December Daily Writing Project: December 17

December 17-

You track down an old girlfriend.

Yikes.  Which one?  My first thought is that the majority of my ex’s wouldn’t want to speak with me, and try to insult and accuse me with things from years ago.  And that sounds bad.  But in reality, I think it would be even worse.  From the bits that I’ve seen on facebook, or heard through friends, most of my ex’s seem like they’re happily married with children, and I wonder if any of them would even have any brain space dedicated to my memory anymore.  My guess is that they would be surprised to see me, pause for a second to recall a memory, and then smile at how the memory felt like a different life so long ago.  She would say I looked good and ask what I’ve been up to, but then be distracted by one of her children, and before I could answer her question, she’d tell me it was good running into me before politely saying goodbye.  I would be left standing there alone, happy that she found love and children, comfortable that it wasn’t in God’s plan for us to be together, but alone nonetheless.  But alright- I’ll try this exercise…

I track down an old girlfriend…

Claire, Bonnie, Danielle, Alexis, Merri, Paige, Becca, Kristen, Melanie…

hmm..  no…   I’ll save the grave-digging for another time..

December Daily Writing Project: December 16

December 16-

You are stuck on the highway in the world’s worst traffic jam for at least two days.  What happens?

After having only crawled about a mile in over a day, sitting in traffic on I45, I knew every channel on the radio by heart.  Thank God it was mild enough weather keep the windows down instead of running the A/C or the car would’ve died much sooner.  Nevertheless, it was Tuesday afternoon when the car finally wouldn’t start back up, surrounded by all these other cars either dead or dying.

            My car wasn’t the first to die by a long shot.  Just from walking around and talking to other cars on the road, it was clear that many people’s cars had started failing on Monday night, but the people hadn’t wanted to desert their vehicle.  It likely was the only property they owned after all.  Everything to the east had been decimated as far as anyone could tell.

December Daily Writing Project: December 15

December 15-

A beginner’s guide to skipping out of work.

One of my old coworkers once said that the best way to skip out of work is to tell your boss that “I’m pissing out of my ass”, but that you’re only able to use that excuse just once.  And I agree with that.  Well, partially.

The main rule for skipping out of work is to stay original.  While my coworker’s excuse was gross, it’s strongest point is that it’s unique.  If you ever try using that excuse again, a red flag will surely be raised.  So, don’t be repetitive. 

Don’t regularly skip out, no matter what the excuse. 
Pretend that you did everything you could to come in, but it just didn’t work out.  
Butter the boss up first.  Maybe you did a great job on a project earlier that week, so you’re in high standing.  Maybe you and the boss went out for some beers and laughs the other day.  One good way to skip out is to first get the boss on your side so that they don’t immediately doubt your excuses.

December Daily Writing Project: December 14

December 14- 

Write a ransom note.

I have your heart.  If you want it back, you must meet these demands…

You must read my mind, knowing when to be challenging and when to be supportive, knowing when to be a sinner and when to be a saint, when to be driven and when to be chill, exactly how I want.

You must not grow old or boring.

You must always think that I’m the best thing since air conditioning.

If these demands are not met, I will take your heart and squeeze it in my fists.  I will pull it and stab it until it begins to break.  Eventually, I may just give you your heart back, but it will be mutilated and gristly.  All demands must be met constantly, until I say so.

December Daily Writing Project: December 13

December 13-

What’s the stupidest thing you used to believe whole-heartedly?

When I was very young, I was polite in my unsuredness.  I allowed other people to speak up and argue over me, comfortable with myself being small and in the background.  But one day, I remember trying to be more assertive, voicing my 6yr old opinion on a situation, and I was met with positive feedback.  I can’t remember if my opinion had any affect on the discussion at hand, but I felt rewarded and accomplished that I had spoken out and made my voice heard.  There and then, I resolved to always speak up and give my opinion whenever possible.  This may have been the stupidest thing I used to believe whole-heartedly.

As I’ve gotten older, I realize more and more that most people just need to shut the fuck up.  90% of the things we say on a daily basis are wastes of breath.  People complain about their phones, their friends, their rent, their jobs.  People mumble through nonsensical drunken conversations, and then retell the tale the next day.  People spew out the inconsequential minutia of their day to poor souls that have agreed to listen.  It makes you question what type of progress we might be able to achieve if we just stopped yapping about ourselves and listened to the quiet whispers of God.  How might we live if we were actually interested in learning from each other, in remaining in the light of Truth, in setting our minds and hearts on a Greater Purpose? 

Now, I don’t mean that activists or policy makers shouldn’t stop fighting for good causes.  In the right setting, of course conversation and debate can be a good and healthy thing.  But, the majority of our daily verbal output is just nonsense that fills up our mental capacity like dough in a stomach.  No substance or nutrients.  Just carbs. 

December Daily Writing Project: December 12

December 12-

Go to a new restaurant you’ve been dying to try.  Enjoy your meal.  Go home and write a review as an undercover food critic.

            This was another serendipitous prompt in that, it just so happened to be on the day that I was traveling up to CT with mom to visit Grammie Anne, and we went to a nice restaurant for dinner!  Grammie choose ‘Bailey’s’ in Ridgefield, Connecticut, and it turned out to be a fantastic evening.

            Bailey’s located a block off of Main Street, on a quiet 1-way street.  After dropping off Mom and Grammie Anne by the front door, I was able to quickly find parking in a lot nearby.  When I entered the restaurant’s front doors, I immediately needed to part a pair of heavy curtains to actually step inside the space.  The curtains were there as a second doorway’s added insulation, but also served as a type of back-of-the-wardrobe-portal into a different world.  Immediately I was excited about the evening.  Although Bailey’s is very small with maybe 12 tables, it has high enough ceilings and well-planned interior design which makes the layout comfortable and interesting.  We were seated right away and I immediately noticed how attentive the staff was.  A host, 2 servers, a busser, and another floater always seemed to be at the right place at the right time.

            The beer and wine list was extensive, and I was happy to see the 30ish beers they offered broken out by characteristics, making it easier for the less-informed beer drinker to make decisions.  I didn’t even look at the cocktail menu unfortunately, but my guess was that it was well crafted.  We ended up all getting wine by the glass- chardonnay for Grammie, a ‘petit Syrah’ for Mom, and pinot noir for moi.  I was served a big pour of a delicious, juicy wine in a large wine glass and smiled with that first sip- I love red wine.  We drank to the memory of Grampa Bob and Merry Christmas as well.

            One of the servers came to the table with sliced, warm cornbread, and drizzled a molasses butter on top of it in front of us.  Fantastic.  The menu was 2-sided, with a large pre-fix menu on the back.  However, our server told us that if anything from the pre-fix menu stood out to us, that they could make that an individual entrée for us if we wanted.  Yes please, I’ll have that seafood risotto paella!  First though, we ordered an appetizer of some roasted brussel sprouts with a bacon and light red pepper sauce to share.  Both Mom and Grammie ordered the almond-crusted cod from the main menu.  The brussel sprouts were roasted very well, flaky on the outside and tender on the inside.  The cod was fluffy and mild, highlighting a very nice roasted almond crust and spinach puree on the garnish.  My seafood risotto paella was fantastic, with great saffron flavor, sweat peas, and large chunks of shrimp, lobster, and cod. 

            Afterwards, we all looked at each other, stuffed, with smiles on our faces.  Desert was offered, but we declined, opting instead for coffee and espresso.  Mom picked up the bill (THANK YOU!!), so I didn’t get to see the price, but my guess is that was about $50 per head, plus tip.  A very nice experience and meal, with good company and conversation!

December Daily Writing Project: December 11

December 11-

Open your medicine cabinet.  Catalog every pill, ointment, and product.  What conditions do they treat and how does the whole lot add up to a statement about your mortality?

Deodorant, cologne (multiple), ibuprofen, Tylenol, daily vitamins, fish oil capsules, adderall, toothpaste (2 kinds), mouthwash, rubbing alcohol, Gold Bond powder, bug spray, sun block, after-sun aloe, disposable razors, condoms, band aids & First Aid kit, cough drops (2 kinds), Thera-Flu packets, Aquaphor, Sudafed, Benadryl, Tenactin

Well, let’s see… What does this say about my mortality?!  Interesting…  Hmm…

It actually doesn’t look great.  Ha!  This is revealing itself as a loaded prompt, but here goes…

My medicine cabinet seems to be saying that I’m taking life for granted.  First off- I’m not sure I’ve ever used the sun block, but have definitely used plenty of the after-sun aloe after I’ve gotten many an irresponsible sunburn.  The adderall (not prescribed) and the multi-vitamins both indicate that I’m trying to get a quick fix in a pill versus actually putting in the work towards better health and productivity.  The Aquaphor is for tattoo treatment and the cologne is for attracting girls- both fairly vain endeavors.  I guess the cold medicines seem innocent enough, but admittedly I take them in excess at the slightest hint of a cold, hating the idea of not being in optimal health.  And the condoms serve as a pretty obvious metaphor of taking life for granted.

Yep.  Again though, I think this is a pretty loaded prompt.  What typical things in a medicine cabinet point towards positive things?  A medicine cabinet is for emergencies, morning breath, and hangovers.

December Daily Writing Project: December 10

December 10-

Put yourself or your character in a place where you feel vulnerable and uneasy.

            For two straight days she couldn’t sleep, crying and pacing.  She wanted to talk to her friends but when she reached for the words, her chest seized up and she was unable to share what was haunting her.  She had managed to tell her mother, but just barely.  Finally, she was able to travel to see him and tell him face to face.

            “I have something to tell you,” she said slowly.  His stomach rose into his throat, unsure of what she was about to tell him.

            “The other night, I was at a party…”  She was focusing on her breath, trying to keep her hands from shaking, her voice from failing.  Terrified.  He could sense all of her fear and began to piece together what was happening.

            “I had too much to drink, and…”  Here it comes.  “I made-out with a guy.”  He closed his eyes.  Hot tears arose from his cheek bones.  He opened his eyes and looked at her.  She was open to the core.  Her eyes were made of water, her face like a jellyfish, hard and gelatinous at the same time.  She looked at him and could feel his anger, his judgment, his rejection.  He asked her questions like, “did you have sex?” and “do you have a relationship with this guy?”.  All she had done was kiss a stranger at a college party, but she answered all of his condescending questions with complete honesty and grace, yearning for his love and forgiveness.  After she was sufficiently broken down, he finally allowed her a softer face.  He gave a slight, reassuring smile.  Her heart leapt with the tiny offering.  She shut her eyes, and could feel her tense muscles soften.  But before she opened her eyes again, her muscles tensed back up and she felt herself walking out onto yet another ledge.

            “Have you ever…” she started slowly.  “Cheated on me?”  He was not prepared for this turn in the conversation.  In fact, he was not prepared for this question at all.  He was not prepared because he had, in fact, never even recognized that his sexual affairs had any connection to his current relationship.  The seemingly obvious connection had simply never even crossed his young mind.  And as his brain struggled to catch up to speed with it’s own reality, she was able to realize the answer to her question before he even said a word.

            “I…” he stuttered.  Her heart splintered.  “I… have, yes.”  Her heart cracked.  He stood, dumbfounded, as if hearing this news for the first time himself.  His brain tried to preserve itself with a final “don’t admit anything you don’t have to”, but she was ready with specific questions.  In the dark corners of her mind, she previously had suspicions of his infidelity and had subconsciously rehearsed the questions she wanted answers to.

            “Have you had sex with anyone else?”

            “Yes,” he heard his mouth say.  Her heart exploded.

            “More than once?”  He looked down at the ground.  “Look at me,” she commanded.  He was ruined, his entire face trembling and wet.

            “Yes,” he responded again.  She heaved, but her stomach was empty. 

            “How many times?” she pushed.  He looked at her for mercy, but no longer was she the vulnerable girl he had broken down just minutes before.

            “Three-  four.   Yeah… four.”  Even he didn’t believe the words coming out of his mouth, but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember how many times he had cheated.  His brain had placed these memories in their own protected safe, and he was honestly fumbling to retrieve its information. 

            “I am so so sorry!  I am so sorry.  I fucked up.  I…”  But she was already gone.  Her body still stood in front of him, but her soul had been destroyed and returned to God for repair.  He tried to take her hand, but she pulled away.  She looked at him and saw nothing but a lie, a human-shaped bag, a cruel joke.  Her knees almost gave out and he leapt for the opportunity to be her man again, but she steadied herself with a hand on the door knob.  He again tried to take her hand without success.

            “You’re just like your father,” she said, and opened the door.

December Daily Writing Project: December 9

December 9- 

Describe a person you see everyday.

I really don’t see any one person every single day other than myself in the bathroom mirror. 

The End.

*Fuck it- I need a break after writing for 8 days straight, and technically, I wrote as much as I could for the prompt, sooo…  I’m done!  Bye.

**Ok, good point- I did hand-pick the prompts myself, so I guess I’m bendin my own rules, but I find it rather serendipitous that this one happened to fall on the day that I just flat out didn’t-want-to-write, so I’m mailing it in :p

***Amy reminded me tonight at the bar that the phrase is “phoning it in”, but you know what?...I’m shootin’ from the hip on this one!  I’m MAILING IT IN!

“He look...like a man”  -MAD TV

December Daily Writing Project: December 8

December 8-

Your most memorable experience in the back of a car.

            “Wait- you don’t know about The Emoclew?” he said.
            “The what?” I said.

            “The Emoc- ok we gotta go right now,” he said.

            “Eh?” someone else offered.
            “Yeah, Alex hasn’t seen The Emoclew, so we’re gonna head over there,” he said.

            “To The Emoclew!” they cheered.

            It was a warm December evening in south Florida, and I was in 10^th grade.  I was hanging with a fantastic crew; at the time, probably most easily known as ‘the ska crew’.  Goofy, smart, animated, and usually substance-free, I liked these guys and girls a lot.  One evening, we were hanging in a gas station parking lot, and the above conversation occurred.  Everyone packed into the 2 cars and we were on our way.  I was crammed in an overstuffed backseat.  But even from the backseat, driving at night in south Florida is pretty great.  Add to the evening some good friends, and it didn’t really matter where we were going- I was just happy to be there.

            We had only been driving for 10minutes and I still knew exactly where we were when the cars began to slow down to turn.  We were turning into the public Christmas lights ‘drive-thru’ event on part of FAU’s campus on Glades Road!  I had passed this event many times over the past few weeks, but hadn’t thought I’d ever actually drive through it.

            “We’re going to the Christmas lights drive-thru thing?”
            “Yes!  That’s where The Emoclew lives!”

            The event was free to the public and as soon as we entered, we were greeted by a row of lit-up candy canes and a large lit-up welcome sign with a waving snowman.  Our speed had slowed to under 5mph and we began through the Christmas light village from the top of the teardrop-shape pathway.  From the backseat I craned my neck and adjusted my posture to see everything out there, wondering when I would finally understand what this mysterious ‘Emoclew’ was.  Before too long though, we had slowly driven most of the way around the event and I started to wonder if this was all just a big prank.  But just before we fully exited the event, everyone in the cars erupted.

            “THE EMOCLEW!!”

            “What?!  Where?  What are you looking at?”

            And someone pointed at the snowman that had earlier greeted us on the way in.  Coming from the opposite direction and reading the sign backwards, I could see that the lights underneath the snowman now spelled out the word ‘E-M-O-C-L-E-W’.  My fellow car mates cheered and exalted for The Emoclew like fans at a rock concert.  I, myself, couldn’t help but feel a new sense of pride for being in the presence of this Great Emoclew.   And as we slowly drove past our Christmas light hero and exited the event, everyone’s ecstasy faded into a peaceful joy, happy that we all got our money’s worth.

*Obviously the “most memorable” backseat experiences involve either a girlfriend or a police officer, but I like my Emoclew experience/story much better.

December Daily Writing Project: December 7

December 7-
“Let’s go, sugarbeet,” he said to her as he snapped on the light.  He was carrying two duffel bags, one very light, the other very heavy.

“Let’s go, sugarbeet,” he said to her as he snapped on the light.  He was carrying two duffel bags, one very light, the other very heavy.  She was startled but quickly focused her attention.

            “What’s in that bag?” she asked, waking up more with each second.

            “You know what this is.  Today’s the day.  Shake your tailfeathers.”  A smile crept across her face.  First she found her sunglasses.  Then she found some clothes to put on.  Then they were out the door.

            At the top of the settlement, they reached the woods.  She hadn’t said a word the entire trek up, but now erupted with questions and exclamations.

            “Is it finished for real, pastelito?  Do you think it will work?  I can’t believe it!  And it works, you’ve tried it?  Oh, this is marvelous!” she exalted, now finally within the cover of the trees.  She followed him over a small ridge and around another one, and stopped in front of a pile of boulders.  There, he dropped the bags, looked back at her just long enough for a wink, and then disappeared into the pile through a gap in the boulders.  For a second she stood there still.  And then pounced on the very heavy duffel bag.

            “Come on now, crocodile,” he said, already back outside.  “Don’t turn a baby bird into an omelet, you know what I mean?”  He was holding a dilapidated metal fan so large, he could barely be seen behind it.  She screamed, and immediately covered her mouth.

            “Ohh, I don’t know, Howzey Whose.  Have you tried it?  That thing just doesn’t look that lofty!”

            “It’s Howard Hughes.  And just you wait, swiss cheese.”  He braced himself under the weight of the fan and began climbing up the boulders.  She followed behind, holding the two duffel bags.  Above the pile they came to a clearing, and then to the base of a long cliff.  He put down the metal fan, and she put down the duffel bags.  With the flip of a quick smile, he watched her tear into the heavy duffel bag.  Inside was a massive sheet; a hundred-piece patchwork of old tshirts, plastic bags, duct tape, pizza boxes, and paper torn from novels.  Thread, tape, glue, Velcro, and origami all held the giant sheet together, and she pulled the whole thing out of the bag and onto the ground.

            “Oh, facey face, I don’t think so, mi amor.  This can’t fly,” she said to him as her eyes filled with tears.  He looked hard at her there, kneeling in front of his beloved wing. 

            “Don’t go burying your feet in cement just yet there, chicken little.  You haven’t even heard her sing.”  Out of the smaller duffel bag, he pulled bunches of strings and straps, and began fastening them to the sheet, the fan, and finally, himself.  He hoisted the fan on his back and tightened a series of straps around his shoulders.  She had been quietly holding the second duffel bag while he worked on all of the connections, and now that he appeared finished, he whistled and snapped at the bag in her hands.  She pulled out a pair of sunglasses.  Again, he whistled and snapped.  She threw him the sunglasses and he caught them with ease.

            “Amelia- I love you,” he called as he smiled and put on the sunglasses.  He yanked a cord that suddenly started the engine of the fan with a loud explosion followed by a beautiful whir of the blades.  Both of their ears quivered with excited recognition of the sound.  He took a few small steps forward and the parachute began lifting off the ground behind him.  Her eyebrows raised above her glasses and her jaw went slack.  With a few more steps, the parachute hovered directly overhead, the fan’s motor sounding strong and consistent.

            “Rockstardom, baby!  It’s beautiful!”  She could not believe how well he had built their dream.

            “So you gonna hitch a ride or what, kitty cat?”
            “YES!” and she ran over to him.  He spun her around and pulled her close to his chest, drawing another series of straps around her waist and shoulders.  When she was secure, he reached around and kissed her cheek.

            “To the end of the earth with you/contigo hasta el fin del mundo,” they said, looking out over the edge of the cliff.

December Daily Writing Project: December 6

December 6-

The oldest item in your possession.

Somewhere in the 1930’s, Albert was late for dinner at a friend’s house.  He rushed to put his coat on and fill his pockets with the necessary items before heading out for the evening.  Once he got to the house, the amount of people running around inside put his mind at ease.  “It’s ok that I’m a little late- it’s chaos in here and nobody even noticed,” he thought.  But in reaching into his pocket to pull out his handkerchief, Albert’s rosary fell out of his pocket.  The rosary was in a small pouch, though when the pouch dropped to the ground, the chained beads spilled out.  A keen eye of one of the daughters of the house, Rose, happened to notice this accident and smiled at young Albert.  “What a pious man!” she thought.  It was because of this accident with the rosary that my Grandfather Albert and Grandma Rose began courting each other and eventually married, having 4 daughters of their own.  Grandpa Al, or “Pop Pop” as was his preferred grandfather name, died in his 50’s, and his rosary was passed down to my Aunt Evelyn.  For a while, Aunt Ev kept the rosary in storage, along with a few other Pop Pop and Grandma Rose mementos.  And in 2007, when I decided to become Catholic, Aunt Ev gave me Pop Pop’s rosary and told me the story behind it.  It is a beautiful, black beaded rosary, long and heavy.  It’s still in same small pouch, and has now fallen out of my pocket a few times.  On those rare occasions, I’ll curiously pause before picking it up, taking a quick look around for any observant ladies.

December Daily Writing Project: December 5

December 5-

Your face is on the evening news.  Explain why.

The phone rang.  It was my buddy Bill.

            “Hey Bill, whatsup?”
            “Hey did you know your face is on the news?!”  I could tell from his tone that this wasn’t a joke.

            “What?!  Why?!  Are you sure it was me?”

            “Oh it was you alright.  But the segment switched before I could hear what it was about or could take a picture, but it was definitely you.  Wait- you have no idea why you’re on the news??”  Bill continued talking, but I could no longer hear him.  My mind was racing.

            “What channel was it on?” I asked.

            “Umm…5.  I think that’s the local CBS.”

I decided to check online first.  I Googled my name and only the usual came up- some hotel in South Dakota.  I refined my search to include “CBS Philadelphia”.  Still nothing.  I found the stations number and called them immediately.

            “Hi this is Alex Johnson.  I believe you just had a news segment about me, and I want to find out what it was about.”

            “Hmmm… Alex Johnson… Alex Johnson…  Oh!  Yes!  Let me transfer you to Programming- hold please.”

            “No wait!-“ the line was already playing the company hold music.

            “Hi this is Cheryl.”

            “Hi Cheryl, my name is Alex Johnson and I was told your station just ran a news segment on me and I want to find out what it was about.”
            “Oh- you want Programming.  I-“

            “Wait!  I was told I was being transferred to Programming but I got sent to you!”

            “Yeah, they’re ‘3006’, and I’m ‘3060’.  Happens at least once a day.”
            “Ok, ok.”

            “Ok, good luck.”

            “Wait!  Are you transferring me?”
            “Oh no- I’m sorry- you’ll have to call the main line again and make sure they connect you correctly.”

            “Ugh.  Ok.  Thanks.”  I hung up and immediately considered how important this mission was, or if it was even worth going through another call like the last.  Before I had the chance to come to a conclusion, my phone rang.  Bill again.

            “Looks like you were killed in a train tracks accident, man,”

            “WHAT?!”

            “Yeah… tough break.”

December Daily Writing Project: December 4

December 4-

Take a short interaction (ex. paying for coffee, talking to a phone operator) and extend it as long as possible.

            “Honey, would you please go get Mommy a soda from the concession stand?  Here is some money.”  The girl obediently took the bills and carefully folded them in her hand.  Behind the bleachers, a dilapidated shack sold hot dogs, fries, bags of chips, and sodas.  The smell of grease made the girl think about how much she loved mustard and hot dogs, but she knew better than to spoil her appetite before dinner.

            “Hello.”  The concession stand clerk was a big man with a moustache.

            “Just one soda please,” the girl replied, extending her hand with the folded bills.

            “Well that’s not how you greet a person,” said the man.  For the first time, the girl looked at the man’s face and couldn’t tell if he was sincere or teasing.  Without a word, she extended the money out further towards the clerk.  The man just looked at her without saying anything.  The girl grew uncomfortable.  She looked over her shoulder in hopes there was someone behind her in line.  There wasn’t.  In fact, there weren’t any of the people usually milling about behind the bleachers.  The girl looked back at the man who hadn’t stopped looking at her.  He seemed comfortable.  The girl felt how sweaty her hands had become around the bills, and the thought of crying crossed her mind.

            “Let’s try this again,” the big man’s voice was loud, but gentle.  “Hello.”
The girl pulled her handful of money back to her side and squinted at the man.

            “…Helloooo…” she barely whispered.  The man was overjoyed at her response.

            “Ah!  Yes!  Beautiful afternoon, isn’t it?!”  The girl looked over her shoulder again.  Still, no one was there.

            “…Yesss…” she replied with extreme hesitation.

            “Yup.  Good day for a ball game.  So just a soda then?”  The girl was thoroughly confused.  It was like the man had been frozen, but was now bright and animated.

            “…Yesss…”  She brought the bills back out.  They were crumpled and damp with sweat.

            “Ok, out of $3…  here’s your soda, and 75cents is your change!”  The man handed the girl the bottle in one hand and her change in the other.  She took the items, still looking at the man with suspicion.  He stood there looking at her with a small, pleasant smile on his face.

            “…Thhaankk youu…”  It came out more like a question than a statement.

            “You are very welcome!  Have a good afternoon.”  The girl walked back around the bleachers, still trying to process her encounter with the man.  But once she rounded the corner, and could hear all the people talking and cheering, she snapped back to her usual energy.”
            “Hi Mom!”

            “Honey, did you bring me my change?” was the reply.  The small girl looked at her mother. 

            “Well that’s not how you greet someone.”

December Daily Writing Project: December 3

December 3-

You know when it comes to making the decision to choose a job that pays well versus the job that’s fun?  He made the colossal mistake of picking the fun one.

Backchannelmedia began as an internship during my junior year of college.  It was my first gig inside an office.  At the time, BCM was a 15-person Direct Response media buying agency.  It bought airtime on TV networks for commercials with 800 numbers.  The president/CEO was an inspiring leader for sure.  A few months after I started, the he surprised me before the building’s Christmas party by putting weed and papers on my desk and asking me to roll a joint.  I had already wrapped my head around the fact that EVERYONE SMOKES WEED, but had never seen it happen in a after-work office setting.   In hindsight, the muscle that the CEO used on me was actually a good indicator of how things would turn out. 

            My friends would say I was “coming home from the clown factory” when I’d get back to the house, drunk after work.  I came home drunk from Backchannelmedia about once a week or so.  Weed was actually barely was a thing that happened in work functions after that first instance, but a healthy “fuck the system” attitude kicked in around 4pm many days.  We worked hard, but as soon as the opportunity to knock off for the day arose, you could tell that things started tearing apart at the seams.  It was like the first kid that zips up his bag before the bell rings.  It’s a chain reaction.  Someone starts milling, someone might go down to the bar across the street, someone comes back from the corner store with beers and ice cream.  There were some characters there and, if nothing else, the place was interesting.

But oh yeah- after I graduated, I started working at BCM full time.  But by now the company had started to transition into a heavier advertising tech startup. 

The CEO would throw you bones, and we were allowed to do some pretty cool shit.  I went to a conference in Miami, and was given the opportunity of organizing the entire industry-wide after-party at a south beach club.  I went to a conference and ran a booth in Orlando.  I planned our company boat party.  I had some pretty memorable times there.  And it’s not like I didn’t get paid that well.  For a job right out of college, I got paid well enough and had some great stuff to put on my resume.  The kicker was that the CEO allocated equity shares to all of the employees, getting people to work with more of a vested interest, willing to sacrifice a bit in salary.  Towards the end, there were multiple instances where paychecks were delayed for multiple weeks.

December Daily Writing Project: December 2

December 2- 

Pick an ordinary object.  Make it somebody’s obsession.  Write a story about the obsession.

Dr. Frank Chesler hated taking the train to work.  Ideally, he would be able to fly his brand new Hover 3000 straight from his house to his office like all of the other doctors that he knew, but the roof of Frank’s office building hadn’t yet setup a landing pad for personal hover crafts.  Frank hated every minute of his hour long commute.  It was foul with disgusting people.  People yelling into their phones and laughing at their own jokes.  People opening junk food wrappers, chewing noisily, and coughing phlegmy coughs.  People sneezing without covering their mouths, and blowing their noses into insufficient tissues.  Frank cringed harder with every ugly specimen in the human hoi polloi.  He closed his eyes, put his headphones on and turned the music up, desperately trying to distance himself from his surroundings.  But there was one thing that could cut right through his attempts: the distinct click of someone trimming their nails. 

            Somehow, the course of history had not highlighted trimming one’s fingernails in public as an offense against the common good, and Frank could not abide.  In the rare occurrence where someone felt the need to do their personal grooming on the train, Frank would immediately snap into a near catatonic state, his muscles flexed to the max with hatred and disgust.  The quick click of the clippers as they chopped off a nail sent a jolt through his veins like an electric shock.  And if there was a 2^nd click of the discarded nail hitting the ground, Franks whole body would spasm.  His efforts to hide from his fellow commuters would be stripped away to the core, and it was all Frank could do to not bash this person’s head in.  Two months ago, a passenger began clipping their nails in the seat in front of him and somehow, a rogue clipping sailed between the seatbacks and landed on Frank’s knee.  If a red hot ember had touched his bare skin, it would not have caused as much of a reaction.  Frank’s entire body exploded, and he rocketed out of his seat.  Words from the darkest part of Frank’s soul were birthed in his stomach, but they immediately collected bile and vomit as stowaways.  While some of the other passengers on the train may have been uneasy with the nail clippers near them, no one was ready for the man who simultaneously jumped out of his seat, vomited over the seat in front of him, and screamed fiery words of malice at the passenger on the receiving end of his acidic eruption.  Despite a few gasps, the entire train car was frozen, their minds struggling to comprehend the last few seconds of reality.  Frank was too full of adrenaline to sit back down, let alone apologize to the shocked passengers.  He wiped his mouth staring down at the disheveled passenger in front of him and growled, “Stop clipping your nails in public.”  It was on this day, at this moment, that Frank Chesler decided to become a superhero.

            From an early age, Frank had known he was smarter than everyone else.  He excelled in school and his elders showered him with praise.  “You’re going to become a doctor one day!” they all said, clapping their hands with delight.  And Frank assumed that he would, in fact, become a doctor.  However, it wasn’t long before Frank realized that he didn’t have the stomach for the nastiness and gore that came with most medical professions.  Instead, he found Audiology to be both mentally stimulating and agreeable to his delicate nerves.  Frank became an expert in the intricate mechanics of the human ear, patenting multiple technologies assisting in sound receptors in the brain.  His research made him quite wealthy at an early age, reinforcing the belief that he stood in a class all his own.  On the day that Frank decided to dedicate his life to eradicating public nail clipping, he created a computer program able to detect the audible click specific to that of a nail being clipped.  It wasn’t hard.  Frank had done similar work his entire professional career, but had never focused his efforts on such an exact sound.   Within hours, his program was able to accurately differentiate the sound of a nail being clipped versus the click of a pen, a light switch being flipped, a computer keyboard, and countless other sounds.  He was happy to see that by the time he had completed his work, it was well into the evening and rush hour was long gone.  He took the train home that night with a smile on his face, knowing that this would be the last time he would ever ride the train to work.

            The next morning, Frank packed his audio receivers and computer into the back of the Hover 3000, and took off towards the main commuting artery into the city.  Hovering over the train tracks that usually took him to work, Frank turned on the audio detection program and pointed the receivers down into the floor of his vehicle.  The indicators flickered as trains passed underneath him, picking up sound frequencies similar to what he was looking for, but not exactly.  And then!!  The program caught something: the distinct clip of a nail on a train headed east.  He raced his hovercraft down towards the train and matched it’s speed, waiting for another click.  CLIP!  The program was erupting with lights and alarms, indicating the sound was coming from the car directly below them.  Frank swerved down next to the windows of the speeding train, dangerously avoiding a train racing the other way.  In the window, he could see a man in a suit, casually trimming his already manicured fingernails.  Frank felt his stomach churn, vomit threatening to move up through his body.  He fought the reaction, and steadied himself.  “This man is garbage, and I am the only one that can do something about it,” Frank thought to himself.  He pulled out his laser cannon and took aim.

            Maggie was absentmindedly playing a game on her phone, impatiently riding the train to work like she did every morning.  It wasn’t until she heard the distinct click of someone nearby trimming their fingernails that she remembered the story one of her coworker had told yesterday.  Apparently someone on the train had puked all over a person who was clipping their nails!  And now, upon hearing that sound, Maggie’s attention left her game and searched for the nail clipper inside her train’s car, secretly hoping that this vile person might be puked on as well.  Instead, Maggie only saw a flash of a red light coming through the window of one of the seats across the aisle.  The flash, although silent, was followed by an explosion of skull and brain matter sprayed across the entire train car.  Screams of terror and disgust rocketed out of passenger’s lungs, and in the chaos that ensued, Maggie only saw a glimpse of a hover craft as it flew away from the scene.  Yet in that one instant, she thought she was able to notice a symbol roughly painted on the side of the vehicle.  She later told police that it sounded crazy and she couldn’t be sure, but the symbol looked like a red line crossing out a pair of nail clippers.