It's dangerous to play with fire.
I had always loved to speak. Oration was my passion, every speech my pride and joy. Each cause was like my own child, something that had to be nurtured and cared for. I loved to speak out against all the injustice in the world.
So, naturally, I got into a lot of debates.
It was never a problem for me, arguing for my cause. I had a natural talent for it. That stage was the only thing that kept me sane after my lover died in a fiery car crash. All I could do was try to improve the world, perhaps to prevent innocent people, like him, from being hurt.
The crash wasn't his fault. The car had decided to keel over on the freeway, causing a massive 16-car pileup. It was one of those cool news models, you see, and there had been a massive recall after similar things kept happening to innocent people. In shock, and still full of grief, I had launched a campaign to prevent faulty cars from being released to the public. I wanted to make sure that this never happened again, though it was wishful thinking. Still, the campaign was successful. I've never lost an argument since.
Until now.
It was a stupid campaign, now that I look back. It was over something so very silly, so insignificant that I can't tell you too much about it out of embarrassment.
You see, I had been on a roll. It had been a long time since I lost an argument, and I was feeling lucky when a disgruntled person proposed the idea to me. I never had a second thought; I launched my campaign.
I spoke to the public about it, stood on street corners, stages...even had a segment on live television. I had it all. All eyes were on me.
But my soap box proved to weigh a bit too much as I slowly sank into the gloomy mire that became my life. It was big, too big for the likes of me, my friends tried to tell me. And the other side had the support of over a million people...including my brothers. Seeing them on that other side broke my heart.
I stuttered...I stumbled...I stopped. I lost.
And I had over a million people deriding my faulty argument, making me into a fool.
I felt like such an idiot.
I detracted all of my statements, packed up my soap box, and left.
Later that day, I set myself on fire so I could join my dead lover in the afterlife and not have to deal with these people anymore.
And like I said before--it's dangerous to play with fire.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
A Watermelon's Lament
The life of a watermelon isn't particularly interesting. This can be due to its slow growth, boring shape, or smooth texture. But it's most likely due to its short lifespan.
They may be boring fruits, but the truth is this: watermelons are a much-abused type of melon, both emotionally and physically.
Many might argue that watermelons do not have feelings, therefore they cannot be abused or even know what abuse is. But how would THEY know? They've never had the misfortune of being one!
I know, because I was a watermelon for a while. I didn't like it. It's cold and uncomfortable and people try to open you up with all types of vicious-looking weapons. They might cut you open with a knife, throw you at someone, slice you with a machete, or even smash you with a large, unforgiving hammer! Who would like THAT?
It's depressing just lying there on the ground, knowing that you're about to get cut for your home, but never knowing if you're going to be sliced open, or smashed to bits by some weird guy with a large, menacing hammer. And the gruesome fact still remains that you will almost always get devoured, usually by someone who will just gobble you down without taking the time to appreciate your subtle, juicy flavor. That's just blasphemy altogether.
Many watermelons have tried to escape these messy fates by simply rolling off the table--or whatever surface they're laid upon--to their deaths. It kills them instantly, and they barely feel a thing as they hit the ground and all of their juicy insides get splattered all over the place. It's not quite as messy as a blow with a very large hammer, but it comes fairly close, and doesn't allow people the satisfaction of doing it themselves at sadistic rituals called summer barbecues and comedy clubs. They also can't eat you, which is a shame because then you won't be enjoyed, but it is also good for you because you can still retain a little bit of dignity.
People are beginning to wise up to this suicidal watermelon business, and some are starting to prevent it by making the watermelons grow into rectangular shapes. They do this by placing us inside of cinder blocks when we're small and forcing us to grow into this cold, cramped space. Eventually, we are molded into a rectangular prism shape and shipped off to stores to be eaten by buyers with expensive square tastes. This method of torture is not only, well, torturous, but also emotionally and physically abusive--it makes the watermelons feel inadequate. It gives them confidence and self-esteem issues that only years of therapy can fix. The problem with that is, we don't live long enough to get that much therapy, and there is a severe shortage of watermelon social workers.
All of these cruel actions against watermelons are especially unfair, as we do not have legs, and therefore cannot escape easily--especially if we are no longer round in shape. We are helpless and at the mercy of the weapons of humans.
Hopefully, now that you have learned about the love/hate crimes against watermelons, you will take a stand against watermelon violence and pledge to treat watermelons as your equals.
After reading this, you're probably not going to hurt us anyone, right?
...Please, think of the watermelons!
They may be boring fruits, but the truth is this: watermelons are a much-abused type of melon, both emotionally and physically.
Many might argue that watermelons do not have feelings, therefore they cannot be abused or even know what abuse is. But how would THEY know? They've never had the misfortune of being one!
I know, because I was a watermelon for a while. I didn't like it. It's cold and uncomfortable and people try to open you up with all types of vicious-looking weapons. They might cut you open with a knife, throw you at someone, slice you with a machete, or even smash you with a large, unforgiving hammer! Who would like THAT?
It's depressing just lying there on the ground, knowing that you're about to get cut for your home, but never knowing if you're going to be sliced open, or smashed to bits by some weird guy with a large, menacing hammer. And the gruesome fact still remains that you will almost always get devoured, usually by someone who will just gobble you down without taking the time to appreciate your subtle, juicy flavor. That's just blasphemy altogether.
Many watermelons have tried to escape these messy fates by simply rolling off the table--or whatever surface they're laid upon--to their deaths. It kills them instantly, and they barely feel a thing as they hit the ground and all of their juicy insides get splattered all over the place. It's not quite as messy as a blow with a very large hammer, but it comes fairly close, and doesn't allow people the satisfaction of doing it themselves at sadistic rituals called summer barbecues and comedy clubs. They also can't eat you, which is a shame because then you won't be enjoyed, but it is also good for you because you can still retain a little bit of dignity.
People are beginning to wise up to this suicidal watermelon business, and some are starting to prevent it by making the watermelons grow into rectangular shapes. They do this by placing us inside of cinder blocks when we're small and forcing us to grow into this cold, cramped space. Eventually, we are molded into a rectangular prism shape and shipped off to stores to be eaten by buyers with expensive square tastes. This method of torture is not only, well, torturous, but also emotionally and physically abusive--it makes the watermelons feel inadequate. It gives them confidence and self-esteem issues that only years of therapy can fix. The problem with that is, we don't live long enough to get that much therapy, and there is a severe shortage of watermelon social workers.
All of these cruel actions against watermelons are especially unfair, as we do not have legs, and therefore cannot escape easily--especially if we are no longer round in shape. We are helpless and at the mercy of the weapons of humans.
Hopefully, now that you have learned about the love/hate crimes against watermelons, you will take a stand against watermelon violence and pledge to treat watermelons as your equals.
After reading this, you're probably not going to hurt us anyone, right?
...Please, think of the watermelons!
Thursday, February 4, 2010
The Lonely Pocketwatch
It was in a dismal subway station that I first spotted the object. I was standing by a pillar, waiting, and happened to glance over at a nearby bench. There, upon the lonely blue seat lay a grimy silver pocket-watch, cloudy with dirt and time.
It was then that I had the urge to pick up the pocket-watch. It looked incredibly lonely just laying there, disregarded and forgotten. Everyone already had their own watches, or even cell phones with the time on them, and while they were always checking the time on these fancy new devices, this watch simply sat here, alone and unwanted, with no one to check on it constantly. I put it to my ear and heard a ticking noise--it was still working.
It wasn't a particularly fancy watch, but it was a watch nonetheless, and as long it was still ticking, it was a good one too, faithfully ticking the time away for anyone who cared to notice, and even for those who didn't. I felt obligated to make it feel more useful, so I put it in my pocket and decided to take it home with me.
I didn't own a watch. I never really liked the way they chafed and pinched my wrists. But this watch was for pockets, so I didn't really have an excuse anymore. And I didn't have a choice but to pick it up regardless of my distaste for watches. It had just looked so forlorn just sitting on that bench, unwanted and unchecked. So, watch in pocket, I proceeded to get onto the train.
Later, when I was at home, I attempted to set it on my bedside table--but my wife interrogated me about it, demanding to know why I would hang on to such a dirty old thing I found in the subway station.
"Why?" she asked. "What do you want with some old dirty watch? You're a cell phone salesman, Harry, and you found this thing in the subway! Whoever lost it must not have really wanted it, and you'll never need it because you have a phone with the time on. Do you even know where that thing's been?"
I calmly explained to her that I knew exactly where it had been. She scowled and went to bed. I pleaded with her to calm down. She didn't.
"Sell it," she suggested. "Pawn it. We could use the extra cash." But I would have none of it. I insisted that I be a friend to this lonely, discarded pocketwatch and check it twelve times a minute.
She waved me away with one hand, and resumed trying to ignore me so she could sleep.
I went to the kitchen and sat down at the table. I attempted to open the watch, but it was stuck. I pulled a small screwdriver out of a nearby drawer.
Carefully, I managed to jimmy it open with the screwdriver.
Inside was an old, browning picture of a young soldier and his family. I smiled--the original owner probably treasured it and protected it with his life. But perhaps his old age had gotten the better of him. So now it was my duty to treasure it.
I felt the back of the watch, expecting smooth silver but noticing a worn inscription instead. I turned it over and polished it with my sleeve.
On the back of the watch were nine words engraved into the silver:
It was then that I had the urge to pick up the pocket-watch. It looked incredibly lonely just laying there, disregarded and forgotten. Everyone already had their own watches, or even cell phones with the time on them, and while they were always checking the time on these fancy new devices, this watch simply sat here, alone and unwanted, with no one to check on it constantly. I put it to my ear and heard a ticking noise--it was still working.
It wasn't a particularly fancy watch, but it was a watch nonetheless, and as long it was still ticking, it was a good one too, faithfully ticking the time away for anyone who cared to notice, and even for those who didn't. I felt obligated to make it feel more useful, so I put it in my pocket and decided to take it home with me.
I didn't own a watch. I never really liked the way they chafed and pinched my wrists. But this watch was for pockets, so I didn't really have an excuse anymore. And I didn't have a choice but to pick it up regardless of my distaste for watches. It had just looked so forlorn just sitting on that bench, unwanted and unchecked. So, watch in pocket, I proceeded to get onto the train.
Later, when I was at home, I attempted to set it on my bedside table--but my wife interrogated me about it, demanding to know why I would hang on to such a dirty old thing I found in the subway station.
"Why?" she asked. "What do you want with some old dirty watch? You're a cell phone salesman, Harry, and you found this thing in the subway! Whoever lost it must not have really wanted it, and you'll never need it because you have a phone with the time on. Do you even know where that thing's been?"
I calmly explained to her that I knew exactly where it had been. She scowled and went to bed. I pleaded with her to calm down. She didn't.
"Sell it," she suggested. "Pawn it. We could use the extra cash." But I would have none of it. I insisted that I be a friend to this lonely, discarded pocketwatch and check it twelve times a minute.
She waved me away with one hand, and resumed trying to ignore me so she could sleep.
I went to the kitchen and sat down at the table. I attempted to open the watch, but it was stuck. I pulled a small screwdriver out of a nearby drawer.
Carefully, I managed to jimmy it open with the screwdriver.
Inside was an old, browning picture of a young soldier and his family. I smiled--the original owner probably treasured it and protected it with his life. But perhaps his old age had gotten the better of him. So now it was my duty to treasure it.
I felt the back of the watch, expecting smooth silver but noticing a worn inscription instead. I turned it over and polished it with my sleeve.
On the back of the watch were nine words engraved into the silver:
"WITH MY EYES CAST HEAVENWARD, I AM NEVER ALONE."
Saturday, January 2, 2010
The Girl With the Scarf of Moon and Stars
I see her every day when I walk down the hall after music class. With the music still ringing in my ears, I scan the halls for her, waiting for the moment when I'll be able to catch that one brief glimpse of her. And every day when I see her smiling, with that beautiful scarf draped over her head like the night sky over earth, the music rises to a joyous crescendo, and my heart races and soars like a bird during its first flight.
Last week, she spoke to me. It was the day before Halloween, and she stopped me in the hall to admire my angel costume--an elegant, sparkly white dress and a halo.
"Oh, how pretty!" she exclaimed, and in that moment, my heart skipped a beat. I smiled and thanked her, and she waved to me as she walked away.
The other day, she looked so sad...I wanted to wrap my arms around her and tell her that whatever it was, it would be okay, and I would protect her so no one could ever make her beautiful smile go away again.
But I know I cannot. We're from two different worlds, and as much as I like to dream about being with her, I know it can never be.
Sometimes I think that it's an unhealthy obsession I have to look at her every day, stealing glances and trying to assess her emotion that day, trying to figure out what her world is like. Maybe it is unhealthy, but without this daily ritual, I am unsatisfied.
Today, I am scanning the halls again for her radiant smile...but to no avail. Feverishly, I scan the halls again to make sure I didn't miss her. I run around, panicking. She is not here. Frantic thoughts run through my mind as to where she could be. As the bell rings and I rush to my next class, I abandon my search for her. I hope against hope that my love is okay.
I don't even know her name...
-end-
Last week, she spoke to me. It was the day before Halloween, and she stopped me in the hall to admire my angel costume--an elegant, sparkly white dress and a halo.
"Oh, how pretty!" she exclaimed, and in that moment, my heart skipped a beat. I smiled and thanked her, and she waved to me as she walked away.
The other day, she looked so sad...I wanted to wrap my arms around her and tell her that whatever it was, it would be okay, and I would protect her so no one could ever make her beautiful smile go away again.
But I know I cannot. We're from two different worlds, and as much as I like to dream about being with her, I know it can never be.
Sometimes I think that it's an unhealthy obsession I have to look at her every day, stealing glances and trying to assess her emotion that day, trying to figure out what her world is like. Maybe it is unhealthy, but without this daily ritual, I am unsatisfied.
Today, I am scanning the halls again for her radiant smile...but to no avail. Feverishly, I scan the halls again to make sure I didn't miss her. I run around, panicking. She is not here. Frantic thoughts run through my mind as to where she could be. As the bell rings and I rush to my next class, I abandon my search for her. I hope against hope that my love is okay.
I don't even know her name...
-end-
Saturday, December 19, 2009
The Man Who Became a Mouse: Part Eight
Almost as soon as he had this revelation, Gracie blacked out, and then woke up again.
But this time, however, he wasn't in a hole-in-the-wall mice tavern. He was in a small white room, in a small white bed...and there were people standing around him. Humans.
He yelped in surprise when he realized all of this--it was all very overwhelming.
"Welcome back," said a doctor, peering at him from behind his spectacles. "Seems you had a nasty fall. But lucky for you, you weren't all that high up, and someone else broke your fall."
Gracie blinked. "Someone else?" he asked rather stupidly.
The doctor chuckled. "Yes, someone else. A man named Harry Hawkins, I believe."
Gracie's eyes widened. Hawkins? Really? he thought.
"Unfortunately, this man you landed on wasn't as lucky as you were, my boy," continued the doctor. "He's dead."
"Mouse," corrected Gracie.
"Pardon?"
"He was a mouse," insisted Gracie. "A much beloved mouse, and a hero to all mousekind. And I killed him by accident."
"I think that fall must have addled your brain a little," said the doctor. "Don't worry, though, you'll be back to normal soon, and by then you'll have learned the difference between a man and a mouse."
"I think I already have," Gracie replied.
~fin~
But this time, however, he wasn't in a hole-in-the-wall mice tavern. He was in a small white room, in a small white bed...and there were people standing around him. Humans.
He yelped in surprise when he realized all of this--it was all very overwhelming.
"Welcome back," said a doctor, peering at him from behind his spectacles. "Seems you had a nasty fall. But lucky for you, you weren't all that high up, and someone else broke your fall."
Gracie blinked. "Someone else?" he asked rather stupidly.
The doctor chuckled. "Yes, someone else. A man named Harry Hawkins, I believe."
Gracie's eyes widened. Hawkins? Really? he thought.
"Unfortunately, this man you landed on wasn't as lucky as you were, my boy," continued the doctor. "He's dead."
"Mouse," corrected Gracie.
"Pardon?"
"He was a mouse," insisted Gracie. "A much beloved mouse, and a hero to all mousekind. And I killed him by accident."
"I think that fall must have addled your brain a little," said the doctor. "Don't worry, though, you'll be back to normal soon, and by then you'll have learned the difference between a man and a mouse."
"I think I already have," Gracie replied.
~fin~
The Man Who Became a Mouse: Part Seven
After the funeral services were over, Gracie turned to Peyton, silently conveying to him all of the emotions that he'd been keeping inside for so long.
Peyton gave him a bone-crushing hug.
And after he had recovered from said hug, Gracie finally realized that the people--er, mice--here had it a lot worse than he did. This mouse had died a most painful death, and everyone was hit very hard by it. True, he didn't have anyone very close to him, but...at least he didn't have to live in constant fear.
And having a name that everyone made fun of seemed to be the dumbest reason to end it all, now that he thought about it. He decided to make the best of his situation and try to make things better for these mice in any way he could.
Peyton gave him a bone-crushing hug.
And after he had recovered from said hug, Gracie finally realized that the people--er, mice--here had it a lot worse than he did. This mouse had died a most painful death, and everyone was hit very hard by it. True, he didn't have anyone very close to him, but...at least he didn't have to live in constant fear.
And having a name that everyone made fun of seemed to be the dumbest reason to end it all, now that he thought about it. He decided to make the best of his situation and try to make things better for these mice in any way he could.
Monday, September 21, 2009
The Man Who Became a Mouse: Part Six
Inside was what appeared to be the bloody, foul-smelling remains of what appeared to have once been a mouse; however, these remains were so mangled that the gender and features were hardly recognizable.
He closed the bag and shuddered. The sight and smell was enough to make him gag.
"Who--" started the older lady mouse, but the newly arrived lady mouse silenced her with one paw.
"Hawkins," she said quietly. "Muricide."
"Oh, dearie..." cooed the older lady mouse, hugging her tightly, her eyes welling up with tears. "Sophie, sweetheart....I'm so sorry."
The bartender handed her a drink. "Here, this one's on the house."
Sophie held the drink to her lips with one trembling paw, drinking deeply, trying to forget herself and all that had happened.
The barkeep smiled sadly and handed her another as soon as she had downed the first.
"I know how you feel, Soph," said the barkeep sympathetically. "He was close to me, too. He was family to each and every one of us."
The older lady mouse walked to the other end of the bar and motioned for him to follow, so he did. "Please keep an eye on our Sophie, will you, Shanks? I'm a bit worried for her," she whispered.
He nodded. "I'm sure we all are, Mrs. Scroggins."
Mrs. Scroggins got up onto the counter. All eyes turned to face her. The room was deathly silent.
"Everyone..." she addressed them solemnly. "A great tragedy has befallen us. We have lost one of our own...a part of our family. I ask that all of you bow your heads for a moment of silence."
He closed the bag and shuddered. The sight and smell was enough to make him gag.
"Who--" started the older lady mouse, but the newly arrived lady mouse silenced her with one paw.
"Hawkins," she said quietly. "Muricide."
"Oh, dearie..." cooed the older lady mouse, hugging her tightly, her eyes welling up with tears. "Sophie, sweetheart....I'm so sorry."
The bartender handed her a drink. "Here, this one's on the house."
Sophie held the drink to her lips with one trembling paw, drinking deeply, trying to forget herself and all that had happened.
The barkeep smiled sadly and handed her another as soon as she had downed the first.
"I know how you feel, Soph," said the barkeep sympathetically. "He was close to me, too. He was family to each and every one of us."
The older lady mouse walked to the other end of the bar and motioned for him to follow, so he did. "Please keep an eye on our Sophie, will you, Shanks? I'm a bit worried for her," she whispered.
He nodded. "I'm sure we all are, Mrs. Scroggins."
Mrs. Scroggins got up onto the counter. All eyes turned to face her. The room was deathly silent.
"Everyone..." she addressed them solemnly. "A great tragedy has befallen us. We have lost one of our own...a part of our family. I ask that all of you bow your heads for a moment of silence."
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