The Gates
“Did your life flash before your eyes?”
“Actually, it didn’t, it was more a list of regrets. I know, that sounds maudlin, but as I fell, it came down to the things I hadn’t done.”
“Like what?”
“Nothing big, no ‘I never reconciled with my father’ or any such. Just little things. I should have gotten to the tennis court more. I never tried baba ganoush. I never made love to a cellist.”
“Never made love to a cellist?”
“I always wanted to make love to a cellist.”
“So, how long do you think we wait here?”
“Couldn’t tell you.”
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Drabble: Pot
Pot
“I’m thinking about heading home.”
“Me too, Frank. The buffet is almost out.”
“Alright, let’s go.”
“Sounds good.”
We headed to the doors where we’d come in, but there was a big ENTER ONLY sign, so we went to the doors at the far end of the banquet hall, only to find the same.
“They’re not making it easy,” said Frank. “Ah well, there must be some way out.”
“What’s that?” There’s a feeling in my gut like an elevator going up.
“Dunno.”
“This seems familiar, somehow.”
“I wouldn’t pay it too much mind. Hey, you tried this crab dip?”
“I’m thinking about heading home.”
“Me too, Frank. The buffet is almost out.”
“Alright, let’s go.”
“Sounds good.”
We headed to the doors where we’d come in, but there was a big ENTER ONLY sign, so we went to the doors at the far end of the banquet hall, only to find the same.
“They’re not making it easy,” said Frank. “Ah well, there must be some way out.”
“What’s that?” There’s a feeling in my gut like an elevator going up.
“Dunno.”
“This seems familiar, somehow.”
“I wouldn’t pay it too much mind. Hey, you tried this crab dip?”
Monday, December 29, 2008
Drabble: Fifteen
Fifteen
It was the spring of her thirteenth birthday when Violet’s letter came from the Warhol Institute. She unsealed the official-looking envelope, but she already knew what it contained.
Part of her resented the institute. Sure, she was happy, and who wouldn’t be? But why in the summer, with no schoolmates around to admire her momentary specialness?
And if it happened so early in her life, what was left to wait for?
It was the spring of her thirteenth birthday when Violet’s letter came from the Warhol Institute. She unsealed the official-looking envelope, but she already knew what it contained.
This letter shall serve as notice that, from 11:54 am till 12:09 pm on Friday, July 8th, you shall be the most famous person on earth.
Part of her resented the institute. Sure, she was happy, and who wouldn’t be? But why in the summer, with no schoolmates around to admire her momentary specialness?
And if it happened so early in her life, what was left to wait for?
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Drabble: Confection
Confection
“This one’s... mmm... lemon fondant?”
“Let me try one. Oh, maybe dark chocolate ganache?”
“The card says dark chocolate-hazelnut.”
“I don’t taste it, but okay.”
“Here, give me another.” I bite through the milk chocolate shell, and my mind was flooded with memories. Every bittersweet moment, every let's-just-be-friends rejection, every not-quite-right present from every childhood birthday flashes through my head. I force myself to chew and swallow the sticky lump. “What was in that?”
“Existential ennui with raspberry puree.”
“That can’t be right.”
“It says so right there...”
“I could’ve sworn it was strawberry.”
“This one’s... mmm... lemon fondant?”
“Let me try one. Oh, maybe dark chocolate ganache?”
“The card says dark chocolate-hazelnut.”
“I don’t taste it, but okay.”
“Here, give me another.” I bite through the milk chocolate shell, and my mind was flooded with memories. Every bittersweet moment, every let's-just-be-friends rejection, every not-quite-right present from every childhood birthday flashes through my head. I force myself to chew and swallow the sticky lump. “What was in that?”
“Existential ennui with raspberry puree.”
“That can’t be right.”
“It says so right there...”
“I could’ve sworn it was strawberry.”
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Drabble: Talk:Charles Foster Kane
Talk:Charles Foster Kane
Last words
anyone know anything about this “rosebud?” -65.63.289.122 (talk) 23 June 1941
Last words
anyone know anything about this “rosebud?” -65.63.289.122 (talk) 23 June 1941
Tried to look up Susan Alexander’s bio, but the link’s broken. -jthompson (talk)
23 June 1941Checked again, but there’s no “rosebud” mention.
-jthompson (talk) 27 June 1941
Nothing about it in Thatcher’s blog archives, either -jthompson (talk) 23 June
1941
Someone want to check out the Bernstein or Leland connnections? -72.34.423.556 (talk) 24 June 1941Not finding anything... -jthompson (talk) 27 June 1941
anyone??? -65.63.289.122 (talk) 28 June 1941:’’( -65.63.289.122 (talk) 23 June 1941
Friday, December 26, 2008
Drabble: Bad Advice
Bad Advice
“This whole thing is set to blow wide open.”
“Fuck.”
“This doesn’t have to be a bad thing.”
“How the hell do you mean?”
“Okay, here’s the plan. Over the next few months, you’re going to go absolutely over the top. Don’t just be corrupt, be a parody of corruption. Do it on every phone line you’ve got.”
“Why would I fuckin’ do that?”
“You’re giving them evidence so ridiculous, when it comes out, people won’t possibly believe it’s real. You’ll be a hero, a victim, a frame-up.”
“Son, you’re a fuckin’ genius.
“Just doing my job, Mr. B.”
“This whole thing is set to blow wide open.”
“Fuck.”
“This doesn’t have to be a bad thing.”
“How the hell do you mean?”
“Okay, here’s the plan. Over the next few months, you’re going to go absolutely over the top. Don’t just be corrupt, be a parody of corruption. Do it on every phone line you’ve got.”
“Why would I fuckin’ do that?”
“You’re giving them evidence so ridiculous, when it comes out, people won’t possibly believe it’s real. You’ll be a hero, a victim, a frame-up.”
“Son, you’re a fuckin’ genius.
“Just doing my job, Mr. B.”
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Droubble: Gonna Find Out...
Gonna Find Out...
The hideous thing squinted at the light. “Hey, kid, what the hell are you doing up?”
“I have to pee.”
“Crap, this is not good, not good at all.”
“What are you?”
“What do I look like? I’m a Christmas elf.”
“You don’t look like one at all.” This wasn’t entirely true – the little man stood about the right height, and his ears were pointy, if tufted with greasy white hair. But his features were grotesque, his limbs twiglike and crooked. His outfit, far from festive, looked like it was hastily made from scraps of old sack.
“Ahh, you’ve only seen factory elves. Of course Santa keeps the pretty ones around for publicity shots. But we do the real work.”
“What work is that?”
“Uhh, nothing. I was just, uh, passing through.”
“What’s behind you?”
“Noth–”
The child pushed him aside, and gasped. His old teddy bear sat on the shelf, its face ripped open along the seam. A tiny camera blinked inside. The elf had been midway through stitching up the hole with a needle half as long as his forearm.
“Listen, you tell anyone about this, that’s big-time naughty list. You saw nothing. Now go to sleep.”
The hideous thing squinted at the light. “Hey, kid, what the hell are you doing up?”
“I have to pee.”
“Crap, this is not good, not good at all.”
“What are you?”
“What do I look like? I’m a Christmas elf.”
“You don’t look like one at all.” This wasn’t entirely true – the little man stood about the right height, and his ears were pointy, if tufted with greasy white hair. But his features were grotesque, his limbs twiglike and crooked. His outfit, far from festive, looked like it was hastily made from scraps of old sack.
“Ahh, you’ve only seen factory elves. Of course Santa keeps the pretty ones around for publicity shots. But we do the real work.”
“What work is that?”
“Uhh, nothing. I was just, uh, passing through.”
“What’s behind you?”
“Noth–”
The child pushed him aside, and gasped. His old teddy bear sat on the shelf, its face ripped open along the seam. A tiny camera blinked inside. The elf had been midway through stitching up the hole with a needle half as long as his forearm.
“Listen, you tell anyone about this, that’s big-time naughty list. You saw nothing. Now go to sleep.”
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Drabble: Bird's Eye
Bird's Eye
The caged bird is defined by the cage. Without it, it would simply be bird. The bird is a thing inside the cage, a state signified by and identical with the cage.
But wait. Look out through those little black, glassy eyes. You, the dog, the couch and the bookshelf and the walls and the potted plant, these are things outside the cage. If the bird could see or imagine elephants, the Tour Eiffel, sycamore trees and black holes and sushi, they too would so defined.
So are we your monsters from space, or are you our songbirds from Earth?
NOTE: I will be flying out of town early tomorrow, and I'm not bringing my computer, so the drabbles will just have to wait to be posted until I get back.
The caged bird is defined by the cage. Without it, it would simply be bird. The bird is a thing inside the cage, a state signified by and identical with the cage.
But wait. Look out through those little black, glassy eyes. You, the dog, the couch and the bookshelf and the walls and the potted plant, these are things outside the cage. If the bird could see or imagine elephants, the Tour Eiffel, sycamore trees and black holes and sushi, they too would so defined.
So are we your monsters from space, or are you our songbirds from Earth?
NOTE: I will be flying out of town early tomorrow, and I'm not bringing my computer, so the drabbles will just have to wait to be posted until I get back.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Drabble: Consensus
Consensus
“I tend to disagree,” said Counsellor Trouff.
A gasp of shock went through the forum at sound of those near-forgotten words. Decisions in the Forum, and for that matter all manner of decision, were always made by consensus. Dissent was unheard of – not because it was quashed, but simply because it was unheard of to separate one’s thoughts from the zeitgeist long enough to come to a dissenting viewpoint. The thought of doing so was too terrifying to imagine.
The remaining members of the forum were, of course, unanimous in the decision of how to deal with the Counsellor.
“I tend to disagree,” said Counsellor Trouff.
A gasp of shock went through the forum at sound of those near-forgotten words. Decisions in the Forum, and for that matter all manner of decision, were always made by consensus. Dissent was unheard of – not because it was quashed, but simply because it was unheard of to separate one’s thoughts from the zeitgeist long enough to come to a dissenting viewpoint. The thought of doing so was too terrifying to imagine.
The remaining members of the forum were, of course, unanimous in the decision of how to deal with the Counsellor.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Droubble: Adventure Travel
Adventure Travel
It was so hot along the edge of the highway that the glue binding the spine of my guidebook was starting to fail, and as I compulsively checked the maps to see how far we were from our destination, pages kept coming loose, like the wings of craneflies in the hands of a sadistic little boy. I tucked them, in ever-increasing number, back in their place inside the glossy cover.
This was supposed to be a good area to hitch a ride, and perhaps if any cars would pass through, this would be true. But the road was barren, the locals apparently knowing better than to travel on such a day in their mostly un-air-conditioned (for who here could afford to have such a non-essential system repaired?) prewar cars, and all the hospitality in the world didn’t help if nobody was along to offer it.
We stopped under a crumbling overpass, opened the last two cans of now-lukewarm beer. It was too foamy, and not terribly refreshing, but it was all we had left.
“Ain’t this fine,” I said, bitterly.
“I’m not the genius who wanted to take vacation on the Surface,” spat back Martha.
It was so hot along the edge of the highway that the glue binding the spine of my guidebook was starting to fail, and as I compulsively checked the maps to see how far we were from our destination, pages kept coming loose, like the wings of craneflies in the hands of a sadistic little boy. I tucked them, in ever-increasing number, back in their place inside the glossy cover.
This was supposed to be a good area to hitch a ride, and perhaps if any cars would pass through, this would be true. But the road was barren, the locals apparently knowing better than to travel on such a day in their mostly un-air-conditioned (for who here could afford to have such a non-essential system repaired?) prewar cars, and all the hospitality in the world didn’t help if nobody was along to offer it.
We stopped under a crumbling overpass, opened the last two cans of now-lukewarm beer. It was too foamy, and not terribly refreshing, but it was all we had left.
“Ain’t this fine,” I said, bitterly.
“I’m not the genius who wanted to take vacation on the Surface,” spat back Martha.
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