Stories!
I haven't posted here in a really long time, I'm sorry. There are many other things I update regularly, some of them required by class. So please bear with me.
Behind the cuts, there are several stories I wrote recently. I consider most of them, if not all, works in progress. Please feel free to crit as needed. I know it seems like a lot, but most of these stories are no more than 2-3 pages long. The titles are simply the names of the authors whose stories initially inspired me.
Hope you enjoy!
Response to Charlotte Perkins-Gilman
I am convinced that the planning stages on this trek have taken now much longer than they need to take. I am an experienced guide after all, look how long I've managed to live! I've completed many trips successfully. I take my clients where they want to go and then I get them back, in one piece! It is beyond me who that Englishman thinks he is. He didn't take a single one of my recommendations, instead planning the whole thing with his cronies. He was dismissive at best, and ignored me at worst. Damn the feeling of responsibility that keeps me here, worrying about the this bastard's well being.
What does he know of surviving the elements? Sure, the Englishman is a cartographer and making maps is in an important profession, God I know. But what does he know beyond the paper? What does he know of land so frozen and covered in snow that the topography looks nothing like what is on your map? Lands where the landscape changes drastically from season to season, month to month, day to day. I have made several trips through similar routes, and believe me, there have been times when the snow had shifted so much that even though I knew I was passing through the same area things looked completely different. Once, trapped in a storm for a few hours, I made a shelter. When I emerged, not only was I inches and maybe feet below the surface, but I was so turned around and confused by the changes that I had to get my bearings from the sun. Other times, I chose to guide my clients by the stars. What good are maps then?
I certainly mean no disrespect. I've known about this Englishman for years now. As a matter of fact I've made use of several of his maps. I was even excited when I learned that I would be leading the expedition. Until it became apparent that I wouldn't be leading the expedition. I was just an asset and a safety net, insisted upon by his college's administration. God forbid the prized cartographer gets lost, what would people say then? Since the first introduction and his dismissal of my approaches, I haven't spoken with him anymore. Does he understand that I speak fluent English? Even during our introduction he kept looking to his fellow Englishmen whenever I spoke, as if he didn't understand me! I must not allow myself to get offended. I have no plans to hinder this expedition, I am nothing if not a team player, and certainly anger leads to poor choices.
The average person thinks that those who talk to themselves are crazy or otherwise unstable. I learned long ago that an internal dialogue is sometimes the healthiest way to handle the harsh conditions where I have chosen to make my career. Frankly, this dialogue has frequently saved my life. In an oblique way, it has allowed me to reach solutions and notice problems that would have been ignored had I not consulted with myself. Often I am the only experienced person on camp, so who else is there to rely on?
The amount of things the Englishman has brought with him! I don't understand the need for at least half the items here. Bundles and bundles of things, that aren't even used on a daily basis in the camp site. The most mysterious of which is a very large trunk that has been sitting outside the Englishman's tent since I got here. Not once have I seen it opened. There must be some very valuable thing in there that he doesn't want exposed to the elements.
We've been camped out for a while, but it looks like the planning stage is not over. I made myself readily available for consultation. I stood close to the Englishman and tried to catch his eye, he all but ignored me. I have no idea how to approach him. Usually the people who hire me ask many questions and make me a clear part of all the goings-on. Sometimes, the plans are entirely up to me. Now, I feel just like a regular pack man! What is the use of all my years experience if I'm not going to be a guide proper.
I got tired of simply sitting around, sharpening my knives, and I decided to sit closer to the Englishman's tent. The plan, apparently, is to reach the summit before anyone else does. I've never been that far. To be honest, even if the Englishman seems foolish to me, he must have a lot of courage to try such a thing. I can understand now the need to prepare and plan for so long. He's not consulting me, I wonder then who he's comparing notes with and who will be the experienced leader.
A team from a nearby village came two days ago to retrieve all the supplies we wouldn't need to take on the trip. I was relieved to see many of the bundles make their way onto the sleds. I had begun to worry that the Englishman was planning on taking all those things to the summit. I was surprised to see that the trunk, even though it had been placed on a sled by one of his cronies, was not going to the village. The Englishman was furious and removed the trunk from the sled himself, lifting it, and laying it carefully close to his tent.
We're finally gearing to leave. I realize now that I've been feeling a tad stir crazy. There are 5 of us on the trip. The Englishman decided not to take any dogs with us! I began to approach him on the subject, but he dismissed me. But I insisted and said dogs could alleviate our burden, they travel fast and if all else fails, they could serve as a last resort food supply. He responded that strong men carry their own packs and what kind of savage eats man's best friend. Offended and confused I stepped aside and held my tongue. The other men on the trip pretended not to hear the exchange, I'm sure they side with him. I regret not leaving when the opportunity was there, when the team from the village came to retrieve excess baggage.
I haven't spoken to anyone in days. Of course it became my task to carry the trunk. I am after all the only resident pack man. I don't know why I follow this Englishman, I don't know why any of his cronies continue with him. He is not even remotely civil to any of them. The only thing he says when anyone approaches him is that we're writing history. He puts one foot in front of the other, constantly looks back to make sure we're still following, especially me with his precious trunk. When night came and all others were sleeping, I couldn't stand it anymore. To have to drag a weight and not know exactly why one is burdened with it is unbearable to me. I took out my sharpest, thinnest knife, and pried the lock open. With a creak that racked my nerves, the lid swung backwards. Besides a dusty blue and pink splattered lining, the trunk was empty. Empty. Empty. I've been dragging this thing for this long and it is empty! I was quiet and gentle and I frankly don't think I damaged it. I stood, after closing it, and stared. Sometimes counting my breaths helps me calm down, so I did that. The monstrous trunk came nearly to my thigh.
I didn't know what to do with my secret. Should I tell the Englishman that I knew he was crazy? Should I tell his cronies that this whole thing was pointless? Why would they believe me? What would stop any of them from harming me if they didn't agree with my ideas? So that night, to verify what I had seen the night before, once again I opened the trunk. I noticed that the blue lining was almost gray, and kind of difficult to define, its color seemed to change with the light. The pink splatter was not that at all, but a flowered pattern. The flowers were very small and irregularly shaped. Was it hand painted? I put my hands inside the trunk to feel its texture, and it was fabric. The flowers were raised. I wonder what kind of delicate hand could paint such small flowers? I closed the trunk in a hurry. No one must see it! Let alone see me, looking within.
All the next day I yearned to touch it again. Such a gentle comforting space.
**work in progress
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Response to Castro
Plastic has been a close companion of mankind for decades. Some may go as far as to believe that civilization as we know it is possible because of it. The ease with which products can be made out of it introduced the concept of disposables. This implies things that have a short life span. Which makes ironic the fact that plastic can last, as far as humans are concerned, forever.
Many day to day products are made of plastic, including kid's toys and common articles. Consider the ball. A regular inflatable ball. Inconspicuous in its design, it probably has been around, in one guise or another, as a toy and a tool for about as long as man has been man. Today it is lighter and more lasting than ever, with its hollow center filled with air and nothing but.
A private space, devoid of direct light, gentle and muffled. Cushioned by air. Able to withstand years and years of play. The sounds of play accumulated within.
A dog's bark may live inside a rubber ball, echoed and amplified. Held safely and archived. The ball rolling along covered in slobber and filled with the memory of sound and play. The ball outlives and outlasts its collections. Even as the sounds of yelping and whimpering ricochet in its interior and the dog inside the house struggles with solitude. Even as she dies with a pup stuck in her birth canal while the family was on vacation. They find her days later, in the kitchen, a trail of blood behind her. Caked after birth glues her tail to the linoleum and the rest of the puppies lie starved under the table. The ball's hollow center remembers the screams of children and the adult's shocked silence.
The sun shining in just as it shines into the eyes through closed eye lids, the space inside a ball may record laughter and seagulls, waves breaking. Brightly colored and reflecting those colors like a kaleidoscope, the ball's interior may still echo the factory sounds of the day it was made. Grinding and humming, calls for lunch. The bored dribble of factory workers with mechanized hands and creaking joints. Talk of husbands and wives, the girl next door, a furtive call to that 1-800 number, you know the one, man she was hot. She sounded like she could do it all day long, maybe she's flexible. Laughter and ringing bells, you go on believing that, man, whatever rocks your boat. Done for the day, settled in a box, the sound of creaking settling metal in the sudden cold of inactivity. All of that could be intermixed with the sound of play accumulated in the empty space of a rubber ball.
A ball may even travel for days in a minivan, forgotten in the back seat. Always silent, but witness to the sounds of activity. Soccer practice and the sound of children, complaints in the morning on the way to school, I think I have a fever. All complaints forgotten in the attempt to not be embarrassed by the mother's dutiful drop. Mostly, recorded passively, are the sounds of her driving to and from chores. Struggles to get the groceries in, muttering as she balances her checkbook while the engine idles. A sudden slam of a door and her intake of breath. Drive, a voice never heard before is added to the ball's collection. Halted breathing, silent crying, slowly driving out of the parking lot. Stop, get out, followed by the no please of a familiar voice in an unfamiliar tone. The loudest, harshest sound to ever be recorded in the empty space of a rubber ball. Bouncing around its interior, losing volume but not significance, a bang may live within its soft colorful walls. As could the sound of nature jolted and scared, the frightened calls of birds flying away, the squirrels in the trees scampering to their holes, shocked silence and a gentle breeze wafting in through the shattered window. The smell of rot and the sounds of sirens eventually, eventually, may also live within the hollow interior of a rubber ball.
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Response to Carver
Fifteen days after the first onset of symptoms, Molly was still bed ridden. In that period of time the seasons had changed and the first snow was on the ground. Her sleep had become irregular, and she eased in and out of it without realizing it. Her husband, Ed, had gone back to work, but he took care of her whenever he was home and the nurse had gone for the day. He had started wearing a surgical mask on the eighth day.
The nurse always wore the surgical mask, from the beginning. Molly had meant to ask the nurse once why she wore the mask. Beating her to it, nurse had explained that the mask was a common practice for her, in the name of the patient's safety. The nurse came daily, wearing a traditional white uniform. She did some light cleaning and disinfecting, and kept track of Molly's condition. Most if not all of the talking the nurse ever did, out of her own volition, happened on that first day.
The nurse came in everyday at 8:30am, just as Ed was leaving for work. She would go about her routine. First the temperature, then the pulse and finally the blood pressure. Meticulously taking notes of Molly's progress. During the first few days there wasn't much else for the nurse to do. Embarrassed, Molly thought to engage her in conversation.
The nurse went about her tasks without comment, nodding occasionally whenever Molly tried to speak and not making eye contact. She continued to go about her business cleaning, sweeping, making food and documenting Molly's ailment. Always taking notes in the chart. Once Molly had been tempted to request a look at the chart. Then she changed her mind. The nurse wore a pen around her neck, so she would never lose it.
On the tenth day, Molly couldn't think of a single thing to say, so she didn't.
Once Molly woke up. Looked around. The sun was shining through the window. Snow was reflecting additional light in. There were no sounds at all in the house. She wondered if she had been left alone. She thought about going over to look out the window, open it even. A white shape in the corner of her eye caught her attention. It was the nurse, in her rubber shoes, not making a sound. Not looking at her, the pen swinging from her neck with her every move. The pen didn't make any sound either. Molly turned her head back to the ceiling and started counting the pockmarks on the white finish.
On the thirteenth day Molly woke up to find herself in adult diapers. She blinked slowly, initially unsure as to what they were. Ed was standing by the door, looking in. The lights were off and the sun had already set. She hadn't seen him in days. He was still wearing his work clothes and she could hear the TV in the background. There was light elsewhere in the house. Ed stood there, a little rumpled and tired, wearing the surgical mask.
It occurred to Molly that she couldn't remember what Ed's nose looked like.
She wasn't sure she felt comfortable with him standing there, looking at her. She thought he was looking at her, but it was dark and she couldn't see his eyes. But she was wearing diapers and she couldn't remember since when she had been wearing them and why no one had asked her if she wanted to wear them. So she waited for him to leave, and when he did she hated him a little for not coming in.
The fifteenth day rolled along. It had been snowing for the past two days. Ed kept coming home late from work. The nurse's impassivity was rattled then and she complained openly, Molly overheard. They fought and the nurse left, not to expect her back.
Ed paced the house for hours.
Molly woke up early the following day. It had been hard to sleep anyway. She suspected Ed hadn't slept at all. She woke up to the door slamming closed, and she supposed he had just left for work.
She detected a foul smell by mid-morning, and she was afraid it was her own stench. The nurse hadn't come.
It was night by the time Ed came back. Molly was sure now that the stench was her own, and her waste made her itch. She was trying not to think about it, when she spotted Ed standing by the door, again. She was so relieved to see him and she wished he would turn on the lights. He didn't, but he came closer. He stood over her, and she was sure he was looking at her. She was embarrassed about her position. She couldn't imagine what he thought.
She noticed then how rumpled he was, how he swayed as he stood there. Concerned, she looked at his face. The surgical mask was gone. He stood in the dark, and looked at her from head to toe. He wrung his hands and stammered
-”Why won't you talk to me? Why won't you get up?” his voice cracked.
He reached down and uncurled her hands, which insisted on curling right back as soon as he let go of them. Sighing, he went about cleaning and changing her. He was much gentler than the nurse had ever been, even if his inebriation made him clumsy. He rolled her and changed the sheets, changed the pads and changed everything. He cleansed her with a warm sponge and that special soap that didn't have to be rinsed. Then he rubbed lotion on her legs and arms, he knew she got itchy when her skin was dry. He bent her legs and flexed her arms, and set them back down.
How she loved him then, and she remembered how beautiful she thought his nose was.
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Poe Response
It feels so nice to do volunteer labor. Some people insist that altruism is dead, but I think those people are just to lazy to work hard and gain any satisfaction from it. I regularly go to the beach to pick up litter. There's always so much! You never really know what you'll find. Some people ask me if I get tired of it, if it makes me angry, but I really don't see what they mean. There is always so much to do! Who in their right minds would stop to wonder about it? Who in their right mind would?
About two weeks ago a group of volunteers came to help out. I wasn't really expecting them. No one usually comes out here, let alone to clean. I was so impressed! Maybe the new generation is different. I am not really with any authority, I think these kids were boy scouts or something and were looking for guidance. They saw me at the beach, picking up litter as I always do.
They asked if they could help. Help! Help me? But why? They had some pink forms. They said they would spend the day out with me cleaning the beach, and if I could, would I sign their paper as evidence of their work? Oh, so they had to do volunteer work. Involuntarily. That confused me. I asked them what that meant. Where they here? Not here? Was it pretend? They laughed, they seemed like good kids, and they explained. The volunteer work was required, yes, but they chose to do it here so they were volunteers through and through.
How nice! How nice I said! I love company but don't get it often. There is so much to do, so much and the day is young. I sent them out with garbage bags to different parts of the beach. All over! I could see them all from where I stood. They seemed disappointed in being separated, but I guaranteed the more spread out the better, the more are we could cover. The beach is big! So much of it, so much sand. So many things to pick up. After all, you never know what you'll find.
After a few hours the kids became frustrated saying that spread out like that they would never be able to finish. Oh, I laughed! How mistaken I was when I initially disapproved of them for not really being volunteers! What do I know, huh, what do I know. With my most charming smile I told them that it was impossible to ever finish, because more litter is continuously being left. Together we were keeping the problem from getting worse. If more kids, just like them, came along with me and cleaned, over time, we might have a solution.
How they smiled. I really think that bolstered their spirits because they went right back to work. They really were such good kids. I thought I would invite them to my house and show them all the things I have found. I was convinced they would understand.
So when the sun started to lowed on the horizon, I invited them. How nervous I was! I'd never invited anyone to my house before. No one would understand my labor of love on the beach, day in and day out. These kids now knew though, they knew and they hadn't turned away. So I invited them, and they accepted! They wanted to know what I would teach them.
I ran ahead to my house, hadn't had company in so long! They soon followed laughing, racing each other in. They stood in awed silence at my collection. You never knew what you may find at the beach. I described each item and where and when I found it. They continued in silence, such respectful children! Eventually I showed them my prized collection. Went to my freezer and showed them all the baby turtles I had caught. Frozen like statues as they tried to crawl out of the container I had put them in, I explained to the children that the turtles were hard to find and infrequent, but how they moved around and littered the beach! “Next time I see them,” I told the kids, “next time they come, I will call you and we can clean the beach together.”
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Bradbury - Response
Does the light turn off in refrigerators when you close the door? Yes, yes it does. As a matter of fact, the light is never even on in the freezer. The products that live there, usually only for a short time and with a very visible expiration date, wait patiently for their turn. Or impatiently one might also assume, as especially produce wilts and decays, loudly voicing its dissatisfaction at having to wait.
The dairy products, particularly the yogurt, may be considered to have an advantage. Being the only ones with life within in the form of bacteria, active and semi sentient, busy digesting the complex sugars within. If not an advantage then perhaps its a marked disadvantage, shortening life spans and hurrying decay. Perhaps the King in the blind man parade is the box if baking soda, sitting unassumingly under the light, with its nearly immortal expiry date. Its only joy to sit and watch its subjects marching in and out, as the lights blinks on and off, and they are consumed. By the same token, it might be that the baking soda is heartbroken every time someone leaves its kingdom. Such an existence, full of opposites!
Its main objective and purpose simply to absorb odors, the life of baking soda is reduced to waiting. To wait and watch, collecting a plethora of smells, mementos of its long lost subjects. But what does baking soda smell like after all? A combination of everything it has absorbed over months or years, or nothing at all?
Over in the darker recesses of the freezer, the meats wait in frigid cold their turn. In the freezer no one is king since all sleep until their turn comes. The fish fillets, the chicken, the pork and the steak all wait in equal slumber to be thawed and remembered. One day, behind the King Baking Soda's back, the owner of the fridge picked the humble pork chop. Wait a rude awakening to be put into the microwave for 5 minutes to thaw? Would it have been gentler and more considerate to allow it to warm to room temperature overnight? Nobody really cared.
Pork chop suddenly found itself spinning around a glass plate, a constant hum at its ear. Crackling, it felt blood suddenly flow to its forgotten regions and congealed fat becoming oil again. The initial pleasure was replaced with phantom pain as the blood in this amputated bit of flesh began to cook within its veins.
As the skillet came closer and closer, coated in oil, garlic and spices, what else could a pork chop feel but a general sense of accomplishment at being cooked. At being eaten. As a matter of fact the general feeling of accomplishment permeated the whole kitchen. Particularly the cook who took credit for all the murders, and all satisfactions.
When she opened the refrigerator in search of tomatoes, the King Baking Soda could see pork chop on the skillet. He couldn't help but feel pain and pity at pork chop's untimely demise. At the same time too, jealousy crept in. For who wouldn't want to be consumed, devoured and loved.
Behind the cuts, there are several stories I wrote recently. I consider most of them, if not all, works in progress. Please feel free to crit as needed. I know it seems like a lot, but most of these stories are no more than 2-3 pages long. The titles are simply the names of the authors whose stories initially inspired me.
Hope you enjoy!
Response to Charlotte Perkins-Gilman
I am convinced that the planning stages on this trek have taken now much longer than they need to take. I am an experienced guide after all, look how long I've managed to live! I've completed many trips successfully. I take my clients where they want to go and then I get them back, in one piece! It is beyond me who that Englishman thinks he is. He didn't take a single one of my recommendations, instead planning the whole thing with his cronies. He was dismissive at best, and ignored me at worst. Damn the feeling of responsibility that keeps me here, worrying about the this bastard's well being.
What does he know of surviving the elements? Sure, the Englishman is a cartographer and making maps is in an important profession, God I know. But what does he know beyond the paper? What does he know of land so frozen and covered in snow that the topography looks nothing like what is on your map? Lands where the landscape changes drastically from season to season, month to month, day to day. I have made several trips through similar routes, and believe me, there have been times when the snow had shifted so much that even though I knew I was passing through the same area things looked completely different. Once, trapped in a storm for a few hours, I made a shelter. When I emerged, not only was I inches and maybe feet below the surface, but I was so turned around and confused by the changes that I had to get my bearings from the sun. Other times, I chose to guide my clients by the stars. What good are maps then?
I certainly mean no disrespect. I've known about this Englishman for years now. As a matter of fact I've made use of several of his maps. I was even excited when I learned that I would be leading the expedition. Until it became apparent that I wouldn't be leading the expedition. I was just an asset and a safety net, insisted upon by his college's administration. God forbid the prized cartographer gets lost, what would people say then? Since the first introduction and his dismissal of my approaches, I haven't spoken with him anymore. Does he understand that I speak fluent English? Even during our introduction he kept looking to his fellow Englishmen whenever I spoke, as if he didn't understand me! I must not allow myself to get offended. I have no plans to hinder this expedition, I am nothing if not a team player, and certainly anger leads to poor choices.
The average person thinks that those who talk to themselves are crazy or otherwise unstable. I learned long ago that an internal dialogue is sometimes the healthiest way to handle the harsh conditions where I have chosen to make my career. Frankly, this dialogue has frequently saved my life. In an oblique way, it has allowed me to reach solutions and notice problems that would have been ignored had I not consulted with myself. Often I am the only experienced person on camp, so who else is there to rely on?
The amount of things the Englishman has brought with him! I don't understand the need for at least half the items here. Bundles and bundles of things, that aren't even used on a daily basis in the camp site. The most mysterious of which is a very large trunk that has been sitting outside the Englishman's tent since I got here. Not once have I seen it opened. There must be some very valuable thing in there that he doesn't want exposed to the elements.
We've been camped out for a while, but it looks like the planning stage is not over. I made myself readily available for consultation. I stood close to the Englishman and tried to catch his eye, he all but ignored me. I have no idea how to approach him. Usually the people who hire me ask many questions and make me a clear part of all the goings-on. Sometimes, the plans are entirely up to me. Now, I feel just like a regular pack man! What is the use of all my years experience if I'm not going to be a guide proper.
I got tired of simply sitting around, sharpening my knives, and I decided to sit closer to the Englishman's tent. The plan, apparently, is to reach the summit before anyone else does. I've never been that far. To be honest, even if the Englishman seems foolish to me, he must have a lot of courage to try such a thing. I can understand now the need to prepare and plan for so long. He's not consulting me, I wonder then who he's comparing notes with and who will be the experienced leader.
A team from a nearby village came two days ago to retrieve all the supplies we wouldn't need to take on the trip. I was relieved to see many of the bundles make their way onto the sleds. I had begun to worry that the Englishman was planning on taking all those things to the summit. I was surprised to see that the trunk, even though it had been placed on a sled by one of his cronies, was not going to the village. The Englishman was furious and removed the trunk from the sled himself, lifting it, and laying it carefully close to his tent.
We're finally gearing to leave. I realize now that I've been feeling a tad stir crazy. There are 5 of us on the trip. The Englishman decided not to take any dogs with us! I began to approach him on the subject, but he dismissed me. But I insisted and said dogs could alleviate our burden, they travel fast and if all else fails, they could serve as a last resort food supply. He responded that strong men carry their own packs and what kind of savage eats man's best friend. Offended and confused I stepped aside and held my tongue. The other men on the trip pretended not to hear the exchange, I'm sure they side with him. I regret not leaving when the opportunity was there, when the team from the village came to retrieve excess baggage.
I haven't spoken to anyone in days. Of course it became my task to carry the trunk. I am after all the only resident pack man. I don't know why I follow this Englishman, I don't know why any of his cronies continue with him. He is not even remotely civil to any of them. The only thing he says when anyone approaches him is that we're writing history. He puts one foot in front of the other, constantly looks back to make sure we're still following, especially me with his precious trunk. When night came and all others were sleeping, I couldn't stand it anymore. To have to drag a weight and not know exactly why one is burdened with it is unbearable to me. I took out my sharpest, thinnest knife, and pried the lock open. With a creak that racked my nerves, the lid swung backwards. Besides a dusty blue and pink splattered lining, the trunk was empty. Empty. Empty. I've been dragging this thing for this long and it is empty! I was quiet and gentle and I frankly don't think I damaged it. I stood, after closing it, and stared. Sometimes counting my breaths helps me calm down, so I did that. The monstrous trunk came nearly to my thigh.
I didn't know what to do with my secret. Should I tell the Englishman that I knew he was crazy? Should I tell his cronies that this whole thing was pointless? Why would they believe me? What would stop any of them from harming me if they didn't agree with my ideas? So that night, to verify what I had seen the night before, once again I opened the trunk. I noticed that the blue lining was almost gray, and kind of difficult to define, its color seemed to change with the light. The pink splatter was not that at all, but a flowered pattern. The flowers were very small and irregularly shaped. Was it hand painted? I put my hands inside the trunk to feel its texture, and it was fabric. The flowers were raised. I wonder what kind of delicate hand could paint such small flowers? I closed the trunk in a hurry. No one must see it! Let alone see me, looking within.
All the next day I yearned to touch it again. Such a gentle comforting space.
**work in progress
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Response to Castro
Plastic has been a close companion of mankind for decades. Some may go as far as to believe that civilization as we know it is possible because of it. The ease with which products can be made out of it introduced the concept of disposables. This implies things that have a short life span. Which makes ironic the fact that plastic can last, as far as humans are concerned, forever.
Many day to day products are made of plastic, including kid's toys and common articles. Consider the ball. A regular inflatable ball. Inconspicuous in its design, it probably has been around, in one guise or another, as a toy and a tool for about as long as man has been man. Today it is lighter and more lasting than ever, with its hollow center filled with air and nothing but.
A private space, devoid of direct light, gentle and muffled. Cushioned by air. Able to withstand years and years of play. The sounds of play accumulated within.
A dog's bark may live inside a rubber ball, echoed and amplified. Held safely and archived. The ball rolling along covered in slobber and filled with the memory of sound and play. The ball outlives and outlasts its collections. Even as the sounds of yelping and whimpering ricochet in its interior and the dog inside the house struggles with solitude. Even as she dies with a pup stuck in her birth canal while the family was on vacation. They find her days later, in the kitchen, a trail of blood behind her. Caked after birth glues her tail to the linoleum and the rest of the puppies lie starved under the table. The ball's hollow center remembers the screams of children and the adult's shocked silence.
The sun shining in just as it shines into the eyes through closed eye lids, the space inside a ball may record laughter and seagulls, waves breaking. Brightly colored and reflecting those colors like a kaleidoscope, the ball's interior may still echo the factory sounds of the day it was made. Grinding and humming, calls for lunch. The bored dribble of factory workers with mechanized hands and creaking joints. Talk of husbands and wives, the girl next door, a furtive call to that 1-800 number, you know the one, man she was hot. She sounded like she could do it all day long, maybe she's flexible. Laughter and ringing bells, you go on believing that, man, whatever rocks your boat. Done for the day, settled in a box, the sound of creaking settling metal in the sudden cold of inactivity. All of that could be intermixed with the sound of play accumulated in the empty space of a rubber ball.
A ball may even travel for days in a minivan, forgotten in the back seat. Always silent, but witness to the sounds of activity. Soccer practice and the sound of children, complaints in the morning on the way to school, I think I have a fever. All complaints forgotten in the attempt to not be embarrassed by the mother's dutiful drop. Mostly, recorded passively, are the sounds of her driving to and from chores. Struggles to get the groceries in, muttering as she balances her checkbook while the engine idles. A sudden slam of a door and her intake of breath. Drive, a voice never heard before is added to the ball's collection. Halted breathing, silent crying, slowly driving out of the parking lot. Stop, get out, followed by the no please of a familiar voice in an unfamiliar tone. The loudest, harshest sound to ever be recorded in the empty space of a rubber ball. Bouncing around its interior, losing volume but not significance, a bang may live within its soft colorful walls. As could the sound of nature jolted and scared, the frightened calls of birds flying away, the squirrels in the trees scampering to their holes, shocked silence and a gentle breeze wafting in through the shattered window. The smell of rot and the sounds of sirens eventually, eventually, may also live within the hollow interior of a rubber ball.
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Response to Carver
Fifteen days after the first onset of symptoms, Molly was still bed ridden. In that period of time the seasons had changed and the first snow was on the ground. Her sleep had become irregular, and she eased in and out of it without realizing it. Her husband, Ed, had gone back to work, but he took care of her whenever he was home and the nurse had gone for the day. He had started wearing a surgical mask on the eighth day.
The nurse always wore the surgical mask, from the beginning. Molly had meant to ask the nurse once why she wore the mask. Beating her to it, nurse had explained that the mask was a common practice for her, in the name of the patient's safety. The nurse came daily, wearing a traditional white uniform. She did some light cleaning and disinfecting, and kept track of Molly's condition. Most if not all of the talking the nurse ever did, out of her own volition, happened on that first day.
The nurse came in everyday at 8:30am, just as Ed was leaving for work. She would go about her routine. First the temperature, then the pulse and finally the blood pressure. Meticulously taking notes of Molly's progress. During the first few days there wasn't much else for the nurse to do. Embarrassed, Molly thought to engage her in conversation.
The nurse went about her tasks without comment, nodding occasionally whenever Molly tried to speak and not making eye contact. She continued to go about her business cleaning, sweeping, making food and documenting Molly's ailment. Always taking notes in the chart. Once Molly had been tempted to request a look at the chart. Then she changed her mind. The nurse wore a pen around her neck, so she would never lose it.
On the tenth day, Molly couldn't think of a single thing to say, so she didn't.
Once Molly woke up. Looked around. The sun was shining through the window. Snow was reflecting additional light in. There were no sounds at all in the house. She wondered if she had been left alone. She thought about going over to look out the window, open it even. A white shape in the corner of her eye caught her attention. It was the nurse, in her rubber shoes, not making a sound. Not looking at her, the pen swinging from her neck with her every move. The pen didn't make any sound either. Molly turned her head back to the ceiling and started counting the pockmarks on the white finish.
On the thirteenth day Molly woke up to find herself in adult diapers. She blinked slowly, initially unsure as to what they were. Ed was standing by the door, looking in. The lights were off and the sun had already set. She hadn't seen him in days. He was still wearing his work clothes and she could hear the TV in the background. There was light elsewhere in the house. Ed stood there, a little rumpled and tired, wearing the surgical mask.
It occurred to Molly that she couldn't remember what Ed's nose looked like.
She wasn't sure she felt comfortable with him standing there, looking at her. She thought he was looking at her, but it was dark and she couldn't see his eyes. But she was wearing diapers and she couldn't remember since when she had been wearing them and why no one had asked her if she wanted to wear them. So she waited for him to leave, and when he did she hated him a little for not coming in.
The fifteenth day rolled along. It had been snowing for the past two days. Ed kept coming home late from work. The nurse's impassivity was rattled then and she complained openly, Molly overheard. They fought and the nurse left, not to expect her back.
Ed paced the house for hours.
Molly woke up early the following day. It had been hard to sleep anyway. She suspected Ed hadn't slept at all. She woke up to the door slamming closed, and she supposed he had just left for work.
She detected a foul smell by mid-morning, and she was afraid it was her own stench. The nurse hadn't come.
It was night by the time Ed came back. Molly was sure now that the stench was her own, and her waste made her itch. She was trying not to think about it, when she spotted Ed standing by the door, again. She was so relieved to see him and she wished he would turn on the lights. He didn't, but he came closer. He stood over her, and she was sure he was looking at her. She was embarrassed about her position. She couldn't imagine what he thought.
She noticed then how rumpled he was, how he swayed as he stood there. Concerned, she looked at his face. The surgical mask was gone. He stood in the dark, and looked at her from head to toe. He wrung his hands and stammered
-”Why won't you talk to me? Why won't you get up?” his voice cracked.
He reached down and uncurled her hands, which insisted on curling right back as soon as he let go of them. Sighing, he went about cleaning and changing her. He was much gentler than the nurse had ever been, even if his inebriation made him clumsy. He rolled her and changed the sheets, changed the pads and changed everything. He cleansed her with a warm sponge and that special soap that didn't have to be rinsed. Then he rubbed lotion on her legs and arms, he knew she got itchy when her skin was dry. He bent her legs and flexed her arms, and set them back down.
How she loved him then, and she remembered how beautiful she thought his nose was.
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Poe Response
It feels so nice to do volunteer labor. Some people insist that altruism is dead, but I think those people are just to lazy to work hard and gain any satisfaction from it. I regularly go to the beach to pick up litter. There's always so much! You never really know what you'll find. Some people ask me if I get tired of it, if it makes me angry, but I really don't see what they mean. There is always so much to do! Who in their right minds would stop to wonder about it? Who in their right mind would?
About two weeks ago a group of volunteers came to help out. I wasn't really expecting them. No one usually comes out here, let alone to clean. I was so impressed! Maybe the new generation is different. I am not really with any authority, I think these kids were boy scouts or something and were looking for guidance. They saw me at the beach, picking up litter as I always do.
They asked if they could help. Help! Help me? But why? They had some pink forms. They said they would spend the day out with me cleaning the beach, and if I could, would I sign their paper as evidence of their work? Oh, so they had to do volunteer work. Involuntarily. That confused me. I asked them what that meant. Where they here? Not here? Was it pretend? They laughed, they seemed like good kids, and they explained. The volunteer work was required, yes, but they chose to do it here so they were volunteers through and through.
How nice! How nice I said! I love company but don't get it often. There is so much to do, so much and the day is young. I sent them out with garbage bags to different parts of the beach. All over! I could see them all from where I stood. They seemed disappointed in being separated, but I guaranteed the more spread out the better, the more are we could cover. The beach is big! So much of it, so much sand. So many things to pick up. After all, you never know what you'll find.
After a few hours the kids became frustrated saying that spread out like that they would never be able to finish. Oh, I laughed! How mistaken I was when I initially disapproved of them for not really being volunteers! What do I know, huh, what do I know. With my most charming smile I told them that it was impossible to ever finish, because more litter is continuously being left. Together we were keeping the problem from getting worse. If more kids, just like them, came along with me and cleaned, over time, we might have a solution.
How they smiled. I really think that bolstered their spirits because they went right back to work. They really were such good kids. I thought I would invite them to my house and show them all the things I have found. I was convinced they would understand.
So when the sun started to lowed on the horizon, I invited them. How nervous I was! I'd never invited anyone to my house before. No one would understand my labor of love on the beach, day in and day out. These kids now knew though, they knew and they hadn't turned away. So I invited them, and they accepted! They wanted to know what I would teach them.
I ran ahead to my house, hadn't had company in so long! They soon followed laughing, racing each other in. They stood in awed silence at my collection. You never knew what you may find at the beach. I described each item and where and when I found it. They continued in silence, such respectful children! Eventually I showed them my prized collection. Went to my freezer and showed them all the baby turtles I had caught. Frozen like statues as they tried to crawl out of the container I had put them in, I explained to the children that the turtles were hard to find and infrequent, but how they moved around and littered the beach! “Next time I see them,” I told the kids, “next time they come, I will call you and we can clean the beach together.”
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Bradbury - Response
Does the light turn off in refrigerators when you close the door? Yes, yes it does. As a matter of fact, the light is never even on in the freezer. The products that live there, usually only for a short time and with a very visible expiration date, wait patiently for their turn. Or impatiently one might also assume, as especially produce wilts and decays, loudly voicing its dissatisfaction at having to wait.
The dairy products, particularly the yogurt, may be considered to have an advantage. Being the only ones with life within in the form of bacteria, active and semi sentient, busy digesting the complex sugars within. If not an advantage then perhaps its a marked disadvantage, shortening life spans and hurrying decay. Perhaps the King in the blind man parade is the box if baking soda, sitting unassumingly under the light, with its nearly immortal expiry date. Its only joy to sit and watch its subjects marching in and out, as the lights blinks on and off, and they are consumed. By the same token, it might be that the baking soda is heartbroken every time someone leaves its kingdom. Such an existence, full of opposites!
Its main objective and purpose simply to absorb odors, the life of baking soda is reduced to waiting. To wait and watch, collecting a plethora of smells, mementos of its long lost subjects. But what does baking soda smell like after all? A combination of everything it has absorbed over months or years, or nothing at all?
Over in the darker recesses of the freezer, the meats wait in frigid cold their turn. In the freezer no one is king since all sleep until their turn comes. The fish fillets, the chicken, the pork and the steak all wait in equal slumber to be thawed and remembered. One day, behind the King Baking Soda's back, the owner of the fridge picked the humble pork chop. Wait a rude awakening to be put into the microwave for 5 minutes to thaw? Would it have been gentler and more considerate to allow it to warm to room temperature overnight? Nobody really cared.
Pork chop suddenly found itself spinning around a glass plate, a constant hum at its ear. Crackling, it felt blood suddenly flow to its forgotten regions and congealed fat becoming oil again. The initial pleasure was replaced with phantom pain as the blood in this amputated bit of flesh began to cook within its veins.
As the skillet came closer and closer, coated in oil, garlic and spices, what else could a pork chop feel but a general sense of accomplishment at being cooked. At being eaten. As a matter of fact the general feeling of accomplishment permeated the whole kitchen. Particularly the cook who took credit for all the murders, and all satisfactions.
When she opened the refrigerator in search of tomatoes, the King Baking Soda could see pork chop on the skillet. He couldn't help but feel pain and pity at pork chop's untimely demise. At the same time too, jealousy crept in. For who wouldn't want to be consumed, devoured and loved.