No That’s Not Right

                He sat at his desk, papers spread out in front of him. His desk was long and smooth, walnut-colored. Was it made of walnut? It was hard to tell. The paradoxity of the nomenclature of such a desk was one to be discussed at a later date.

                Diplomas lined the wall behind him. Ph.D.’s in everything followed one another in a seemingly endless row of papers. He turned in his swiveling chair and stared at them for a while. Physics was his favorite. He liked mathematics, but physics made it so you could actually use the mathematics. Although, chemistry made it so you could actually use the physics, and biology made it so you could actually use the chemistry. Still, physics just seemed so all-powerful. Like without physics nothing would be possible. He looked over at his degree in philosophy. It was a tough subject for him, since he knew everything. Philosophy was something to be debated, and what is there to be debated when the answers are so clear-cut in front of you?

                He turned back around, his chair squeaking slightly. It didn’t have to squeak, but he liked a squeaky chair. It made him feel closer to his work. It was time to really get started. He began drawing out plans on the paper in front of him. He’d start out the same way he started last time. A circle. Circles were good; they made sense. Now, physics had to come into play. This time, no tilt.

                He stared at his circle. He really didn’t feel like doing this part. He spun in his chair once, a full revolution. He tilted his chair back a bit this time, then spun again. He grimaced at the irony. No tilt this time. He spun in his chair one more time, then stopped and put his hands on the desk as if to say to himself “It’s time to DO this.” He really didn’t feel like doing this. Maybe if he started on a different part. He took another piece of paper out and began drawing. A garden. A garden of perfection. Why make something that isn’t perfect?

He was getting a feeling of déjà vu. Had he tried this before? No, every human was special and unique. That in itself implied a lack of perfection. When he created his first set of humans, they couldn’t have been perfect. Or had they? He couldn’t remember; it had been thousands of years ago. There was a file somewhere that said exactly what he’d done, but he didn’t know where it was. He didn’t think he’d ever need it. He assumed he’d do everything perfectly the first time. It was an ok assumption, considering who he was.

You can’t teach God anything.

Assault

            He walked down the sidewalk, whistling a tune. “The Star Spangled Banner”, how patriotic of him. He was quite the patriot at times. He had a flag hanging out his window, he always celebrated the Fourth of July, and he could always be found at baseball games. Of course, not even patriotism could help him today.

            The sidewalk he was walking on wound through the center of a park. The park was, for all intensive purposes, empty, as it was still early in the morning. He woke up every morning this early to go for a stroll. Exercise was good for him, good for his blood pressure. He had much too much sodium, so this was his little way of making up for that. Of course, not even good practices in health could help him today.

            Some would say he was quite nutty, for walking alone so early. This wasn’t the best part of town. Then again, it wasn’t the seediest part of town, either. Still, one could claim that the practice of walking through the park at 5:30 in the morning was quite nutty indeed. Of course, nuttiness was definitely not going to help him today.

            All was quiet as he walked past the bench which hid the attacker. He was the perfect target. The mugger slowly and quietly pulled out his mallet and stalked his prey. From bush to bush, from tree to tree he flitted, getting closer and closer, until finally he was just close enough to make the perfect attack. The ne’er-do-well jumped out into the open path and made a mighty swing at his victim, hitting just between the upper and lower half, making a gruesome crunch as the husk was crushed. There was no way he could recover from such a blow, and the attacker knew this. He shuddered in horror, crying for help as his monocle, cane, top hat and wallet were taken and run away with, but there was no one around to hear him. He made one last attempt at standing before falling down again and passing out. He would never be the same again.

Dead

            The phone vibrated. Twice. He took it out of his pocket, hoping for a text message. He flipped it open. “Low Battery”, it said across the screen. He hated when it did that.

            The bed sat in the middle of a hospital room. The room’s window was large. Outside of it was a view of a fountain. There was no one outside, only cars, trees, and the fountain. It was to be expected. People were only outside to get from their cars to the building. This was a somber place. There was no room for play. His bed was the only one in the room. He was lucky in that way. If only he’d been lucky in other ways. Next to his bed were flowers. Baby’s Breath, they were his favorite color. Sunflowers, they always cheered him up. A few roses here, a few lilies there. Why he needed so many flowers, no one really knew. On the window sill were various cards. “Get well soon”, “Feel better”, “Like this flower, you will bloom again”. The TV was playing, it was set to his favorite channel. “Mythbusters” was on.

            His family surrounded him in the room. His little brother sat under the TV, quietly looking at all of the flowers. His father sat to his right, trying not to look at him, trying not to have to see his eldest son in such a condition. To his left, his mother sat crying into a napkin. It was ok. She deserved to be able to cry. No mother should have to see her child die. He had various wires and tubes attached to him, from top to bottom. They were all connected to a monitor. There was a slow steady pulse on the screen.

            The pulse stopped. His mother’s sobbing became heavier. His father looked at him, a tear falling from his left eye. His brother stood up and walked over to his mother, putting an arm around her. He was dead.

            The phone vibrated. Twice. He took it out of his pocket, hoping for a text message. He flipped it open. The screen was black.

Coup

            “Coup, coup,” he said, sitting in his little house in the tree. There were many of them there, all thinking the same thing. “Coup.” Sometimes violent action is necessary when one is oppressed. Though, this wasn’t one being oppressed, but thousands. The tree was decorated with maps and charts. Compasses and pencils sat on a desk in front of the leader of the group. Underneath the tools was a map of New York City.

            “Coup, coup,” he said, slamming a feathery fist against the table. On the map were traced multiple paths through the city. Some went through Manhattan, others the Bronx; some went through the Upper West Side, some through the Lower East Side. It seemed that the entire city had been covered. They were ready for attack.

            “Coup, coup!” he said, shaking his head from side to side. He was infuriated by what was happening. He was infuriated by what had been happening for over 300 years. His people, his own family, had been forced to make do as people came in and took everything, creating a concrete jungle of buildings, sidewalks and statues. Central Park was their only real home, now.

            “Coup, coup,” he said. He was proud to live, but even more proud to die for his cause. He readied his flight; everyone knew their plans and paths. He shook his wings in one last show of defiance; many did the same. “Coup, coup!” he yelled one last time, before the pigeons attacked New York City.

If Only

            He stalked in the grass, just behind the stables. Something big was about to happen. How did he know? He was going to cause it. The horses stood near the fence. Well, it wasn’t just horses, there was also a mule, but it was mainly horses. Still, they stood near the fence by the tall grass behind the stables. It wasn’t feeding time as far as they knew…

            He slowly inched forward toward where they were standing. This was it. He crouched down until he was almost completely parallel with the ground. This was it. He started a low growl then quickly silenced it. He had to be as quiet as possible. This was it. His legs tightened as they became ready to spring his body forward, and with a single lunging motion he pounced onto his prey: the largest horse of the bunch. He took a bite of the horse’s neck as it tried to buck him off. Nothing could make him let go. The horse whinnied in pain as he scratched at its chest, clutching on for dear thrill. By this time the other horses and the little mule had all run away into the stable, just hoping to be safe from this unknown predator. The largest horse made one last attempt to buck him off before falling to the ground, where it took it’s last few breaths. He then began digging into his newly-killed dinner with blood-stained teeth and powerful, reddened paws. He had earned this…

            He woke up, stretched and yawned. He looked over to the stables. There were still horses standing by the fence near the tall grass. He stretched again, this time clawing the mat on the floor next to him. If only he were a leopard…

Couch Eat Couch World

                The leopard stalked its prey on the wild, grassy savanna. The lion sat on its wide, open shelf, watching the entire scene. A sheer screen of rock made its way to the ground below the lion’s perch. The elephants grazed on their centrally-located tableau, not a care in the world. The carpet of grass blew in the wind, bending towards the northeast. The zebras sat towards the sunnier side of the plain, unknowingly stalked by a spotted predator.

                The leopard crouched in the grass, slowly dragging itself forward towards its unsuspecting prey. The zebras blended into the tall grass, but not well enough. The leopard lunged forward over the carpeted savanna, looking for a window of opportunity. The zebras stayed in their little area, separating themselves by a small distance. The leopard could see the zebras, it could already taste the supple meat of the closest one. Suddenly, the leopard was spotted. The zebra began to run, but the leopard knew this was its only chance. It leapt out of the grass, landed on the poor, striped creature and began tearing away at its leathery flesh. By this time, the other zebras had fled. The leopard finished its meal, leaving nothing of the carcass to remain, not even the legs or frame.

                They walked into the living room and noticed something different. Something was missing, but what?

                “Where did the other chair go?” she asked her husband. He laughed.

                “The couch must’ve eaten it.”

Chimes

            The air was completely still as they stood in line, chimes in their grasp. The chimes were colorful and unique, each one a different color of the rainbow. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple. The red was a low G and the orange was E. Yellow was D and green was F. Blue was C and purple was high G. They were designed for one song, and one song only. It was a beautiful song, one of happiness and freedom, and it was to be played that night in front of an audience of hundreds. The air was completely still as they stood in line, chimes in their grasp.

            The large doors on either side of the auditorium opened as the audience began filing in. Little by little the sections were filled. Group by group the seats became occupied. Music lovers, art lovers, freedom lovers, they all came together for a singular purpose. Women with sparkling dresses were escorted by men with monocles to their front row seats. Bigwigs and bourgeois began to inhabit the balconies, binoculars in some hands, fans in others. Eventually there wasn’t an empty seat in the house. The air was completely still as they stood in line, chimes in their grasp.

            The lights dimmed. Everyone became quiet. Spotlights turned on and were aimed toward the stage. The air stirred as they prepared themselves to play. Orange, orange, green, purple, purple, green, orange, yellow, blue, blue, yellow, orange, orange, yellow, yellow. It was a song that would stand the ages. Orange, orange, green, purple, purple, green, orange, yellow, blue, blue, yellow, orange, yellow, blue, blue. It was a chanson for liberty. Yellow, yellow, orange, blue, yellow, orange, green, orange, blue, yellow, orange, green, orange, yellow, blue, yellow, red. The crowd was awed. Orange, orange, orange, green, purple, purple, green, orange, yellow, blue ,blue, yellow, orange, yellow, blue, blue. It was an ode to joy.

            “Those are some beautiful wind chimes,” she said, taking another bite of cole slaw, “And they sound wonderful.”

            “Thank you,” she answered. The air was completely still as they stood in line, chimes in their grasp.

Alright

            He honked and slammed on the brakes, but it was too late. The front end of his car rammed into the side of a large, brown Chevy Astro that had just run a stop sign. What a horrible time to be going 60 down US 1. The air bags deployed in front of him and to his right in front of his wife. They didn’t do much good. His neck snapped forward quickly, then back with the pressure from the airbag. His knees hit the inside of the area under the dashboard. His right shoulder popped out of its socket as his arm flailed about near the radio. “Every little thing, is going to be alright,” sang Bob Marley to them. His left arm hit the space where the window was and scratched itself on the shards of glass that were still there. His body began leaning to the right due to the car leaning slightly on two wheels. His head hit the seat belt pulley. He looked over at his wife. A large shard of glass from the windshield stuck out of her forehead. She was unconscious. He leaned forward and closed his eyes…

            He woke up. He saw ambulance lights in front of him. He was still in the car. He looked over to where his wife was. Someone was pulling her out of the car. She wasn’t waking up. A tear began to well up in his eye. He looked out his own window, then blacked out again.

            He woke up in a hospital bed. His son was there to his left. Nurses were called immediately. How long had he been there? He tried to lift up his hand and pat his worried-looking son on the shoulder. He couldn’t. His mind was racing. What was wrong? Why couldn’t he move his arm? Why couldn’t he wiggle his toes? Why couldn’t he open his left eye all the way? He lifted his right arm. It moved just fine.

            “Why can’th I mbove righ?”

His mouth didn’t want to work either. His son looked at him then looked down. He was paralyzed. His entire left side was paralyzed. Another tear welled up in his eye.

“Where’sh your mbothzer?” The tears were beginning to climb down his face. She was dead.

Three weeks later, he was visited by an old friend. He hadn’t seen him since before the accident. He sat in the living room, a nurse came in, followed by the friend. A few words were exchanged before the nurse left. They sat in the living room. His friend didn’t know what to say. He decided to start the conversation.

“How have you been?” he said to his friend.

“Fine, how are you?”

“I’m all right, now.”

Paper Beats Scissors

                The game of rock-paper-scissors is a strange one, for the simple reason that scissors should never win. If one hand does rock and another does scissors, the scissors will obviously be crushed by the rock. That part makes sense. BUT, if one hand does scissors, and another does paper, no one should win. What makes someone think that the scissors want to cut paper? What if the scissors are a pacifist? What if the scissors are just a puppet being used by a higher force to do some dirty deed that should never be done? Scissors never win.

                The girl tore into her arm. I flinched. Blood began to flow out of the cut she was slowly lengthening. I flinched even more. If there was ever a time I hated violence more than I usually do, it was a time like this. She didn’t need to cut herself like that. People loved her. People cared about her. Was this some way to get more attention? Or was it actually in some way helping her? I would never know. Someone once told me they cut themselves to take away from the pain elsewhere. Someone else once told me people cut themselves to get the attention their mommies and daddies never gave them. Another person once told me cutting oneself was the trendy thing to do. I don’t know what to believe. I’ve never wanted to cut myself. I’ve never wanted to cut anything. Not even paper.

                She left me sitting there, dumbfounded and alone. I was hurt, but not as hurt as she was. Well, that was debatable. I was feeling used. I was feeling backstabbed. I was feeling… Pain. Anguish… Hurt. What was she feeling?

                She came back the next day. I was still right where she left me. This time she cut into her other arm. This time she did it slightly lower down. Closer to her wrist? It didn’t make much difference. She always cut herself where no one could see. I could see.

                Why did she have to use me like that? Why did she need me for her attention? It wasn’t helping her. How could it have been? It made me so angry! It made me want to… do nothing. Because that’s all I could do. I couldn’t kill someone. That’d be very unproductive to my cause. I couldn’t cut myself. I didn’t even like cutting paper. I couldn’t stop her from cutting herself. I couldn’t control her. She could use me all she wanted, but I couldn’t do anything to stop her.

                She was here again, and again I was there for the taking. Today she made a gash closer to her elbow. Today everyone could see what she was doing, if they looked close enough. She was testing them. She was making SURE someone saw what she’d been doing. She was making SURE someone cared about her. Someone more than me, that is. I wasn’t good enough for her. My attention wasn’t enough. My desire for her to stop meant nothing. At this point I didn’t even care if she cut herself, all I cared was that she not use me for her sick little pleasures. She left me once again.

                She obviously hadn’t cut into her arm low enough. No one had seen her scars from the previous day. Maybe she had worn too long of sleeves, or maybe no one cared about her. This time people would see. This time people would notice. She pulled me out of the drawer where she kept me. That blood-stained drawer. She forced me toward her, this time aiming for her wrist. I began to cut deeply into her vein. She was doing it wrong. Her blood began flowing out, much more than usual. She was doing it wrong! Her vein was throbbing, spurting all over me. It was like nothing I’d ever felt before. She pulled me out, then went to her other wrist, and I went back in, back inside her. SHE WAS DOING IT WRONG! She began to feel dizzy. I fell to the ground. My blades closed as I hit the floor. She stumbled to the desk. Blood was now staining her entire bed. The drawer in which she kept me opened. It wasn’t enough to hold her up. She fell to the ground beside me. She’d done it wrong.

                She laid lifeless next to me. The scene was one I couldn’t take. I didn’t even like to cut paper. I was feeling used. I was feeling backstabbed. I was feeling… Pain. Anguish… Hurt. What was she feeling? It made me so angry! It made me want to… Stop.

                The game of rock-paper-scissors is a strange one, for the simple reason that scissors should never win.

Hemingway University

            He stands atop the building, looking down. It’s quite high from where he is. He jumps.

            He’s sitting in a large, auditorium-style classroom. There are people in almost every seat. On the front board, one can see in large lettering “MAC2311: Calculus 2” The teacher stands in front of the class, talking into a microphone on her lapel.

            “If the limit as it approaches the left does not equal the limit as it approaches the right, then the limit at that point does not exist, like in this equation.”

            She writes a series of functions on the board, connected by a large, squiggly bracket. It’s a piecewise equation that doesn’t meet at the end points of the first two functions, but does meet at the endpoints of the last two functions. Its obvious. ‘X’ squared when ‘X’ is equal to one is also equal to one, while ‘X’ minus three when ‘X’ is equal to one is negative two. That means the limit does not exist. On the other hand, ‘X’ minus three when ‘X’ is equal to nine equals six, and the square root of ‘X’ plus three when ‘X’ is equal to nine is also six. This means that the limit at that point is equal to six. Easy stuff. He didn’t need to come to this class again.

            He sits in a smaller classroom, also auditorium style. This one has only forty or so people, as compared to the three-hundred in the Calculus class. He sat with a paper in front of him. At the top of the paper, on the right-hand side were the words “In-Class Review. On the left side were his name, his ID number, and the title, “PHY2060: Enriched Physics 1”. In the middle of the paper was a question:

            “A 3.0 kg mass starts from rest and slides a distance d down a frictionless 30˚ incline, where it contacts an unstressed spring of negligible mass as in the Figure. The mass slides an additional 0.20 m as it is brought momentarily to rest by compressing the spring (k=400 N/m). Assuming that the potential energy is zero when the mass stops after compressing the spring, what was the potential energy of the block when it is released, in terms of d.”

            He stared at the question. This class was way too hard.

            He sits in a classroom which is smaller than the calculus auditorium, but larger than the physics room. The proctor at the front has the large title “CHM2045”. The professor is talking about orbitals of some sort, he’s not really sure. His head begins to nod forward as his eyes start to close. This is it there is no way he can prevent the wonderful sleep that is about to take place.

            He hits the ground.

            For Sale: Graduation Cap, Never Worn.