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When I was a small child, my father used to tell my brother and I this story:”If you children don’t behave, then I’ll have no other choice. I will have to turn the clock back, back to a time when you were more obedient.” “You can’t do that.” “Yes, I can,” he said. “All I have to do is take this clock and start turning the hands backwards from eight o’clock to seven to six and keep on turning them until you are five years old again, and if I keep turning and turning you’ll be four, then three, two and one, then back to zero. And if I keep going . . .” “Then what happens?” “. . . past when you were even born.” Then, he would pick up the clock and reach towards the hour hand. At this point, I would scream, “No, please don’t. I’ll be good, I promise,” as visions of the dark nothingness of the time before birth swam through my head.”Therefore,” I repeated to the man in the chair, “the clock has always been a frightening symbol for me, an opponent who cannot be defeated.”
“That’s as may be. But not in this household. There is a place for everything and everything in its place. Now you go out there and pick up all those shadows.””But, Mom, I can’t pick them up.””Can’t? You mean won’t. There’s a difference. I don’t like seeing them there. You go out right now and pick them up, and don’t return until you have done so.”Having been through this before, I knew better than to argue. I went out, slamming the door behind me for good measure. Seeing that it was only 4:00 now and that the long days of summer were fast approaching, I figured I had about four hours before the sun would go down and darkness would swallow up all the shadows she so disliked. So I took off on my bicycle to a friends house. When I was younger, I had tried to pick up the shadows for her.But I knew now only time can pick them.Promises, PromisesWe take care of them from conception to casket
By now it had become ritual. Tuesday, 1st inning. First beer in hand. Top of the first. He took a long, cool sip. Ah, not bad. He felt his shoulders relax ever so slightly as he leaned back in his chair. Bottom of the first. Score even. Who would win? Get up, 2nd beer, 2nd inning. Filled to the brim, top of the second. Third beer, third inning. Was this going to be a long game?Three strikes, three outs, end of the third, top of the fourth. Hey, you! Sit down! Fourth beer, fourth inning. Same beer, same game. Never mix brands at a game. It might seem a minor rule, but it is very important to follow it; otherwise, there are severe penalties. You start out with Bud, you finish up with Bud. Six beers and this was it, the 7th inning stretch, also known as the 6-pak stretch. His favorite was bottom of the ninth. 9 beers sloshing around, and he felt pretty good. He really didn’t mind if his team lost at this point.
Wide Slot Toaster, over and over his eyes read the words without seeming to take in the meaning. He was grateful that they were there though. Wide Slot Toaster, he read again. Understanding, but not understanding, he felt helpless to do anything but read those words over and over. Wide Slot Toaster. He couldn’t move his eyes away, and they started processing the words again.”Why did he have to keep reading the words?,” a little girl asked. “Because,” her mother replied, “He knew how to read.”Another person thought that perhaps he did not want to look at the rest of the room.As it was approaching noon, the group concurred that this must be the case. Everyone then went to lunch.
To ensure proper quality control, the head chef decreed that all future carrots be very carefully selected for a given criteria. They must be nearly equivalent in length and breadth. In preparation, the heads and tails must be severed first, leaving bodies of uniform length.
I woke up to the sight of a huge green wall. When I went to sleep the night before, all of the walls were a standard off-white. Now, the wall in front of my bed was green. Not the green of grass, nor the olive green of the army or the avocado green of my mothers refrigerator nor the pale green favored by hospital emergency rooms to soothe overheated patients. No, this green was different. It was a deep saturated green. As though someone had gone out in the night and stolen all the green from the trees, from the plants, from every blade of grass, and mixed it with the emeralds deep green and poured it all on the wall in front of my bed.It was so intense this green, I could hardly look at it. But I had to, it was right in front of me.After awhile, I thought that perhaps I had better get up and look outside the window to see if the trees still had their green.Then I remembered where I was as I gazed out onto the colorless world below.
I awoke to the sound of bells, church bells: striking their somber tones, proceeding at a measured rate, one after the other. As I started counting, the rate increased, the sounds rose to a crescendo. I could no longer keep track. After a few moments, they stopped. I heard my heart pounding. The silence was even more silent.I got up out of bed and walked over to the window. Looking out of my tower, all was as I expected. The flat land surrounded me for miles on all sides. Not a house, not a tree, not a stick was visible, only the flat, pock-marked earth with an occasional stone here and there. [stories from the desert]End it where you like, but begin it where you must
A tale of grease and cholesterolHe spreads his days with Butter.She spreads her days with Margarine.Others yet spread theirs with cooking oil.And a few with Lard.
Without a word she pointed to the light switch upon the wall. He came up close and read the words, “On”, “Off.” Beginning with the words, his eyes followed, rolling over and over, from her fingernails, up along her outstretched finger and hand. Ever more slowly they continued to roll upward, up her arm; and there he stopped cold, not knowing what to do. He looked at her and still she pointed, serious and sure, at the light switch with its words, “On”, “Off.”After moments of painful silence and confusion, he felt hunted.Who was this woman and what did she want from him? Why did he feel so strangely compelled? What do the only words on the wall mean?Written so small as to be nearly indecipherable tow words only: “On”, “Off.” He could only read one word at a time, so powerful were they. The woman continued to point, and he, mesmerized could only stare. “On”, “Off”, the word chilled him. He didn’t know what to do. She seemed to be demanding more. What did she want? On? Off?