, “I don’t believe your dog is hypoallergenic,” offense would be registered.

If he says, “I don’t want to risk it,” she’ll think he’s weird.

If he breaches the brevity of discourse and explains how pet allergies work, she’ll be bored and know that he’s weird.

So now Webster is letting the dog lick him. Benadryl probably won’t stop his hand or eyes from swelling in a few minutes, but he’ll exceed the normal dosage anyway.

Bathroom Monologue: Mystery Belt

This story has been taken down so it can be submitted for publication. Hopefully you'll see it elsewhere soon. But if you're curious, I'm leaving the link to the audio edition up here.

Bathroom Monologue: Digital Preservation of Swear Words

One proposal for the new digital brains is monetizing word use. The new mechanical mind will let you browse the internet in your brain; GoogleBooks will let you do a month of research in minutes. Similarly you’ll have every word in the dictionary at your disposal. But the ability to think certain words, and think them strongly enough to form sentences that you can speak, will cost you. It’s a preventive measure against the kind of people who turned “shit” from a word used when the bank foreclosed on your house to a word used when you stubbed your toe. Everyone will be born with an allotment of ten free swears. In your life you may swear up to ten times at no charge at all, with the idea that you’ll save them for when your father is hit by a bus or you discover blood in your stool. Times when swearing is absolutely appropriate. Fur for every swear over the initial ten you’ll have to pay one hundred credits, equal to the wage of a middle class worker for two and a half days. With cussing being so expensive, it will be similarly rare, reserved only for extreme cases, and so will remain associated with the emotional extremes it deserves. The big problem with this legislation is, as one Representative put it, “the fucking wealthy will swear as much as they fucking want while everyone else is fucked.” But new legislation within this bill will bridge the gap. The wealthy will still be able to afford cussing, but any individual who swears will be charged an additional fee for every individual who hears them. So when Paris Hilton the 3rd hops on Youtube to swear with impunity, she’ll pay another week’s savings for every hit the video gets. With digital brains, everyone who hears the swear will automatically be registered with the central database. The math is infallible. Swearing in film is expected to likewise plummet, as no studio wants to spend more for one “fuck” than it did paying the actress to perform the act on camera. So it will be for the millionaire and the bus driver. If you dislike the proposal you can still tell the Parliament to fuck off, but in a few years it will cost you.

Bathroom Monologue: Anyone Can Do Malaise

Dear Professor Hannaford,

I spent two hours last night trying to co-write a piece with Ed like you assigned. I wrote one paragraph, then he did the second, and so-on. In two whole hours he ruined every story, leaving it unwritable. I cannot work with this man any further. I am attaching our last co-written piece below as an example.

I went first.

Sincerely,
Charlene


The popcorn chicken is too cold. Hot outside, but a squeeze shows it's frozen in the middle. I poke some buttons and add a few minutes to the timer. In the next room some guy who sold me a magic mop that didn’t work is selling something that has to do with X-Rays and hospital visits. Somewhere, someone coughs.

Out of nowhere an armored transport smashes through the wall! It crushes my stupid microwave oven. Popcorn chicken bits get stuck between the treds and fling up at me in all kind of crazy slow motion before the transport totally crushes me! Oh my God, the humanity! Armored commandos ignore my lame emo carcass as they jump out the back to secure the room. Let freedom reign!

Bathroom Monologue: A Beat Passes

[SAMID sits in the booth by the window, wearing a pink tuxedo. A GIANT BLACK CAT sits next to SAMID, drinking from a saucer of milk; she is the only one who has ordered anything yet. GARY sits across from SAMID, wearing a banana yellow tuxedo that is mildly crumpled. ARYANA sits very close to GARY but is looking away from him, wearing nothing noteworthy to anybody who hasn’t slept with her recently. A beat passes.]

Samid: But I don’t understand, Aryana. She’s almost a hundred years old. Alzheimer’s has eaten almost all her brain. Why do you have to be so cruel to her?

Aryana: It’s not cruel. It’s time she stopped believing that crap.

Samid: She can’t believe anything for more than ten minutes. Can’t you show your mom a little more sensitivity?

Aryana: I’m not letting her delude herself. She needs to face the truth.

[A beat passes.]

Giant Black Cat: Why?

Aryana: Because it’s the truth.

[GARY mumbles something.]

Aryana: What was that?

[A beat passes. ARYANA pushes GARY.]

Arayna: What did you say?

Gary: I asked, when did you start caring about the truth?

Aryana: How dare you?

Gary: Oh please. You’ve got heels on that change your legs, butt and height. You’re wearing stockings despite spending two hours shaving your legs this morning. You’ve got a corset on under the jacket, a wonder bra, blush, eye shadow, and contacts that make your eyes look green instead of blue. Since when have you cared so deeply about the truth?

[A beat passes.]

Samid: How do you know she shaved her legs this morning?

[ARYANA and GARY look away, in opposite directions.]

Samid: Ohhh.

[A beat passes.]

Samid: So that’s where you’ve been all this time, Gary? You and… [SAMID trails off]

Giant Black Cat: Ew.

[GARY does not look at SAMID. A beat passes.]

Samid: Great. Now no one’s talking to each other.

Giant Black Cat: We could talk.

Samid: About what?

[A beat passes.]

Bathroom Monologue: What would happen if a dog met God?

I don’t know what your dog did. Mine ran right up to Him and sniffed all over. I guess she smelled His dogs, and since He created everything, he had a lot of them to sniff. Being patient enough to make a universe, He stood still for most of it, then petted her. She went really stiff, then started running around like she was a one-year-old again. She’d had a bum leg every since I’d owned her. I should have figured that would fix it, though – petting is a form of laying hands. She ran around Him a bit, then was off like He was never there. He was cool. Seemed used to it.

Bathroom Monologue: Responses to Check Out Time

I don’t know. It’s always been in me. Back in 12th grade this kid used to insult me every Precalc class. Berated my weight, the way I talked, that I didn’t watch the sports he liked. got leukemia. One day he came in and before even sitting down started yelling at me about how ugly my beard was. Middle of the year he disappeared. He was diagnosed with leukemia. Near graduation the Precalc class was full of rumors that he’d died. Girl who sat behind me every day leaned in to tell me with a somber expression, and I responded, “Good.” He’d been asshole! Why was I supposed to be sad? I was never going to run into him again, unless it was in an afterlife, and should be the same dick there that he was here, and he happens to re-die there and go to a post-afterlife, I’ll be happy again!

That hasn’t changed. When somebody I hate dies, I don’t suddenly revere them. It’s not even people I hate. Loved George Carlin’s early albums, but that dude made fun of JFK, Abbott and Costello just for being dead. He had a 12-minute bit on graphically funny ways to execute the death penalty. Don’t shoot me a look for laughing when the fucker dies!

I mourn, and not only for people familiar to me – I get that we project onto famous strangers, and even unfamous strangers. I felt the pang when Aleksandhr Solzhenitsyn died. I felt the pang when I walked over a dead rat in the road, flies eating its eyes. The mourning mechanism is in me. It’s just not always switched on, and there is no manual switch. I don’t think I’m alone in this, and I don’t think it’s healthy to pretend you’re sad, or at a level of response to a death you’re not. No somber cafeteria is actually populated by everyone struck in the identical state of desiring silence. There’s social pressure that may retard healing even more than seeing someone celebrating while you’re grief-stricken.

Bathroom Monologue: Future Tensed Up

"It’s a peculiar disability that we think explains prophets and psychics. Some of the atoms in your brain don’t exist in the present. They are charged particles that technically exist in some future time. They’re linked to your current brain, plugging gaps where otherwise you’d hemorrhage. The result is that little bits of your brain are thinking far in the future, knowing things that haven’t happened in the world of the rest of your brain. Your future self is unconsciously reporting things he sees to his past self, all by accident. Once we figure out just how far in the future these brain spots are, we can figure out when you’re getting your information from. Similarly once these regions stop firing altogether we can have a good guess as to when you’ll die – when that future brain goes inactive. With any luck, we’ll have the information to save you."