Things on which I am an expert:
I am an expert on cheeseburgers. But not cheeseburgers with ketchup, mustard, or mayonnaise. I am an expert on procrastinating. I am an expert on making people wait for things that I can probably do quickly. I am an expert on worrying. I an expert on feeling rushed and anxious, on getting worked up and frustrated because I feel overwhelmed with my job. I am an expert at feeling overwhelmed and then shutting down and letting all my work pile up and make me feel even more under water.
I am an expert at being selfish and not thinking about my girlfriend's feelings as much as I should. I'm an expert at deeply loving how sincere she is.
I'm an expert at coming up with novel ideas and then completely forgetting them when they are most often needed.
I am an expert at thinking I can come to work early to write and not be interrupted by coworkers. Or be asked to do work when I am not on the clock.
I am an expert at feeling frustrated with myself.
I am an expert at feeling confident that I just need to break the rust off, and I will be able to write vividly again.
Monday, July 9, 2012
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Prompt: A case of mistaken identity
"Sir, they've declared war!" yelled Lance, bursting into the oval office.
"Who?!" Shouted the President, springing up from his chair.
The presidents' aid looked down at his clipboard for a moment.
"Uh, Korea."
"North or South?"
"Which one do you think?!" Lance shouted.
"I'm sorry Sam, but you do realize that this is a big deal."
"It's Lance, sir, and yes sir, I know. I'm sorry for losing my composure."
The room grew still and silent. Lance smoothed his thin mustache.
The president wiped a bead of sweat trickling down his face, and took his seat again. Finally poised and ready to handle the situation, he took a swig of scotch from the sweaty lowball glass on his desk. Next to his mistress, he could always count on that glass to be at his side.
"Well, it's not like we haven't seen this coming. How urgent is the situation?"
"Well sir, " said Lance, trying to swallow past a lump in his throat, "The Air Force has confirmed fighters approaching Washington as we speak, and -"
"Holy Moley! We've got to do something now! Scramble fighters to cover the coastline!"
"They're already on their way, sir."
"Good. I want you to alert the cabinet that I'm envoking an executive decision and making a retaliatory response as of this moment."
"Sir, surely your aren't going to..."
Lance voice trailed off as the President lifted a stack of files off of a polished wood box with the presidential seal embossed on the front. He rubbed his chin for a moment, staring at it, and then lifted the cover. Poking out of a bed of blue velvet lie a large red button and a rotary dial. The President leaned in and scrunched his nose, examining a small plaque next to the dial.
"Get me my glasses and another scotch, won't you Sam? I can't read this."
"Of course, sir. And my name is Lance, sir." Said Lance, rushing to the wet bar.
The President, finding an odd ability to take pleasure from the moment, leaned back in his chair and lit a cigar. He put his feet up on the desk as he watched Lance scurry about the room looking for his glasses.
"You know Sam, there's a promotion in this for ya," he said through teeth clenching to keep the cigar in place.
"It's Lance, sir. Thank you, sir. Ah! Here we are," said Lance, relieved to have found the President's glasses.
"Thanks, Sam. Now, let's see here..."
The President unfolded his specs and put them on. Again, his nose scrunched as he leaned forward to examine the plaque next to the rotary dial. He read aloud:
"It says here to 'Turn dial to indicate enemy. Press button to fire missiles.' Seems simple enough."
The President slowly clasped his fingers around the center of the knob. He made eye contact with Lance before returning his gaze to the knob and turned the dial until the display read: NORTH KOREA.
As the President reached for the button, lance stepped forward and raised an arm towards him.
"What is it Sam?"
"Lance, sir. Um, I just thought you might want to say something very thoughtful and maudlin before firing the missiles."
"Something for the history books, huh? I think I can manage that. You must be looking to be an admiral or something," he said leaning back in his chair again and tossing a wink towards his aide.
"Let's see, let's see. Um, how about "On this day, I send some missiles to Korea?' That's good enough."
As Lance stepped forward to encourage something more poetic, the President rose quickly from his chair and saluted Lance.
"On this day," he began to shout "I send some missiles to Korea!"
With his saluting hand slapped the red button as if he were delivering a low-five. A cacophony of shouts and sirens sounded outside the doors to the office. Red flashing lights on motors descended from the ceiling as all other lights extinguished themselves.
"That's it, Sam. North Korea will be no more. Now, moving on to the next line of business: I want to assure that all suspected North Korean agents in the US are brought in for interrogation."
"Lance, sir, " began Lance, glancing down at his clipboard, "and, the uh NSA has already -"
He stumbled in his thoughts. Something on his clipboard drew his attention.
"Well Lance, what is it?"
"Sir, how acurate are those missiles?" Asked Lance, staring at his clipboard as if he could change what it reads just by looking at it intensely.
"Why should I know? Does it help if I know that they have lasers in them?"
"I'm not sure," said Lance, "but let's just hope they miss by a LOT or get blown off course by a storm or something."
"What are you trying to tell me?"
"Sir, my name is SAM. S-A-M. My name is undeniably SAM and I," Lance swallowed to help his dry throat to deliver the rest of the news. "I uh, accidentally told you to fire on North Korea instead of China."
"Who?!" Shouted the President, springing up from his chair.
The presidents' aid looked down at his clipboard for a moment.
"Uh, Korea."
"North or South?"
"Which one do you think?!" Lance shouted.
"I'm sorry Sam, but you do realize that this is a big deal."
"It's Lance, sir, and yes sir, I know. I'm sorry for losing my composure."
The room grew still and silent. Lance smoothed his thin mustache.
The president wiped a bead of sweat trickling down his face, and took his seat again. Finally poised and ready to handle the situation, he took a swig of scotch from the sweaty lowball glass on his desk. Next to his mistress, he could always count on that glass to be at his side.
"Well, it's not like we haven't seen this coming. How urgent is the situation?"
"Well sir, " said Lance, trying to swallow past a lump in his throat, "The Air Force has confirmed fighters approaching Washington as we speak, and -"
"Holy Moley! We've got to do something now! Scramble fighters to cover the coastline!"
"They're already on their way, sir."
"Good. I want you to alert the cabinet that I'm envoking an executive decision and making a retaliatory response as of this moment."
"Sir, surely your aren't going to..."
Lance voice trailed off as the President lifted a stack of files off of a polished wood box with the presidential seal embossed on the front. He rubbed his chin for a moment, staring at it, and then lifted the cover. Poking out of a bed of blue velvet lie a large red button and a rotary dial. The President leaned in and scrunched his nose, examining a small plaque next to the dial.
"Get me my glasses and another scotch, won't you Sam? I can't read this."
"Of course, sir. And my name is Lance, sir." Said Lance, rushing to the wet bar.
The President, finding an odd ability to take pleasure from the moment, leaned back in his chair and lit a cigar. He put his feet up on the desk as he watched Lance scurry about the room looking for his glasses.
"You know Sam, there's a promotion in this for ya," he said through teeth clenching to keep the cigar in place.
"It's Lance, sir. Thank you, sir. Ah! Here we are," said Lance, relieved to have found the President's glasses.
"Thanks, Sam. Now, let's see here..."
The President unfolded his specs and put them on. Again, his nose scrunched as he leaned forward to examine the plaque next to the rotary dial. He read aloud:
"It says here to 'Turn dial to indicate enemy. Press button to fire missiles.' Seems simple enough."
The President slowly clasped his fingers around the center of the knob. He made eye contact with Lance before returning his gaze to the knob and turned the dial until the display read: NORTH KOREA.
As the President reached for the button, lance stepped forward and raised an arm towards him.
"What is it Sam?"
"Lance, sir. Um, I just thought you might want to say something very thoughtful and maudlin before firing the missiles."
"Something for the history books, huh? I think I can manage that. You must be looking to be an admiral or something," he said leaning back in his chair again and tossing a wink towards his aide.
"Let's see, let's see. Um, how about "On this day, I send some missiles to Korea?' That's good enough."
As Lance stepped forward to encourage something more poetic, the President rose quickly from his chair and saluted Lance.
"On this day," he began to shout "I send some missiles to Korea!"
With his saluting hand slapped the red button as if he were delivering a low-five. A cacophony of shouts and sirens sounded outside the doors to the office. Red flashing lights on motors descended from the ceiling as all other lights extinguished themselves.
"That's it, Sam. North Korea will be no more. Now, moving on to the next line of business: I want to assure that all suspected North Korean agents in the US are brought in for interrogation."
"Lance, sir, " began Lance, glancing down at his clipboard, "and, the uh NSA has already -"
He stumbled in his thoughts. Something on his clipboard drew his attention.
"Well Lance, what is it?"
"Sir, how acurate are those missiles?" Asked Lance, staring at his clipboard as if he could change what it reads just by looking at it intensely.
"Why should I know? Does it help if I know that they have lasers in them?"
"I'm not sure," said Lance, "but let's just hope they miss by a LOT or get blown off course by a storm or something."
"What are you trying to tell me?"
"Sir, my name is SAM. S-A-M. My name is undeniably SAM and I," Lance swallowed to help his dry throat to deliver the rest of the news. "I uh, accidentally told you to fire on North Korea instead of China."
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Prompt: The end of the world
They assembled the most discrete and aberrantly brilliant. In secrecy they prayed and designed and built it over a decade. In the final days before they used it, before world ended, they named it Shiva.
It was too large to deploy from the air and too heavy to tow behind a barge. Instead it simply remained in the tower it was constructed in. On the street seventy-three floors below, no one would realize what was housed inside it's benign facade. From the outside it was only a bank, but there was no money in it's vaults. Instead that money was poured into bringing The Destroyer to life.
No other bomb constructed bore a resemblance to it: Six large spheres orbited a seventh, smaller one: one covering each pole and one over each hemisphere. The design was inspired by previous concepts of implosion bombs, however the inward-firing explosives used to start the reaction were atomic in nature themselves. Only a kiloton each, they still provided more than enough force to crush the mass of plutonium at the center and create an explosion equal to ten billion tons of dynamite. Two hundred times larger than the highest-yield device ever detonated before, there was no need for it to be deliverable by jet or rocket - it would reach all targets.
Then, just before daylight, a prayer was uttered and it was detonated.
The flash of the initiating devices was so bright as to temporarily blind those looking in it's direction. A nanosecond later, the flash of the main unit was so brilliant and immense, that the world felt sunlight on the Eastern and Western hemispheres at the same time. Five hundred miles away, the light was intense enough to burn and blind any not behind cover. The flash burned shadows into walls, and turned grass and trees to flame.
Before the light had faded out, the hot compression wave had already reached the sea and set the surface aboil. Already the sky scraper it was born in had been pressed into the ball of liquid earth that melted beneath. The surrounding buildings were dismantled by the sweep of The Destroyer's arms. It ripped open tunnels and hillsides. It uprooted trees and crushed homes. The tremendous air pressure caused those within a hundred miles to have their muscles ripped off their bones without breaking the skin. Their lungs collapsed.
In place of the building grew a pillar of smoke and ash that lifted a fireball the size of a moon. It was lifted so high into the atmosphere that it was suffocated and extinguished. However, the stem still stood, miles across and seemingly infinite in hight. It turned slowly like a rooted tornado. The spinning continued for hours, and took weeks to settle in a cloud of fine dust.
The wrath left a molten crater that dwarfed nations. It dispatched millions and spread across half the continent and into the sea by hundreds of miles.
What destruction remained was carried across the world on high winds.
In a few years, the sounds of animals ceased. Crops did not grow. Babies died of leukemia. The survivors died, cowering in fear and muttering unheard prayers. A decade passed and finally all were lost to the anonymity of death.
What would remain would be unending fire and the roar of an angry god consuming the last of the Earth.
It was too large to deploy from the air and too heavy to tow behind a barge. Instead it simply remained in the tower it was constructed in. On the street seventy-three floors below, no one would realize what was housed inside it's benign facade. From the outside it was only a bank, but there was no money in it's vaults. Instead that money was poured into bringing The Destroyer to life.
No other bomb constructed bore a resemblance to it: Six large spheres orbited a seventh, smaller one: one covering each pole and one over each hemisphere. The design was inspired by previous concepts of implosion bombs, however the inward-firing explosives used to start the reaction were atomic in nature themselves. Only a kiloton each, they still provided more than enough force to crush the mass of plutonium at the center and create an explosion equal to ten billion tons of dynamite. Two hundred times larger than the highest-yield device ever detonated before, there was no need for it to be deliverable by jet or rocket - it would reach all targets.
Then, just before daylight, a prayer was uttered and it was detonated.
The flash of the initiating devices was so bright as to temporarily blind those looking in it's direction. A nanosecond later, the flash of the main unit was so brilliant and immense, that the world felt sunlight on the Eastern and Western hemispheres at the same time. Five hundred miles away, the light was intense enough to burn and blind any not behind cover. The flash burned shadows into walls, and turned grass and trees to flame.
Before the light had faded out, the hot compression wave had already reached the sea and set the surface aboil. Already the sky scraper it was born in had been pressed into the ball of liquid earth that melted beneath. The surrounding buildings were dismantled by the sweep of The Destroyer's arms. It ripped open tunnels and hillsides. It uprooted trees and crushed homes. The tremendous air pressure caused those within a hundred miles to have their muscles ripped off their bones without breaking the skin. Their lungs collapsed.
In place of the building grew a pillar of smoke and ash that lifted a fireball the size of a moon. It was lifted so high into the atmosphere that it was suffocated and extinguished. However, the stem still stood, miles across and seemingly infinite in hight. It turned slowly like a rooted tornado. The spinning continued for hours, and took weeks to settle in a cloud of fine dust.
The wrath left a molten crater that dwarfed nations. It dispatched millions and spread across half the continent and into the sea by hundreds of miles.
What destruction remained was carried across the world on high winds.
In a few years, the sounds of animals ceased. Crops did not grow. Babies died of leukemia. The survivors died, cowering in fear and muttering unheard prayers. A decade passed and finally all were lost to the anonymity of death.
What would remain would be unending fire and the roar of an angry god consuming the last of the Earth.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Prompt: Speak now or forever hold your peace
Todd: Thanks, Jim. Now, moving on to the final part of this meeting's agenda... We'll try to keep this as brief as possible because I know it's getting kind of late, but we need to cover this final topic before next Quarter's board meeting. So, while Power Point gets warmed up here, I'd like Skip to get you all familiar with what kind of benefits we expect to get from this upcoming project.
Skip: Well, we all know that hostile takeovers are unpleasant, but moves of this nature, while not typical, are still common enough to be understood and accepted by all those involved.
[Todd gestures to Skip to speed things up]
Skip: For starters we'll acquire every asset that belongs to Arasaka Corp. We can expect to expand by two hundred manufacturing facilities in South America, thirteen thousand retail locations in North America, along with a few dozen fleets of delivery vehicles (including aircraft) to add to our inventory. As for manpower, after this takeover we expect to have a roster of nearly one million Labor Shares. Financial gains will be several hundred billion in assets. Gentlemen, the shareholders will go apeshit over how much money we're going to get.
Todd: Yes Skip, they will. Still, there's more to it than just the money. I'd like to start discussing details of the humanitarian effort involved in this takeover as well.
[Todd takes off his glasses and looks solemnly at the conference table]
Todd: We've all heard the rumors of what atrocities may have occurred at Arasaka's HR compound, and this afternoon I'm afraid to confirm they're true. For those of you who haven't heard; Niel, our Espionage Manager, was killed at the Arasaka HR compound yesterday. He was able to transmit his findings before the lengthy and, ultimately fatal torture began. But, thanks to his diligent work, I think we will be able to sleep more comfortably having dealt a killing blow to that department.
[Todd clicks his mouse and the first powerpoint slide comes up. The slide shows a mushroom cloud over the yellow block letters "HR Compound"]
Todd: Now, Skip and I have been up late discussing what exactly we'd like to do with the Arasaka HR compound, including prisoners, working shares, and assets. Despite the significant monitary loss, we think it will be only humane to blow the entire thing up.
Skip: Yes, we know how most of you may feel about the potential for Labor Shares, including those being held prisoner there, but in addition to sparing them a lifetime of suffering PTSD, it's just not cost-effective to rehabilitate such a high number of inmates, even though they will carry anti-Arasaka sentiments. Company policy forces us to record objections, though it doesn't force us to do something about it. So, if you'd like to lodge a complaint, say something now.
Jim: Yeah, I'd like to say something. Can I remind you gentlemen that the Arasaka HR compound is twenty square miles, including workyards? The only way you can clear all of that area will be with a fucking big nuke, which I just don't think is worth losing all that property for. The grounds will have to be closed off for a hundred years!
Todd: We put a comittee to the task of solving that problem, and they think that dropping a cluster of smaller bombs over the compound, instead of one big one, will not only clear the area without the need of radioactive explosives, but will also provide a more even destruction-to-area ratio. We'll be able to reuse the area after the fires are out.
Jim: Well then, how about murdering all of those Labor Shares? We just invested 200 million in Cinet Hospitals Group, so why not put that investment to use rehabilitating them?
Todd: Those hospitals are mostly in Greece, so how cost effective do you think it will be to fly them all over there? There's nearly ten thousand detainees. No, the overhead is too much. The decision has been made, Jim. Your objection is noted.
[Todd jots something down on a yellow legal pad, and takes a breath.]
Todd: We put a ticket in to IT to build the bombs, they say they'll be ready on Tuesday. Also, Channel 7 has volunteered thier NewsNow Choppers to do the bombing runs with. Although it obviously increases the media visibility of this takeover, it reduces the cost of this takeover by several million. Now, moving onto resistance. Matt, since you're the Security Supervisor, why don't you tell us what you're planning on for the main assault on Arasaka Headquarters?
Matt: The siege will happen at daybreak, just after the shift change. We'll take in 500 security officers. They'll mostly use Close Quarter Attack Pistols, though we will have snipers stationed at strategic areas as well as ten Inter-Office-Artillery Units, because things will most likely get ugly. After it's weapons, Arasaka is known second-best for thier security personnell. Losses will be moderate to significant.
Jim: What about all the Labor Shares in the complex? We don't want innocents to get stomachs full of buckshot.
Todd: [Groaning] Matt, please let the man finish. If it'll keep you quiet, I'll note this as an objection as well. Matt?
Matt: To adress that, we're just as concerned about preserving Labor Shares as much as you are, so we'll only kill those who stand in our way.
[Jim rolls his eyes]
Matt: We've opted to stay with the CQAP's because of thier effectiveness in taking out tough people in tight spaces. Anything less would spell greater losses for us. Let's just hope the Labor Shares stay out of it.
Skip: Sounds fair enough.
Matt: Any special instructions for the Board?
Skip: Yes, we'd like you to confine them to thier penthouses until you have the complex secured. Todd and Joann and I would like for you to call us as soon as that's done so we can zip over and club them.
[Matt scrawls a note on his legal pad]
Jim: You're going to club them to death? Why not just excecute them like you would in a normal hostile takeover?
Todd: Now, I've about heard enough of you, Jim. I appointed you this seat on the board because I thought we were on the same page. But for some strange reason you don't seem to be understanding the magnitude of this project! Not only will we be liberating those living under the tyranny of the Arasaka Corporation; but we also stand to make as much money as the GDP of most of Latin America. We'll be able to build off of Arasaka's Mega Corporate infrastructure and file as a sovereign state. It'll do away with the notion of "Corporation." Instead, we'll finally get to put our degrees to use running a "CorporNation!"
[Todd clicks to the next PowerPoint slide which reads: "CorporNation, not Corporation!"]
Todd: That was Joann's idea. Thanks, Sugar.
[Joann gives Todd a flirty smile and then goes back to staring into her cell phone]
Todd: We've hit most of the major points here, but lastly I want to ask about what kind of progress has been made in the Post-Takeover Reconstruction and Morale Comittee. Jim, please fill us in.
Jim: Well, ironically enough, all the PTR Morale Committee did was fight and argue over the best way to help the Labor Shares and Administrative staff handle the takeover.
Todd: If you were in those committee meetings with the same attitude you've displayed today, then I can't say I'm surprised. What kind of solutions did you come up with?
Jim: For the Administrative Staff, we decided that a month long retreat to Monte Carlo and a bonus would work best. As for Middle management, we'll give them a cash and also permit policy-oversight parties in thier respective office buildings. They always seem to react best to a little bit of lawlessness and screwing thier underlings. That is, having sex with them.
Skip: How about the Labor Shares? Gaining thier loyalty and aiding thier ability to cope is important to making the transition as smooth as possible.
Jim: We've got them vouchers for Carl's Jr.
Todd: Very well, meeting adjourned.
Jim: Are you kidding me? I thought you'd kill me after hearing that! I mean, how will those people be able to cope any better with a free hamburger? I mean, a lot of those people have family that work for Arasaka. Do you think a Double Western is going to help them get over thier family being murdered?
Todd: The vouchers will be adequate. Meeting Adjourned.
[While Todd and Skip remain seated, the room slowly clears out. Jim lingers a while and is the last to leave, parting with a disgusted look.]
Todd: Skip?
Skip: Yeah?
Todd: Jim must not be taking into consideration how good those Double Westerns are. Have him strangled.
Skip: Well, we all know that hostile takeovers are unpleasant, but moves of this nature, while not typical, are still common enough to be understood and accepted by all those involved.
[Todd gestures to Skip to speed things up]
Skip: For starters we'll acquire every asset that belongs to Arasaka Corp. We can expect to expand by two hundred manufacturing facilities in South America, thirteen thousand retail locations in North America, along with a few dozen fleets of delivery vehicles (including aircraft) to add to our inventory. As for manpower, after this takeover we expect to have a roster of nearly one million Labor Shares. Financial gains will be several hundred billion in assets. Gentlemen, the shareholders will go apeshit over how much money we're going to get.
Todd: Yes Skip, they will. Still, there's more to it than just the money. I'd like to start discussing details of the humanitarian effort involved in this takeover as well.
[Todd takes off his glasses and looks solemnly at the conference table]
Todd: We've all heard the rumors of what atrocities may have occurred at Arasaka's HR compound, and this afternoon I'm afraid to confirm they're true. For those of you who haven't heard; Niel, our Espionage Manager, was killed at the Arasaka HR compound yesterday. He was able to transmit his findings before the lengthy and, ultimately fatal torture began. But, thanks to his diligent work, I think we will be able to sleep more comfortably having dealt a killing blow to that department.
[Todd clicks his mouse and the first powerpoint slide comes up. The slide shows a mushroom cloud over the yellow block letters "HR Compound"]
Todd: Now, Skip and I have been up late discussing what exactly we'd like to do with the Arasaka HR compound, including prisoners, working shares, and assets. Despite the significant monitary loss, we think it will be only humane to blow the entire thing up.
Skip: Yes, we know how most of you may feel about the potential for Labor Shares, including those being held prisoner there, but in addition to sparing them a lifetime of suffering PTSD, it's just not cost-effective to rehabilitate such a high number of inmates, even though they will carry anti-Arasaka sentiments. Company policy forces us to record objections, though it doesn't force us to do something about it. So, if you'd like to lodge a complaint, say something now.
Jim: Yeah, I'd like to say something. Can I remind you gentlemen that the Arasaka HR compound is twenty square miles, including workyards? The only way you can clear all of that area will be with a fucking big nuke, which I just don't think is worth losing all that property for. The grounds will have to be closed off for a hundred years!
Todd: We put a comittee to the task of solving that problem, and they think that dropping a cluster of smaller bombs over the compound, instead of one big one, will not only clear the area without the need of radioactive explosives, but will also provide a more even destruction-to-area ratio. We'll be able to reuse the area after the fires are out.
Jim: Well then, how about murdering all of those Labor Shares? We just invested 200 million in Cinet Hospitals Group, so why not put that investment to use rehabilitating them?
Todd: Those hospitals are mostly in Greece, so how cost effective do you think it will be to fly them all over there? There's nearly ten thousand detainees. No, the overhead is too much. The decision has been made, Jim. Your objection is noted.
[Todd jots something down on a yellow legal pad, and takes a breath.]
Todd: We put a ticket in to IT to build the bombs, they say they'll be ready on Tuesday. Also, Channel 7 has volunteered thier NewsNow Choppers to do the bombing runs with. Although it obviously increases the media visibility of this takeover, it reduces the cost of this takeover by several million. Now, moving onto resistance. Matt, since you're the Security Supervisor, why don't you tell us what you're planning on for the main assault on Arasaka Headquarters?
Matt: The siege will happen at daybreak, just after the shift change. We'll take in 500 security officers. They'll mostly use Close Quarter Attack Pistols, though we will have snipers stationed at strategic areas as well as ten Inter-Office-Artillery Units, because things will most likely get ugly. After it's weapons, Arasaka is known second-best for thier security personnell. Losses will be moderate to significant.
Jim: What about all the Labor Shares in the complex? We don't want innocents to get stomachs full of buckshot.
Todd: [Groaning] Matt, please let the man finish. If it'll keep you quiet, I'll note this as an objection as well. Matt?
Matt: To adress that, we're just as concerned about preserving Labor Shares as much as you are, so we'll only kill those who stand in our way.
[Jim rolls his eyes]
Matt: We've opted to stay with the CQAP's because of thier effectiveness in taking out tough people in tight spaces. Anything less would spell greater losses for us. Let's just hope the Labor Shares stay out of it.
Skip: Sounds fair enough.
Matt: Any special instructions for the Board?
Skip: Yes, we'd like you to confine them to thier penthouses until you have the complex secured. Todd and Joann and I would like for you to call us as soon as that's done so we can zip over and club them.
[Matt scrawls a note on his legal pad]
Jim: You're going to club them to death? Why not just excecute them like you would in a normal hostile takeover?
Todd: Now, I've about heard enough of you, Jim. I appointed you this seat on the board because I thought we were on the same page. But for some strange reason you don't seem to be understanding the magnitude of this project! Not only will we be liberating those living under the tyranny of the Arasaka Corporation; but we also stand to make as much money as the GDP of most of Latin America. We'll be able to build off of Arasaka's Mega Corporate infrastructure and file as a sovereign state. It'll do away with the notion of "Corporation." Instead, we'll finally get to put our degrees to use running a "CorporNation!"
[Todd clicks to the next PowerPoint slide which reads: "CorporNation, not Corporation!"]
Todd: That was Joann's idea. Thanks, Sugar.
[Joann gives Todd a flirty smile and then goes back to staring into her cell phone]
Todd: We've hit most of the major points here, but lastly I want to ask about what kind of progress has been made in the Post-Takeover Reconstruction and Morale Comittee. Jim, please fill us in.
Jim: Well, ironically enough, all the PTR Morale Committee did was fight and argue over the best way to help the Labor Shares and Administrative staff handle the takeover.
Todd: If you were in those committee meetings with the same attitude you've displayed today, then I can't say I'm surprised. What kind of solutions did you come up with?
Jim: For the Administrative Staff, we decided that a month long retreat to Monte Carlo and a bonus would work best. As for Middle management, we'll give them a cash and also permit policy-oversight parties in thier respective office buildings. They always seem to react best to a little bit of lawlessness and screwing thier underlings. That is, having sex with them.
Skip: How about the Labor Shares? Gaining thier loyalty and aiding thier ability to cope is important to making the transition as smooth as possible.
Jim: We've got them vouchers for Carl's Jr.
Todd: Very well, meeting adjourned.
Jim: Are you kidding me? I thought you'd kill me after hearing that! I mean, how will those people be able to cope any better with a free hamburger? I mean, a lot of those people have family that work for Arasaka. Do you think a Double Western is going to help them get over thier family being murdered?
Todd: The vouchers will be adequate. Meeting Adjourned.
[While Todd and Skip remain seated, the room slowly clears out. Jim lingers a while and is the last to leave, parting with a disgusted look.]
Todd: Skip?
Skip: Yeah?
Todd: Jim must not be taking into consideration how good those Double Westerns are. Have him strangled.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Prompt: A broken time Machine
Startled, the stegosaurus looked up from his meal, examining a smoking hulk screeching across the sky. It made a howl louder and more mournful than any pterosaur he'd heard. His eyes drowsily traced the object's trajectory, till it disappeared into the forest's canopy. Moments later a loud clap roared over the valley and the stegosaurus shielded his head against his shoulder. As the thunder echoed away and the normal sounds of the rainforest resumed, the stegosauraus returned to chewing his cud.
***
"Well I'll say, Manslave! You must be more careful with that spear! How many times have I told you to keep it in the bin by the door?!" Shouted the Colonel as he tripped out of the wrinkled form of the AB88.
"Sorry Master, but the poison dries out in a day, I must refresh the speartip always," explained Manslave, swinging from the open bulkhead and dropping silently onto the pads of his bare feet.
"I'm just grateful I wasn't impaled in the crash." said the Colonel lighting his pipe and stretching his back. "This is QUITE the conundrum, now isn't it? Let us hope that we can get the AB88 repaired with local resources, lest we be stuck here for a fortnight before a rescue party arrives."
"Master," said Manslave.
"Yes?" Inquired the Colonel absently, then turned to face him.
"My lands! How dare they!" Shouted the Colonel at a fresh plume of smoke and flame pouring from the opening of the AB88. "The guns! The supplies! The game! How on Earth are we supposed to hunt now?!" The colonel danced around the crash site in disbelief, throwing his pipe and pith helmet to the ground and kicking dirt in every which-way. Exhausted, he smoothed his mustache and said distastefully "And guaranteed to be marooned here for two weeks! How much worse can this get?!"
Manslave answered with a simple gesture to The Colonel's rear. Turning, he felt the cool shadow of a spinosaurus looming over him. During his rant he hadn't felt the sub-sonic booms of the creatures footsteps advancing on them.
"Manslave! Your spear!" cried The Colonel.
"The fire took it, Master," muttered Mansalve, as he prostrated himself before the giant.
"Manslave," deduced the Englishman, "I do believe we're fucked."
***
"Well I'll say, Manslave! You must be more careful with that spear! How many times have I told you to keep it in the bin by the door?!" Shouted the Colonel as he tripped out of the wrinkled form of the AB88.
"Sorry Master, but the poison dries out in a day, I must refresh the speartip always," explained Manslave, swinging from the open bulkhead and dropping silently onto the pads of his bare feet.
"I'm just grateful I wasn't impaled in the crash." said the Colonel lighting his pipe and stretching his back. "This is QUITE the conundrum, now isn't it? Let us hope that we can get the AB88 repaired with local resources, lest we be stuck here for a fortnight before a rescue party arrives."
"Master," said Manslave.
"Yes?" Inquired the Colonel absently, then turned to face him.
"My lands! How dare they!" Shouted the Colonel at a fresh plume of smoke and flame pouring from the opening of the AB88. "The guns! The supplies! The game! How on Earth are we supposed to hunt now?!" The colonel danced around the crash site in disbelief, throwing his pipe and pith helmet to the ground and kicking dirt in every which-way. Exhausted, he smoothed his mustache and said distastefully "And guaranteed to be marooned here for two weeks! How much worse can this get?!"
Manslave answered with a simple gesture to The Colonel's rear. Turning, he felt the cool shadow of a spinosaurus looming over him. During his rant he hadn't felt the sub-sonic booms of the creatures footsteps advancing on them.
"Manslave! Your spear!" cried The Colonel.
"The fire took it, Master," muttered Mansalve, as he prostrated himself before the giant.
"Manslave," deduced the Englishman, "I do believe we're fucked."
Prompt: Condemned house, pocket watch
"Ryan! Front and center!" Mom called out from the living room.
A thunder of small stomps traced it's way across the ceiling and towards the staircase. Looking up to the top of the stairwell, Mom saw a small body finally attach itself to the disembodied footsteps from upstairs. She rolled her eyes at the reliably unpredictable sight of her youngest son: clad solely in underoos, sneakers, and a tan-like layer of dirt. Ryan slowed his advance and approached her with caution.
"Ryan, have you been going through my things again?"
"But Mom, you said that we can go anywhere in the neighborhood we wanted!"
"Yes honey, only during the summertime, but I don't see how this applies to rifling through my closet?"
Ryan's eyes began to glass over with tears in the tell-tale sign that perhaps she was on to something more than she'd expected. A single prod in the right direction would give definitive proof that he'd gotten into something else that might bring any kind of uniformed man to her door, Last time was the fire department. Ryan had climbed a tree to rescue a kitten, but once it was free, he himself felt the paralyzing height of the tree branch and was too scared to climb down. He was brought back shaken, but otherwise unharmed.
"Ryan, where exactly in the neighborhood did you go?"
Ryan's chin made two small jumps just before he broke out into a bawl. Mom hit the bullseye, and what's more, she was willing to wager that there was an accomplice.
"ANDY! Get down here right now!"
Silence. No patter of footsteps from above, no answer to her request. Finally Andy emerged, taking the carefullest of steps down the stairs; hesitating on each step, as if it were to collapse from underneath him.
"Andy, would you like to explain to me why your brother is crying, even though I haven't told him he's done anything wrong?"
Andy was eerily quiet.
"Andy, would you have any idea why Ryan was going through my closet?"
Andy still remained silent.
"Ok, I want the whole story right now, because if I have to find out for myself you can rest assured that you won't be seeing your xbox until you graduate high school!"
"But MOM!"
"Don't call me Butt-Mom. Start talking, and be grateful that I don't smite you where you stand!"
Andy led Mom and Ryan into the living room for a seat and began to tell their story, Ryan's and his, first in unrelated pieces but finally gluing together.
***
Early that morning, after Dad had left for work and Mom was busy in her office, Andy waited eagerly outside for Ryan to meet him behind the secret bush by the back stairs. Nothing was secret about it as adults might notice, because the bush was in plain sight, but the boys always found it mystical enough to harbor prized toys, candy, and clandestine notes written in lemon juice. It became a sacred area at times, because they could crawl behind it and conduct secret society meetings, mission briefings, and trials.
As Ryan burst out through the back door and began to climb over the stair rail, Mikey entered the back yard through the rear gate. Mikey was a neighbor and life-long friend. Today, as with most days, he wore a blanket tied around his neck like a cape, and carried a proportionately gargantuan and beat up brief case at his side. As jovial a sight it was, Mikey was very solemn. He quietly crawled through a small gap between the house and the bush, to meet with his cohorts.
"Are you guys ready?" Mikey asked in a hushed tone.
"Ryan, did you get it?"
Ryan responded to his brother by producing a waded rag. Andy took the rag and unfolded it. Presently he removed a pocket watch and handed it to Mikey. Mikey laid his briefcase on the ground and released the clasps. He set the pocket watch down inside the briefcase and it made a hollow cardboard sound.
"Hey, is that the Ouja board?" Asked Ryan in awe.
"Nah, my sister took that with her on a slumber party last night," explained Mikey
"How is THIS s'posed to work then?" Ryan inquired, indicating at the Scrabble board crammed into the briefcase.
"I figured Scrabble was the next best thing. I can work with it."
"It's not gonna work," said Ryan, finding courage enough to try and invalidate yet another of Mikey's outrageous claims.
"Yeah it is! And last time I checked Pipsqueak, it was me who has the psychic aunt, not you."
With a glance from Andy, Ryan withheld his rebuttal; partly for fear of being benched from this adventure, but also because he had been proved horribly wrong. Mikey's aunt was a palm reader in New York. According to her, Mikey said, Mikey was going to live till he was 100 years old. Ryan and Andy weren't related to any psychics, so how could he tell that scrabble wasn't the next best thing after all?
In a few moments, they had their plan straight, and set out into the neighborhood, toward The Old Corelli House. They had to do a decent amount of evasive maneuvers so as not to be seen by the neighbors, but their vigilant play-drilling over previous summers had them moving with expert stealth. They finally found themselves standing in the first heat of the summer's day, staring at the foot of mountain that was The Old Corelli House. At the sound of an oncoming truck, the boys quickly ducked around the house and towards the rear entrance.
As they had anticipated, all doors and windows to The Old Corelli house had been boarded up. Mikey came through as usual.
"My brother said that the boards are loose on that window over there," Mikey said, indicating to a window on the side of the house.
The three boys advanced and began pulling at the boards. Finally one nail gave way and the board pivoted out of the way, leaving enough room for any of the three boys to crawl through with minimal discomfort.
The boys were overcome with the smell of dust and decaying wood once inside. They were presented with the sight of a short hallway with peeling wallpaper.
"This way," said Andy leading the others toward the front of the house and away from the kitchen at the other end of the hall.
The living room yielded a number of novel things to explore and investigate. Ryan steered clear of the stuffed crow that garnished the fireplace mantle while Mikey and Andy poked and prodded at it. Avoiding it's eyes, Ryan turned towards an end table near a rocking chair and discovered and old pipe box. Inside it he found wrapping papers, flakes of tobacco and a few matches. He pinched up the few tobacco flakes and sprinkled them by the front door, saying what sounded to him like a protective spell.
Presently the boys began preparing for the real purpose of their being there.
"Ok," said Mikey "so you're sure he used this every day?" He said, indicating to the watch in Ryan's hands.
"Yeah, I think so. I mean, he coulda forgotten it one day before I was born, but as long as I knew him he never wasn't with it."
"I guess it'll have to do," said Mikey, opening the bag of scrabble tiles and grabbing a handful. "Go get the bird Ryan, it's magic."
Ryan sat petrified for a moment but found the courage to pick up the stuffed bird, taking comfort in the total commitment they had made being there. Still, it didn't give much comfort having the thing in his hands. He had to mask the feeling that the bird might suddenly turn in place and bite his hand. He set the bird next to the scrabble board and sat on crossed legs next to his brother.
"OK, Andy, ready to talk to your Grandpa?" Mikey asked, sitting across from him.
"Yeah, ok. What do I do?" Andy said, looking down into his lap.
"Just open up the watch and think about your Grandpa. If you do it right then the scrabble pieces will spell out whatever your Grandpa has to say."
Andy rubbed the cover of the watch and then released the clasp as Mikey threw down a few tiles.
The next moment the three boys giggled unrelentingly at the sight before them. A few of the scrabble tiles tossed to the floor broke the solemn mood:
P - E - E
It was too much for them to pass up a laugh on, so they allowed themselves a few minutes of chuckling. Andy shouted through gasps of laughter that maybe Mikey should throw down more than just three tiles. Still giggling, Mikey gathered up the tiles and tossed a new handful down.
"I bet this time," said Mikey, still rocking with laughter, "it'll say P - O - O..."
But the last words fell out of his mouth before reaching the other boys' ears. His rocking became a sudden an unnerving stillness.
Ryan was the last to notice that something was wrong. He got to his feet and was nervously stepping back and forth from Mikey and the door. As the minutes waged on, Andy's attempts to rouse Mikey became more obviously a fruitless endeavor. After an eternity of what felt like silence, Ryan turned to Andy.
"What do we do?"
"I don't know," said Andy "you think it's working?"
"How am I supposed to know? Remember? We're not the one with a fortune-teller Aunt!"
Before Andy could cross the yard-long gap between the two of them to deliver a corporal response, Ryan gasped and Andy turned to see the carpet under Mikey begin to scorch.
"I wanna go home!" pleaded Ryan.
Andy agreed, adding "let's take Mikey with us, c'mon!" And the two each took Mikey by the arm and helped him to his feet and outside as fast they could. The further they got from the house, Mikey became more and more coherent. They left him at his house in a daze and raced home and upstairs to thier rooms, where, alledgedly they remained until being called down by Mom.
***
"Well I don't care what you think you saw, you go back there and get that damned pocketwatch! And you two should stop being so wierded out by Michael, he's an epileptic. Just thank your lucky charms you don't have it too" said Mom, her hand finally comming to rest on her hip.
After a few moments of looking into the wounded eyes of her sons, she told them to wait in thier respective rooms for Dad to get home, while she went to The Old Corelli House to retrive the pocket watch.
A few minutes later, Mom crawled with much greater difficulty through the window on the back side of The Old Correlli House. She was prepared to spend the rest of the afternoon rooting through the house for her father's pocketwatch, but her Motherly instincts told her to follow the burning smell. It led her down the hallway, away from the kitchen, into the living room at the front of the house. The sight was something one would expect from eight year olds, disgusting taxedermied birds off of high shelves and now within arms reach, drawers left agape, greasy fingerprints poluting a perfect dust-scape. In the middle of the room on the floor, just as Andy had described, lay the pocketwatch and scrabble board. The dim light made it hard to tell where the watch may lay on the floor.
At first she stooped, but desided to settle onto her haunches with a grunt to get a better vantage point of the mess that contained the timepiece. A brief glint led her eyes to the watch and she picked it up. As she stood she looked down once more to survey the scene. The scorching on the floor rug had made the odd pumpkin shape of a young boy's hind quarters. (It somehow reminded her of cleaning a perfect butt-print off of the couch when Ryan had sat on it after playing in the mud one day).
Mom decided to leave everything else as-is. If Mikey's Mom wanted to come back for the scrabble board then she could crawl through the window. She felt a pang of pitty for her, having an epileptic son. Still, Mikey was a sweet boy, but not the smartest.
Exiting, she looked back on the room once more. She chuckled at herself trying to imagine the boys playing scrabble in this old house. At least she could take comfort in the fact that they could spell. Before Mikey's episode, one of them was able to put down the letters B - E - H - A - V - E.
A thunder of small stomps traced it's way across the ceiling and towards the staircase. Looking up to the top of the stairwell, Mom saw a small body finally attach itself to the disembodied footsteps from upstairs. She rolled her eyes at the reliably unpredictable sight of her youngest son: clad solely in underoos, sneakers, and a tan-like layer of dirt. Ryan slowed his advance and approached her with caution.
"Ryan, have you been going through my things again?"
"But Mom, you said that we can go anywhere in the neighborhood we wanted!"
"Yes honey, only during the summertime, but I don't see how this applies to rifling through my closet?"
Ryan's eyes began to glass over with tears in the tell-tale sign that perhaps she was on to something more than she'd expected. A single prod in the right direction would give definitive proof that he'd gotten into something else that might bring any kind of uniformed man to her door, Last time was the fire department. Ryan had climbed a tree to rescue a kitten, but once it was free, he himself felt the paralyzing height of the tree branch and was too scared to climb down. He was brought back shaken, but otherwise unharmed.
"Ryan, where exactly in the neighborhood did you go?"
Ryan's chin made two small jumps just before he broke out into a bawl. Mom hit the bullseye, and what's more, she was willing to wager that there was an accomplice.
"ANDY! Get down here right now!"
Silence. No patter of footsteps from above, no answer to her request. Finally Andy emerged, taking the carefullest of steps down the stairs; hesitating on each step, as if it were to collapse from underneath him.
"Andy, would you like to explain to me why your brother is crying, even though I haven't told him he's done anything wrong?"
Andy was eerily quiet.
"Andy, would you have any idea why Ryan was going through my closet?"
Andy still remained silent.
"Ok, I want the whole story right now, because if I have to find out for myself you can rest assured that you won't be seeing your xbox until you graduate high school!"
"But MOM!"
"Don't call me Butt-Mom. Start talking, and be grateful that I don't smite you where you stand!"
Andy led Mom and Ryan into the living room for a seat and began to tell their story, Ryan's and his, first in unrelated pieces but finally gluing together.
***
Early that morning, after Dad had left for work and Mom was busy in her office, Andy waited eagerly outside for Ryan to meet him behind the secret bush by the back stairs. Nothing was secret about it as adults might notice, because the bush was in plain sight, but the boys always found it mystical enough to harbor prized toys, candy, and clandestine notes written in lemon juice. It became a sacred area at times, because they could crawl behind it and conduct secret society meetings, mission briefings, and trials.
As Ryan burst out through the back door and began to climb over the stair rail, Mikey entered the back yard through the rear gate. Mikey was a neighbor and life-long friend. Today, as with most days, he wore a blanket tied around his neck like a cape, and carried a proportionately gargantuan and beat up brief case at his side. As jovial a sight it was, Mikey was very solemn. He quietly crawled through a small gap between the house and the bush, to meet with his cohorts.
"Are you guys ready?" Mikey asked in a hushed tone.
"Ryan, did you get it?"
Ryan responded to his brother by producing a waded rag. Andy took the rag and unfolded it. Presently he removed a pocket watch and handed it to Mikey. Mikey laid his briefcase on the ground and released the clasps. He set the pocket watch down inside the briefcase and it made a hollow cardboard sound.
"Hey, is that the Ouja board?" Asked Ryan in awe.
"Nah, my sister took that with her on a slumber party last night," explained Mikey
"How is THIS s'posed to work then?" Ryan inquired, indicating at the Scrabble board crammed into the briefcase.
"I figured Scrabble was the next best thing. I can work with it."
"It's not gonna work," said Ryan, finding courage enough to try and invalidate yet another of Mikey's outrageous claims.
"Yeah it is! And last time I checked Pipsqueak, it was me who has the psychic aunt, not you."
With a glance from Andy, Ryan withheld his rebuttal; partly for fear of being benched from this adventure, but also because he had been proved horribly wrong. Mikey's aunt was a palm reader in New York. According to her, Mikey said, Mikey was going to live till he was 100 years old. Ryan and Andy weren't related to any psychics, so how could he tell that scrabble wasn't the next best thing after all?
In a few moments, they had their plan straight, and set out into the neighborhood, toward The Old Corelli House. They had to do a decent amount of evasive maneuvers so as not to be seen by the neighbors, but their vigilant play-drilling over previous summers had them moving with expert stealth. They finally found themselves standing in the first heat of the summer's day, staring at the foot of mountain that was The Old Corelli House. At the sound of an oncoming truck, the boys quickly ducked around the house and towards the rear entrance.
As they had anticipated, all doors and windows to The Old Corelli house had been boarded up. Mikey came through as usual.
"My brother said that the boards are loose on that window over there," Mikey said, indicating to a window on the side of the house.
The three boys advanced and began pulling at the boards. Finally one nail gave way and the board pivoted out of the way, leaving enough room for any of the three boys to crawl through with minimal discomfort.
The boys were overcome with the smell of dust and decaying wood once inside. They were presented with the sight of a short hallway with peeling wallpaper.
"This way," said Andy leading the others toward the front of the house and away from the kitchen at the other end of the hall.
The living room yielded a number of novel things to explore and investigate. Ryan steered clear of the stuffed crow that garnished the fireplace mantle while Mikey and Andy poked and prodded at it. Avoiding it's eyes, Ryan turned towards an end table near a rocking chair and discovered and old pipe box. Inside it he found wrapping papers, flakes of tobacco and a few matches. He pinched up the few tobacco flakes and sprinkled them by the front door, saying what sounded to him like a protective spell.
Presently the boys began preparing for the real purpose of their being there.
"Ok," said Mikey "so you're sure he used this every day?" He said, indicating to the watch in Ryan's hands.
"Yeah, I think so. I mean, he coulda forgotten it one day before I was born, but as long as I knew him he never wasn't with it."
"I guess it'll have to do," said Mikey, opening the bag of scrabble tiles and grabbing a handful. "Go get the bird Ryan, it's magic."
Ryan sat petrified for a moment but found the courage to pick up the stuffed bird, taking comfort in the total commitment they had made being there. Still, it didn't give much comfort having the thing in his hands. He had to mask the feeling that the bird might suddenly turn in place and bite his hand. He set the bird next to the scrabble board and sat on crossed legs next to his brother.
"OK, Andy, ready to talk to your Grandpa?" Mikey asked, sitting across from him.
"Yeah, ok. What do I do?" Andy said, looking down into his lap.
"Just open up the watch and think about your Grandpa. If you do it right then the scrabble pieces will spell out whatever your Grandpa has to say."
Andy rubbed the cover of the watch and then released the clasp as Mikey threw down a few tiles.
The next moment the three boys giggled unrelentingly at the sight before them. A few of the scrabble tiles tossed to the floor broke the solemn mood:
P - E - E
It was too much for them to pass up a laugh on, so they allowed themselves a few minutes of chuckling. Andy shouted through gasps of laughter that maybe Mikey should throw down more than just three tiles. Still giggling, Mikey gathered up the tiles and tossed a new handful down.
"I bet this time," said Mikey, still rocking with laughter, "it'll say P - O - O..."
But the last words fell out of his mouth before reaching the other boys' ears. His rocking became a sudden an unnerving stillness.
Ryan was the last to notice that something was wrong. He got to his feet and was nervously stepping back and forth from Mikey and the door. As the minutes waged on, Andy's attempts to rouse Mikey became more obviously a fruitless endeavor. After an eternity of what felt like silence, Ryan turned to Andy.
"What do we do?"
"I don't know," said Andy "you think it's working?"
"How am I supposed to know? Remember? We're not the one with a fortune-teller Aunt!"
Before Andy could cross the yard-long gap between the two of them to deliver a corporal response, Ryan gasped and Andy turned to see the carpet under Mikey begin to scorch.
"I wanna go home!" pleaded Ryan.
Andy agreed, adding "let's take Mikey with us, c'mon!" And the two each took Mikey by the arm and helped him to his feet and outside as fast they could. The further they got from the house, Mikey became more and more coherent. They left him at his house in a daze and raced home and upstairs to thier rooms, where, alledgedly they remained until being called down by Mom.
***
"Well I don't care what you think you saw, you go back there and get that damned pocketwatch! And you two should stop being so wierded out by Michael, he's an epileptic. Just thank your lucky charms you don't have it too" said Mom, her hand finally comming to rest on her hip.
After a few moments of looking into the wounded eyes of her sons, she told them to wait in thier respective rooms for Dad to get home, while she went to The Old Corelli House to retrive the pocket watch.
A few minutes later, Mom crawled with much greater difficulty through the window on the back side of The Old Correlli House. She was prepared to spend the rest of the afternoon rooting through the house for her father's pocketwatch, but her Motherly instincts told her to follow the burning smell. It led her down the hallway, away from the kitchen, into the living room at the front of the house. The sight was something one would expect from eight year olds, disgusting taxedermied birds off of high shelves and now within arms reach, drawers left agape, greasy fingerprints poluting a perfect dust-scape. In the middle of the room on the floor, just as Andy had described, lay the pocketwatch and scrabble board. The dim light made it hard to tell where the watch may lay on the floor.
At first she stooped, but desided to settle onto her haunches with a grunt to get a better vantage point of the mess that contained the timepiece. A brief glint led her eyes to the watch and she picked it up. As she stood she looked down once more to survey the scene. The scorching on the floor rug had made the odd pumpkin shape of a young boy's hind quarters. (It somehow reminded her of cleaning a perfect butt-print off of the couch when Ryan had sat on it after playing in the mud one day).
Mom decided to leave everything else as-is. If Mikey's Mom wanted to come back for the scrabble board then she could crawl through the window. She felt a pang of pitty for her, having an epileptic son. Still, Mikey was a sweet boy, but not the smartest.
Exiting, she looked back on the room once more. She chuckled at herself trying to imagine the boys playing scrabble in this old house. At least she could take comfort in the fact that they could spell. Before Mikey's episode, one of them was able to put down the letters B - E - H - A - V - E.
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