Archive for ‘Stories With Morals’

December 14, 2011

The Young Woman With the Green Neck Ribbon

Once upon a time, there was a young woman named Rebecca who wore a green ribbon around her neck. She’d always worn the ribbon, for as long as she could remember. Also, for as long as she could remember, people had acted like all of her decisions were crazy.

“I think I’ll go out for lunch,” she’d say, and her coworker would look at her like she was a bomb about to go off.

“Okay,” her coworker would say. “Are you sure you really want to do that? I mean, it’s up to you. But why exactly do you want to go out for lunch?”

“I’m going to the movies with Sharon this weekend,” she’d tell her mother.

“Oh,” her mother would say. “Well, alright, if you’re sure that’s what you want to do. Are you absolutely sure that’s what you want to do?”

“I think I’m going to go to nursing school,” she told her best friend, Sharon.

“Really?” Sharon said. “Um, okay. I mean…okay, if you’re really sure that’s what you want to do. But do you mind if I ask why you thought of that? Are you really, really sure that’s the best career choice for you?”

It all started to get to Rebecca. She wondered if she was stark out of her fucking mind somehow, and everyone could see it but her. She began to doubt every single thing she did. She couldn’t make the simplest decisions. She couldn’t pick out her clothes in the morning. She couldn’t decide whether to eat breakfast or skip breakfast or throw her breakfast out onto the lawn. She’d get in the car and scream and close her eyes and drive at random. She quit her job one day, begged for it back the next, went out with a guy one day, broke up with him the next, made appointments that she didn’t keep, impulse purchased big luxury items that she sold on eBay two days later.

Eventually, she decided she just needed to get away from it all. She would travel to Europe for the summer!

“Oh, Rebecca,” said everyone she knew. “Are you really sure that’s the best idea? I mean, can we just ask what exactly your reasoning is behind it? I mean, it’s fine if that’s what you want to do, but are you sure that’s what you want to do?” They looked at her as if she was dangling an infant off the top of a 40-story building, and also as if she herself was that infant.

“Yes!” she said. “I am absolutely sure that’s what I want to do!”

The next day Rebecca sat on the plane to Paris. She heaved a sigh of relief. It was so nice to have a little vacation. She couldn’t wait to see the world. She felt unfettered, carefree. She tugged absently at the ribbon around her neck and wondered why she’d always worn it. When had that started? What was the purpose? Why had she never questioned it until this moment? She decided that she would take it off already. She didn’t need anybody to make her double-guess her decision. She didn’t need anybody else’s opinion at all. She untied the bow.

Rebecca’s head detonated instantly. The massive explosion blasted the aircraft to bits and the fiery wreckage plummeted into the ocean below.

December 12, 2011

Underwater Firepits

Once upon a time, a person who lived in a firepit had a conversation with a person who lived underwater. They had trouble communicating. On the face of it, they understood where each other lived, but both of them were picturing an underwater firepit. Which couldn’t possibly exist.

“Here’s what I don’t understand about where you live,” said the firepit person. “If you’re all underwater, how do you keep yourselves on fire?”

“We’re not on fire at all,” said the underwater person. “We’re wet people, not fire people.”

“Right, I get that,” said the firepit person. “But with the wetness…don’t you just keep accidentally extinguishing yourselves?”

“No, see,” said the underwater person. “We were never on fire to begin with. No fire.”

“Right, but I’m just saying, when I’m wet, I put it out with a towel. Haven’t you all ever considered doing that? Then, you can stop the wetness before it puts out the fire.”

“No, we WANT to be wet. We don’t WANT to be on fire.”

“I mean, you can be on fire, if you try a little harder. Like, I drink water, too, but I don’t let it rule me.”

“Look, I don’t know how to explain this to you any better. We’ve never been on fire, ever. We have no desire to be on fire. We’re not trying to be on fire. We will never be on fire.”

“You could be if you tried harder.”

“Okay, to put it another way, why aren’t you wet? Why are you all on fire? Why don’t you go underwater and put your fire out?”

“Because it would put the fire out, you daft idiot!”

Meanwhile, everyone else at the party was quietly resolving that they would never invite both of these guys to the same event ever again.

November 30, 2011

The Slough of Despond

Once upon a time, a bunch of pilgrims were progressing when they wandered into the Slough of Despond, and immediately began to wallow and sink. All except for one of them, William, who got very excited.

“What is this place?” said William. “It’s so hydrating and luxurious!”

“It is is such a place as cannot be mended: it is the descent whither the scum and filth that attends conviction for sin doth continually run, and therefore it is called the Slough of Despond,” said Christian, the leader.

“Well!” said William. “It is warm and relaxing! And it is doing wonders for my skin!”

“Verily, it is a loathsome place,” said Christian. “Only a fool wouldst enjoy it.”

“Different strokes,” said William. “It’s so squishy between my toes! It’s nice to just float and not to have to think for a little bit.”

“We must push on to the wicket-gate and from thence to the brave Country,” said Christian.

“Y’all go on ahead,” said William. “I’ll catch up in a bit.”

The rest of the pilgrims pulled themselves out of the Slough and William continued to float on his back.

“Jesus,” he said to a nearby frog. “There goes an insufferable group of people. I mean, I was raised not to yap on about your religion. It’s super awkward.”

“There are such things to be had which they spoke of,” observed the frog. “And many more Glories besides; If you believe not me, read here in this Book; and for the truth of what is exprest therein, behold, all is confirmed by the blood of him that made it.”

William sighed. “Do you know if there’s a bar anywhere around here?”

November 28, 2011

The Suspicious Old Woman

Once upon a time, there was an old woman who was suspicious of everyone. She assumed every waiter had spit in her food. She assumed every man approaching her was going to snatch her pocketbook or rape her. She assumed every deliveryman was casing her house. She assumed every clerk and repairman was cheating her. She assumed everything her grown children said was them mocking her somehow. She assumed everybody was trying to pull one over on her, humiliate her, judge her, cheat her, or harm her in some way.

The root of this old woman’s general suspiciousness was that, when she was 25 years old, she had murdered an entire family just for fun. And she had never been found out. So, if that was in her past, what on Earth must everyone else be hiding?

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November 25, 2011

The Loneliest Lemming

Once upon a time, there was a lemming named Frederick, and he had a lot of friends. Lemmings don’t often have that much to do with each other, but Frederick was more social than most, and he’d follow along after this lemming or that, talking about the weather, and what happened yesterday, and where he’d found the best grasses, and what the other lemmings were doing and saying these days. He liked to be companionable.

One day, Frederick saw that all the other lemmings had gathered together in a huge group. He was thrilled! The other lemmings never wanted to have a party. He didn’t even mind he’d missed the invite. He ran across the field hollering, “Hey guys! Hey, it’s me, Frederick! What’s going on? What are we up to?”

The other lemmings had actually gathered for the express purpose of figuring out how to arrange for Frederick to be eaten by a predator. When they saw him coming, they began to run as a group. They ran and ran and ran, and Frederick chased along behind. “Guys,” he hollered. “Wait up! I learned this new game the other day – I’ll explain it!”

The lemmings all came to a cliff, but they were running so fast and they were blinded by the crowd, and they ran right off the edge of it and plummeted to their deaths below. All of them. Frederick arrived at the cliff’s edge and screeched to a stop.

“Oh, guys,” he whispered.

The winter was long and horrible. Frederick dug tunnels in the snow, hunting far and wide for sedges and grasses and finding few. He was hungry and cold, and most of all lonely. He felt like he was the sole survivor of a terrible apocalypse. Several times, a coyote or a fox came within spitting distance and Frederick knew it was only the snow that was keeping him alive. He awaited spring as his certain death, and he hoped that it would be quick and painless.

Moral: If all your friends jump off a cliff, be sure to keep up.

November 23, 2011

Felicity, the Awkward Fairy

Once upon a time, there was a fairy named Felicity and she was not ethereal at all. Faeries were supposed to be slip-like, ghost-pale, tapering and whispery, whereas Felicity was chubby and solid, like a pony, and she had a ruddy redness about her, and her voice was loud, and silence made her nervous, and being nervous made her giggle, and giggling made her fart, which made her giggle more, and that made her more nervous and redder still. Also, she liked a drink, and she spelled faery “fairy.”

Felicity had a really hard time of it.

The other faeries didn’t know what to make of Felicity. They tried to be nice to her, but they reacted to everything she did with raised eyebrows and silence. They exchanged glances and smiled ever so patiently. They made a special effort to approach Felicity one by one at parties and ask her how she was doing. They’d listen, nodding and smiling with great sympathy to her giggling, gaseous, red-faced reply. “That’s wonderful, Felicity,” they would say, beautifully. “I’m so glad you’ve come.” Then, their duty done, they’d return to their tidy, floating groups, their voices rising and falling like tinkling chimes on the breeze.

Felicity spent a lot of time flying around the woods by herself. Because she was so heavy, she flew lower to the ground than most faeries, and one day, her feet smacked right into the head of a dwarf, who was digging up mushrooms.

“Whoa,” said the dwarf. “What was that? Are you a bat?”

“I’m sorry,” giggled Felicity. “I’m not a bat, I’m a fairy.” And then, being nervous, she let one.

“Wooooo-hoooo!” hollered the dwarf, executing a series of cartwheels. “What a ripper! You’re no faery. Faeries never fart, that much I know. And they look totally different than you – I’ve seen ‘em. Also, they don’t stop to talk to the likes of me.”

“I’m not a very good fairy,” said Felicity.

“Dwarves would love you, though,” said the dwarf, and so he took her back to meet all the other dwarves, who were about a billion times more fun than the stupid faeries, and Felicity lived with them ever after and was perfectly happy.

November 21, 2011

The Hidden Sister

Once upon a time, there was a lonely little girl named Kyla, who lived in a castle, and who was certain that she had a sister who was hidden somewhere in all of the many rooms. At first, she made the idea up out of thin air, but then she convinced herself of it. She thought about her hidden sister all day.

She believed her sister was named Amber or Ruby or Pearl, and that she had long, shiny black hair and violet eyes. All day, as she ran through the castle, through the warm and cozy living quarters where she stayed with her Nanny, down to the bustling meeting rooms next to the grand reception hall, past the cavernous kitchen that smelled of baking bread, and into the cold, stone labyrinthine passages with the empty rooms where no one ever went, she kept her eyes peeled for a flash of motion in the corner of her eye, and her ears pricked for a laugh or a sneeze or a mutter.

One day, Kyla was tiptoeing down a ghostly passage in the bowels of the castle where she’d never been before when she heard a thin, high voice singing. She followed the voice, looking into room after room, but they were all empty, or filled with old junk. Finally, at the very end of the passage, Kyla turned a corner she couldn’t see from the other end, and there was a little girl with long black hair and violet eyes sitting on an upturned bucket and singing to herself.

“Hi,” said Kyla.

“Hi,” said the little girl. “I’m Ruby. Who are you?”

“I’m your sister!” said Kyla. “Kyla! I’ve been looking for you for years.”

“When I was very little,” said Ruby. “I chased a kitten down a lot of hallways, and I could never find my way back. No one looked for me.”

“I figured something like that happened,” said Kyla. “I just knew it. Come on – I know the way back.”

But when Kyla tried to lead Ruby back to the living quarters, none of the hallways seemed to be laid out the way they had been before. The girls kept running into dead ends, and strange little closed-over courtyards, and big, echoing chambers that neither of them had seen before. They went up and down staircases and they peered through windows, but nothing looked the same.

“This is weird,” said Kyla.

“I think it’s me,” said Ruby. “I’m cursed or something. If you leave me here and go on without me, you’ll be able to find your way home.”

“I would never do that!” said Kyla. “I’ve looked for you too long.”

The girls wandered for weeks, never finding their way back.

Eventually, Kyla’s family launched an all-out search of the castle to find their missing daughter. They canvassed every nook and cranny, and at last, they found Kyla down in the very bottom of an old abandoned dungeon. She had died of starvation and she was clutching an old mop.

“Why do we live in this crazy castle?” her mother wept. “It’s insane! Who even built it?”

“Don’t take this out on the castle,” said her father. “You’re pretty lucky you get to live in the biggest castle in the world.” But when the rescue party turned around to go back, they became hopelessly lost. They never found their way out, either, and they all perished somewhere in there and were never seen again.

November 18, 2011

The Woman Who Loved Presents

Once upon a time, there was a young woman named Julie who loved to get presents. She found, though, that she didn’t really care what the present was. It was more about the surprise of having a present, and the joy of unwrapping it. Once it was unwrapped, the entire experience was more or less over.

One day, Julie’s coworker gave her a little wrapped box, saying that she just saw it and thought of her. Julie ripped it open excitedly. It was a little paperweight with a bluebird in the middle (Julie loved bluebirds).

“Thank you!” said Julie. “I love it!”

And she did love it, but not as much as she had when it was wrapped. Julie absently picked up the scraps of torn wrapping paper, wrapped them back over the paperweight, and ripped open the present again. “Yay!” she thought to herself, as the paperweight was revealed. Then, Julie remembered that she had some leftover wrapping paper in her desk from the previous Christmas. She got it out, wrapped the paperweight up, and ripped it open again.

“Yay!” Julie whispered. She wrapped it again, ripped it open again.

Julie did this all afternoon. Her coworker watched her. She was greatly disturbed.

On her way home that evening, Julie stopped off at the drugstore and bought as much wrapping paper, tissue, ribbons and bows as she could carry. She went home and spent all night wrapping every single thing in her house. She wrapped the chairs and the tables. She wrapped the sofa. She wrapped the paintings on the walls. She wrapped every dish in every cupboard, each piece of flatware in the drawers, all the cans in the pantry and the produce in the fridge. She wrapped batteries and coasters and lamps and shoes and all of her clothes and toiletries. She rolled up her rugs and wrapped them. She wrapped the doors. She wrapped the walls. She climbed the roof and wrapped the chimney and put a giant bow on top of the house.

Then, she began to wrap herself. She wrapped her nose and her ears and each finger and toe. She wrapped her arms and legs. She wrapped each of her eyes. She wrapped every hair on her head. And then she sat very still and waited to be a surprise.

November 16, 2011

The Man Who Couldn’t Fool With Computers

Once upon a time, there was a man who couldn’t fool with computers.

“I just don’t understand the things,” he would say to the younger people in the office. “They are totally beyond me. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks. I don’t get ‘em, I don’t want to get ‘em. I can’t, with the windows and the menus and the software, and the – no. I just can’t deal with them. Huh uh. Can’t do it, don’t want to fool with it.”

This man would write out things long hand, and then give them to the younger people to type into the computer. He would never email, but would insist on calling people by phone and leaving voicemails, and then he would complain about not getting an answer until the younger people in the office sent an email. He would use obsolete paper forms in triplicate, which he had kept stockpiles of, and he would send those forms to accounting and shipping and so forth, and when they called to ask where he had even gotten such an old form, he would say, “I’m sorry, I cannot fool with those computers, with the boxes and do you click, or do you type, and I just – nuh-uh. No way.” Then the younger people in the office would have to resubmit the forms online.

Today, though, this man is easily using a computer along with everyone else, and if his office ever changes up the software, he learns it in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.

Moral: All us old dogs can quickly acquire new tricks by the bagful if there’s a bad enough recession on.

November 14, 2011

The Boy Who Cried Wolf

Once upon a time, there was a boy who lived in a sheep-herding village, and his job was often to watch the sheep on the hill where they grazed. One day, he was watching the sheep, and a wolf came by. Wolves are bad news for sheep, as they generally eat them. The boy ran into the town as fast as he could, screaming, “Wolf! Wolf!” at the top of his lungs.

All the people of the village came running out of their houses with their shotguns and their airhorns and they ran toward the hill, screaming and shooting into the air and blaring their airhorns. The boy laughed and laughed to see them all run.

There was no wolf on the hill. And after all the commotion, there were no sheep there, either. The villagers had to spend the whole rest of the day rounding them up. They were furious at the boy, who had clearly made up the whole thing.

The next day, the boy was on the hill watching the sheep, and the wolf came by again. So, the boy ran into the village screaming, “Wolf! Wolf!” at the top of his lungs.

The people of the village were dubious, yes, but they couldn’t afford to take any chances. They got their guns and their airhorns, and they ran toward the hill, and if their shouts and shots and blasts had slightly less conviction, they were still loud enough to scatter the sheep and send the boy into gales of laughter. And again, there was no wolf.

The third day, the boy was watching the sheep, and he saw the wolf again, and he ran into the village screaming, “Wolf! Wolf!” But this time, no one moved. “We don’t believe you,” everyone said. “You are always screaming wolf, so you are a liar.”

The boy went back up the hill, and the wolf stared at him. He stared at the wolf. The wolf ate a sheep. The boy stared at the wolf. The wolf stared at the boy. The wolf ate another sheep. The boy stared at the wolf. The wolf turned to go, and looked over his shoulder at the boy, and the boy followed the wolf into the deep woods, and neither of them was ever seen or heard from again.

The boy was right every time, of course. What the boy knew and the villagers couldn’t see is that there are always wolves, everywhere, and if ever a lone soul cries “Wolf!” and runs down from the cold hills and beats at every door, it is because he saw a wolf, and the wolf saw him. The wolves surround us on all sides, waiting, and if the villagers cannot see them, it is because they do not want to.

November 11, 2011

The Sour Berry

Once upon a time, there was a sour berry who was completely misjudged on the basis of her appearance.

“Well, darling,” people would say to her. “I expect you could never understand this, because you’re so sweet. But I’ve done some terrible things in my life.”

“You’re a sweetheart,” everyone called her. “An angel. A real gem. What I wouldn’t give for a sweet little berry like you.”

“I’m fucking sour, you idiots!” the berry kept screaming. “There are sour berries! We are not all sweet! Just because I’m a damn berry doesn’t mean I’m here to sweeten your cereal! I AM A SOUR, SOUR BERRY! And I always have been.”

And everyone laughed, charmed. She was so little and perfect, a bright, shiny red. Such a sweet little berry.

November 9, 2011

The Strange Evolution of the Chess Club

Once upon a time, there was a high school, and that high school had a chess club. The kids who were in chess club were not very popular. They were mostly pretty smart, or at least, they were obsessive in ways that worked out for them academically, but they didn’t have a lot of friends, and they didn’t get many dates, and they dressed in peculiar ways, and their hairs lay strangely on their heads.

They were comfortable in chess club, however. They came into the cafeteria after school on Wednesdays, and there was nobody there but them, and they played chess. They went to competitions on the weekends, where they played chess with other kids who were similar to them, and they didn’t have to talk to those kids, because everyone was meant to be focusing on the chess. If they won, they were happy.

But then, one spring semester, a bunch of new students joined the chess club. These students dressed similarly to the usual chess club kids, but yet differently. They were all really attractive, and it was as if they were imitating the chess club kids on purpose. The boys cuffed their pants a little bit above their carefully shined Oxfords and they wore big, goofy glasses on their handsome faces. The girls cut their bangs in a severe and unflattering way that nevertheless looked stylish, somehow – probably because they were so pretty.

These kids approached the chess boards with earnest good will. They talked a lot about being smart, and about how the other students at the school didn’t value intelligence like they should.

The original chess club didn’t quite know what to make of the influx. These new kids treated the original chess club kids with a level of respect that seemed strained. They kept talking and laughing. They were so comfortable with each other. They were all really kind, overly kind, aggressively kind. The original chess club kids didn’t like to talk so much, and also, they were really competitive with each other. They weren’t really friends. Just because they were united in exile didn’t mean they all liked each other. But these new kids – they acted like everyone was aces before they even found out if anyone was any good at chess!

As for the chess, the new kids were terrible at first, but they got really good at it really fast.

One by one, the members of the old chess club dropped out. The new members didn’t really notice. In previous years, the chess club had a tiny black-and-white photo in the back of the yearbook, but this year, even though it didn’t place as highly, it got a two-page color photo spread.

Late in the year, the original chess club members all gathered in the ex-president’s basement. They looked at each other.

“Did anyone see that coming?” asked one, and they all agreed that no, they had not.

November 7, 2011

Conjoined Twin Popsicles

Once upon a time, there were two popsicles that shared a side, and they were sick of each other. They had a shared history, they spent all their time together and they finished each other’s sentences. But sometimes, they just wanted their own, independent lives.

The popsicles lived in the freezer of a family that consisted in part of a little girl and a little boy, who did not get along, either. The children weren’t twins, but they still felt that they shared too much of what they would have preferred to have separately. Most of their conversations were more like fights than anything else.

“Get out of my face, monkey-butt!” the little boy would say, and the little girl would say, “One day, I will kill you dead.”

But every so often, the two of them had a moment of togetherness.

One day, these children were fighting in the kitchen over who had put whose fingers in whose lasagna first, and the two popsicles were fighting in the freezer over whether Luke or Owen Wilson was the superior actor.

“Kids,” said the children’s father, finally. “If you stop fighting right now, you can be done with dinner and each have a popsicle.”

This made the kids happy, and their father went over to the freezer and took out the popsicles and ripped off their paper cover.

“Aaaaaaah,” screamed the popsicles, clinging to each other in terror.

“Yaaaaay!” screamed the kids, hopping up and down in excitement.

The popsicles were assaulted with a rush of new sensations. They felt as if they were burning in a fire and everything was bright and bare. They barely had time to register all of this before they were ripped apart, their entire sides severed and sloughing away, sheered down the middle, jaggedly, with no anesthesia, no forewarning, no mercy.

The popsicles screamed and wept and reached for each other, apologizing for all the hurtful words and lost moments, and trying to comfort each other as best they could in their agony, fear, and increasing mutilation. Soon, their heads were gone, and then their torsos. Meanwhile, the children ran into the living room to watch a movie about talking cars, momentarily united by the simple joy of murder.

November 4, 2011

The Tale of the Post

Once upon a time, there was a little town and one guy in the town erected a really tall post. When he shimmied up the post and sat on the top of it, he could see for miles around. He could see mountains and valleys and deserts, and very far in the distance, he could see the ocean vanishing over the horizon line.

The town was really impressed by the post, and everyone wanted to go up it and look around, so they worked out a system whereby everybody got to go sit on the post for a week, and while they were up there, someone would take up their food and bring down their waste. This worked for a little bit, but then one day, this one guy was like, “I’m just going to stay up here, actually. I’m not coming down.”

Everyone was mad. And then, this other, bigger guy was like, “No, you’re not, mate,” and he shimmied up the post and knocked the first guy down.

But then, the second guy wouldn’t come down.

Brawls broke out. A bunch of people got into a huge fight over who should get to sit on the post.

A lot of people in the town didn’t participate in the fight. A lot of people were too old or too out of shape to climb the post, or they just weren’t that interested, but all those people thought that their kids should have the option of going up on the post if they wanted. These people kept sending up food and carrying down waste regardless of how whoever was on the post was acting at the moment, or whether or not they were supposed to be up there. If you asked these people why they didn’t just stop delivering food to the usurper on the post, they’d say it was the agreement everyone had made, and that agreement stayed the same on their end even if the person on the post was cheating. But deep down, what it really was was that they thought maybe some day they’d end up living up on the post themselves somehow, and if they did, they wanted to be supported.

They wanted to think of themselves as more like the fellow on the post than like the other people around them on the ground.

Eventually, two people fighting at the top of the post fell off it, and they both died, plus they fell on some other people who died, too, so a town meeting was called to address the problem.

“Look,” said the mayor. “Clearly, we can’t share the post in an orderly fashion. The only solution is to knock it down.”

Then, the man who’d built the post got really mad. (This man, incidentally, demanded all sorts of special consideration from everybody because he had built the post, even though he’d taken all the materials for the post from everyone in the town without asking their permission, and even though more than half of them never got to use the post anyway. Also, some other people had started to build their own posts, and this man and his friends went around and knocked them all down. Still, he was pretty well-liked, because, as we’ve already discussed, even though most people would never go up on the post, they liked to picture themselves up there.)

“I went to a lot of trouble to build that post,” the man said. “And I’d rather the biggest dude in town occupy it forever than to have it torn down altogether.”

“I have an idea,” came a voice from the back of the courthouse. “It’s really just those five or six assholes who are causing all the trouble, right? Why don’t we just kick them out of town, and the rest of us can go back to taking turns on the post like we originally agreed to?”

“Because then other people would just start fighting over it,” said the mayor. “It’s human nature to be an asshole who fights over everything.”

“I don’t know,” said someone else. “I think it might just be those guys.” And a lot of other people agreed, too.

“Well, we can try it,” said the mayor, so the town kicked out the five or six assholes who’d been fighting over the post, and sure enough, everyone else took their turns politely, like reasonable adults. There were a few assholes left, actually, but they felt socially pressured to keep it hidden, now that being an asshole had gone out of fashion and other behaviors met with greater rewards.

After awhile, people started erecting more posts. They found it was not nearly as difficult as the first guy had made it seem, and also that the sky could contain an endless amount of posts. There was no reason to act like one post would necessarily knock out another. And so they built posts even for people who couldn’t build their own, and contraptions to lift up those who couldn’t climb. Eventually, the town constructed platforms between the posts and moved the entire town up high above the tree line, and then people wondered what would happen if they built more posts above that, and the town moved steadily upwards, far above the ground.

Eventually, the kids of this town grew up and started families of their own, and then their kids grew up, and they were annoyed by the platforms and by all the extra steps that were required to bring resources up and send waste down. It took the whole damn day just to carry out the most basic functions of life. Sure, the view was pretty, but who the hell cared about that when you had no time to enjoy it?

“Why don’t we just go down there and live?” said one kid, and then all the kids moved back down to the ground.

Were their parents ever pissed!!!!!!

They shouted down, “Do you have any idea how hard we all worked to make this amazing life far up above the trees? And we did it all for you! It was exhausting!”

“We don’t like it,” the kids hollered back up. “It’s too hard to keep going. There’s nothing wrong with living here on the grassy fields, among all the trees and flowers, like people are naturally supposed to do. We’ll visit every other holiday!”

“Yeah, well, we’ll be interested to see how you survive down there, with the freaky animals and all that nasty dirt! You’re going to be begging us to move back up here in no time.”

“We’ll be fine,” the kids called back, and then, because all of their sunlight and their view of the mountains was blocked by their parents’ big, stupid platform construction, and because their parents had been blithely dumping their sewage all over the ground there for decades, the kids all moved far away.

Unfortunately, they ended up accidentally moving to where all the original assholes had gone to live and reproduce. It took the new arrivals some time to figure that out. When they finally got wise to it, a funny thing happened. Without really declaring it to themselves, the kids from the platform town began to sort of subtly build and climb their own posts, edging up and away from the assholes. They were pickier about their materials than their parents had been, and they hand-painted all the posts to look like trees, and hand-sewed woven grass rugs along the platforms, but it was the same basic concept.

They did make some significant improvements in waste disposal, however.

November 2, 2011

Mary, Timmy, and the Buttered Bread

Once upon a time, there was a woman named Mary and she had a tiny boy named Timmy who would only eat buttered bread.

Every meal, it was the same thing: Mary would make a sandwich and chips, or chicken and vegetables, or spaghetti, or soup, and she would put them before Timmy and she would say, “Timmy, eat some of your sandwich. Timmy, eat two bites of your sandwich and then you can have buttered bread if you want. Eat a chip. Eat half a chip. Timmy, eat one of these carrot sticks. Timmy, will you eat some sandwich for Mommy? Timmy, you have to eat! You have to eat some sandwich! Eat a bite of sandwich, Timmy. Just one bite for Mommy. Timmy, please eat a little bit of the sandwich, okay, sweetie, and then you can go play? Timmy, we’re not going to do anything else until you eat some of your lunch.”

Originally, Mary had some other kids, and a husband. They’d try to carry on with their lives through this problem of Timmy’s, but Mary was so single-minded that she could not allow the conversation to take off. She’d say, “Oh, yes, dear, and then what did you– Timmy, honey, eat a bite of sandwich. Please, Timmy, eat some sandwich for Mommy. So, I’m sorry, Rachel, when are cheerleader tryou– uh, uh, Timmy, no more buttered bread until you eat more of your carrot sticks. Eat a carrot stick, Timmy. Eat some sandwich. Timmy, please eat some sandwich, Timmy, sandwich, Timmy, eat some sandwich.”

Eventually, the rest of Mary’s family quietly moved out, and who could blame them?

Sometimes, Mary would go out to eat with her friends, or she would show up at someone’s get-together – a dinner at their house, or a weekend at the beach. And she’d bring Timmy. Everyone would be talking and having a great time, and Mary would say, “I’m sorry, I just have to get him to eat something healthy at some point this weekend. Timmy, please eat some pasta. Yummy pasta, Timmy. Eat a bite for Mommy. Just one bite for Mommy and then you can leave the table. Timmy, please, eat two more bites and then you can go play. No, Timmy, no more buttered bread. Eat some pasta. Timmy, eat your pasta, come on now.”

Then, one of her friends would gesture toward the door, and they would all gather their children and quietly leave, and go to a bar or someone else’s house, or anywhere where Mary wasn’t.

One day, Mary took Timmy to the pediatrician. “He just won’t eat anything but buttered bread,” she said to the pediatrician. “I make him chicken and vegetables and pasta and grilled cheese and banana and hot dogs and Cheez-its and grapes, and he won’t eat any of it. I don’t know what to do!”

“Let him eat buttered bread, if that’s what he wants,” said the pediatrician. ”He’ll eat when he feels like it, God! You are the most annoying woman ever, and everyone hates you!”

For days, Mary couldn’t eat.

October 31, 2011

Meat Man

Once upon a time, there was a man made all out of meat. He had a sausage patty for a head, sausage links for arms, bacon strips for legs, chicken livers for feet, and a meatloaf for a trunk. He never went outside or did anything, because he was made of meat, and he figured he’d be immediately eaten by dogs.

He said this to his friends all the time, and they got sick of it.

He’d be like, “Oh, gee, guys I wish I could go to that party, but maybe some dogs will come.” Or, “Shoot, guys, I wish I could go to the movie with you. But. I just worry about dogs.”

Finally, his friends told him, “Hey, listen, meat man – we’re all made out of meat! Look around. All of us. Meat. That’s what people are. You know what else is made out of meat? Dogs. You think they sit around worrying that you’re going to eat them? No!”

The meat man had never really thought about that, but he supposed his friends were right! Everyone was a meat man.

The meat man put on a coat and stepped out into the yard for the first time in ever. He tipped his sausage patty up to the sun and inhaled the fresh air deeply. He smiled.

Then, the dogs descended. They came from miles around, and it was brutal and fast. His friends watched from the house – it was all over before they could even think to intervene.

“Shit,” said one. “I guess he was right about himself.”

“We shouldn’t feel guilty,” said another. “Right? I mean, it wasn’t like it was much of a life for him to be living.”

October 28, 2011

Write!

Once upon a time, a gang of men with guns burst into Patsy’s home, and then, while she cowered in the corner, they handed her a legal pad and pen and screamed at her to write the first thing that came into her mind. “Write, damn you!” they screamed, shoving their guns in her face. One fired a warning shot into the wall beside her. “And whatever you write will be made publicly available and will represent you for the rest of your life, so make it good! Write, woman! WRITE WRITE WRITE, WHAT ARE YOU HIDING, WHAT’S TAKING SO LONG, WRITE IT NOW, BITCH, NOW NOW NOW!”

“Arrrgggh, I don’t know,” screamed Patsy, weeping and writing madly. Patsy was a good woman who led a quite life. She was a wife and mother. She was a social worker who worked with troubled teens and she was very active in her local church. She liked baking and singing in the church chorus, and watching movies with her children. She had never been in a situation like this.

“Okay, time’s up,” the men said, snatching the legal pad away from her. They showed her what she’d written.

It said, “Elephant, elephant, penis, I love little boys, KKK FOREVER!”

“You’re a disgusting person, Patsy,” said one of the men. “It’s good we all know.”

“But,” said Patsy. “I don’t even know what…I’ve never…I didn’t…I wasn’t…”

Another man was looking at Patsy’s paper and shaking his head. “I certainly would never have written these horrible things,” he said. “It never even would have occurred to me.”

“For shame, Patsy,” said another man, and they all left slowly, shaking their heads and giving her one last look of disgust and pity.

Patsy didn’t even know what had happened. “So, that’s it, then,” she thought. She supposed she’d have to change her name and move to Australia.

October 26, 2011

Fish In the Trees

Once upon a time, there was a fish named Beep who wanted to live in the trees.

“Well, you can’t,” everyone said. “Obviously. There’s just no way, on account of fish like us derive their oxygen from the water. Not the air. Like those birds.”

Beep knew that was true, but he also believed that there was a way to do anything. If you could dream it, you could make it happen. You just had to figure out how.

Beep got a job and he threw himself into it. He put in long, hard hours and everyone assumed he’d given up on the business about the trees. But he also scrimped and saved, and every Sunday, Beep swam up and down the river, looking up at the trees above and at the birds flying off and landing, and the squirrels running up and down the trunks and fighting with each other. Beep knew he’d live up there one day.

Finally, Beep had enough money saved to do what he’d figured out. He sent out invitations to every fish, announcing his moving day. “Come watch me ascend to the trees above!” the invitations read.

Everyone came. They assumed Beep was going to kill himself somehow and wanted everyone to watch, and they figured if they didn’t go, they’d just have to hear the story a million times anyway.

“Welcome, all,” said Beep, when they had all assembled. “Thank you for coming. I just want to say how much I’ve enjoyed living here and knowing all of you. And I hope we always keep in touch. Alright, take it away, boys!”

There was a shudder and a creak, a collective gasp, and Beep slowly rose out of the lake and up and up, until they lost sight of him in the greenery above. You see, he’d hired workmen to build a giant, transparent glass tank full of water, and he had that tank lifted into the trees where it hung suspended from the highest bough. At long last, Beep flipped and danced and circled and swam amongst the green leaves, as squirrels and birds gathered around him agog.

“Wooooo-hooooo!” screamed Beep. “Yeeeee-haaaa!!!!” He had done it. He was in the trees. The river was a tiny blue seam far below.

For a time, Beep was happy up there in his box. But eventually, he started to feel bored. He was surrounded by trees and sky, sure, and far above the ground, but he was confined to his tank. He swam around and around and around, the same pattern every day. Around him, the squirrels and birds came and went, running and flying and jumping, free to go wherever they wished. And below him, he knew that his fellow fish swam up and down the river, into side streams and ponds, and sometimes venturing as far as the salty inlet where the vast sea began.

October 24, 2011

Jill and the Crackers

Once upon a time, there was a woman named Jill who discovered this amazing new type of cracker that she loved so much!  These crackers were so good! She told everyone how good they were. She ate them for breakfast, she snacked on them, she ate them for lunch and dinner. She found that they were great with coffee, and even better with wine. Or beer. They were amazing with cheese or with hummus. Or with thinly sliced cucumber and cream cheese. Or with apple slices. Or with salsa. Or honey. Or olives. Or with anything, really.

“Have you had these?” she’d say to anyone who would listen. “These crackers are SO GOOD! I love them so much, I’ve eaten like twenty boxes.”

In fact, Jill ate 25 boxes of the crackers over a two-week period. She thought she’d go on eating them forever; she thought she’d finally found her perfect food.

But when she opened the 26th box and took a bite of the first cracker in the sleeve, she realized it was all over.

October 21, 2011

Banana Pants

Once upon a time, Angela got stuck babysitting her friend’s teenage daughter, Ocean. Ocean was really artistic-looking. She was quiet and brooding and she had a lot of piercings, and Angela imagined how pedestrian and conservative she must seem to her.

While Angela fixed lunch, she talked nonstop about how Ocean probably thought to look at her that she was really well-behaved at Ocean’s age, but that she’d had some wild times, actually. She told Ocean about her wild times. Then, she told Ocean that, although Ocean probably thought that she was a Republican, she was actually very liberal, and in college, she’d read a lot of Marx. And then she told Ocean that she hadn’t picked out anything in the kitchen – that it was all hand-me-downs and that awful fruit wallpaper came with the house, but that she was going to redo everything a lot funkier whenever she got the time. Then she told Ocean that, in fact, she might just sell her house and live out of her car! She told Ocean that while she, Ocean, might not think it, Angela had actually lived out of her car before. For a week after college. She told Ocean that she’d been to Coachella. She told Ocean that she had a tattoo on her lower back, and she showed it to her. She told Ocean that she supported a woman’s right to choose, of course, and wasn’t at all religious in any organized way, although she did consider herself spiritual? And she had a whole lot of gay friends and a lot of black friends, too – not that any of that was worth mentioning, she just mentioned it, because, you know – oh, and also, she totally didn’t eat meat! At all, so Ocean needn’t worry, there wasn’t any meat in the–oh, wait, there was, but it was her boyfriend’s. They’d probably never get married, because marriage was patriarchal and she didn’t think people were meant to be monogamous. Also, she told Ocean, this one time, she’d hitchhiked and another time, she’d stolen a scarf from a department store. She told Ocean that if it weren’t for her job, she’d only ever wear ripped up old jeans and holey T-shirts. She told Ocean that she wouldn’t even have a television, except that her neighbor gave it to her. She told Ocean that she hated everything that played on the radio.

Meanwhile, Ocean smiled politely without really hearing anything that Angela was saying. Ocean was thinking about banana pants – like what if you could make a pair of pants that looked like a pair of bananas?

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