In the end, it wasn't the life of crime, the decades of alcoholism or even the chain smoking that killed Grandma Burns. It was her toilet seat.
Or more accurately, her urinal. But it wasn't just any urinal. It was the urinal: Marcel DuChamp's Fountain. This was the prize she had been searching after all these years. Grandma Burns was a toilet thief, and she only stole rare toilets: golden toilets, painted toilets. The dumping grounds of the rich and famous.
Grandma was always a bit of an odd duck.
Grandma Burns had just finished loading the urinal into the back of her green Cadillac - with the help of her no-good grandson Thomas - and wiped a bead of sweat from her brow. She saw that the knots that secured the urinal to the back seat were slightly loose. She shook her head. She had no time to waste before security arrived, and she was terribly arthritic.
"Stupid grandson," she muttered under her breath. She hastily withdrew a cigarette and stuck it between her teeth. She chewed it for good measure as she sped away.
~*~*~*~*~
Alex hopped down Princeton Street with glee, green beads swinging rhythmically from his neck. This was awesome! His friend Shannon - who was pointing and laughing from the window of the house - dared him to do it, and he thought it was an awesome idea. He wanted to jump higher and faster. He was vaguely aware that he was moving forward, but he cared little. Alex was full of green beer. He gave a loud shout and hopped faster and faster.
He passed by the house, and then another, then another. As soon as the rubber end of the pogo stick touched down on the ground, the horizon rose in Alex's vision, but only briefly. Then as the spring propelled him upward, the horizon plummeted. Up, down, up, down. His beads swung over his head in a blurry arc. The green beer began to rise up from the deep recesses of his green torso, and he lurched toward the left.
Suddenly, Alex heard the sound of tires peeling from behind, and he felt the hot impact of the steel bumper. He was launched into the air clutching his pogo stick, his beads flailing desperately.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Alex woke up flat on his back with a splitting headache and the taste of blood in his mouth. He squinted his eyes to avoid the last rays of the sun. Parts of his body ached that he didn't even know he had, and he felt the intense need to vomit.
He propped himself up on his forearms and looked behind him. His eyes widened as he saw a enormous green Cadillac, looming inches above his feet. Once he confirmed that he was able to stand, he noticed that the driver was an old woman, her head slumped forward, a cigarette dangling from her lips. A urinal was jammed up against the base of her skull.
Alex blinked in disbelief, and then rubbed his eyes. It was the beer. It had to be. He closed his eyes and was scared to open them again. He swore that he would never drink again.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Thursday, July 16, 2009
St. Patrick's Day (draft)
In the end, it wasn't the life of crime, the decades of alcoholism or even the chain smoking that killed Grandma Burns. It was her toilet seat.
Or more accurately, her urinal. But it wasn't just any urinal. It was the urinal: Marcel DuChamp's Fountain. Valued at millions, this was the prize she had been searching after all these years. For Grandma Burns was a toilet thief, and she only stole rare toilets: golden toilets, painted toilets, or the dumping grounds of the rich and famous.
Grandma was always a bit of an odd duck.
After sixty years, Grandma Burns had become a first class toilet thief. She could unfasten the bolts that hold toilets fast in seconds, and unhook the plumbing nearly as fast. She had a brilliant mind for hacking security protocols, and her nephew helped her lift these lovely latrines into her van - this time a non-suspicious vehicle that read Al's Bakery. She also had several tricks up her sleeve that included pretended senility and flirting with the guards.
But this job was hideously botched, by something as ordinary as St. Patrick's Day.
Or more accurately, her urinal. But it wasn't just any urinal. It was the urinal: Marcel DuChamp's Fountain. Valued at millions, this was the prize she had been searching after all these years. For Grandma Burns was a toilet thief, and she only stole rare toilets: golden toilets, painted toilets, or the dumping grounds of the rich and famous.
Grandma was always a bit of an odd duck.
After sixty years, Grandma Burns had become a first class toilet thief. She could unfasten the bolts that hold toilets fast in seconds, and unhook the plumbing nearly as fast. She had a brilliant mind for hacking security protocols, and her nephew helped her lift these lovely latrines into her van - this time a non-suspicious vehicle that read Al's Bakery. She also had several tricks up her sleeve that included pretended senility and flirting with the guards.
But this job was hideously botched, by something as ordinary as St. Patrick's Day.
~*~*~*~*~
Alex hopped down Princeton Street with glee, green beads swinging rhythmically from his neck. This was awesome! His friend Shannon - who was pointing and laughing from the window of the house - dared him to do it, and he thought it was an awesome idea. He wanted to jump higher and faster. He was vaguely aware that he was moving forward, but he cared little: Alex was full of green beer. He gave a loud shout and hopped faster and faster.
He passed by the house, and then another, then another. As soon as the rubber end of the pogo stick touched down on the ground, the horizon rose in Alex's vision, but only briefly. Then as the spring propelled him upward, the horizon plummeted. Up, down, up, down. His beads swung over his head in a blurry arc. The green beer began to rise up from the deep recesses of his green torso, and he lurched toward the left.
Suddenly, Alex heard the sound of tires peeling from behind, and he felt the hot impact of the steel grill. He was launched into the air clutching his pogo stick, his beads flailing desperately.
He passed by the house, and then another, then another. As soon as the rubber end of the pogo stick touched down on the ground, the horizon rose in Alex's vision, but only briefly. Then as the spring propelled him upward, the horizon plummeted. Up, down, up, down. His beads swung over his head in a blurry arc. The green beer began to rise up from the deep recesses of his green torso, and he lurched toward the left.
Suddenly, Alex heard the sound of tires peeling from behind, and he felt the hot impact of the steel grill. He was launched into the air clutching his pogo stick, his beads flailing desperately.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Alex woke up flat on his back with a splitting headache and the taste of blood in his mouth. He squinted his eyes to avoid the last rays of the sun. Parts of his body ached that he didn't even know he had, and he felt the intense need to vomit.
He propped himself up on his forearms and looked behind him. His eyes widened as he saw an enormous white van, looming inches above his feet. Once he confirmed that he was able to stand, he noticed that the driver was an old woman, her head slumped forward. A urinal was jammed up against the base of her skull.
Alex swore that he would never drink again.
He propped himself up on his forearms and looked behind him. His eyes widened as he saw an enormous white van, looming inches above his feet. Once he confirmed that he was able to stand, he noticed that the driver was an old woman, her head slumped forward. A urinal was jammed up against the base of her skull.
Alex swore that he would never drink again.
One Sentence Stories
The birdcage was overturned on the sidewalk, the door still swinging.
A teenage boy is being pushed down the sidewalk on an office chair in the cool of the night. He is wearing a bicycle helmet, and his friends are laughing hysterically.
A young man is hopping down Park Avenue on a pogo stick. He was buoyant, sweaty and exhausted.
In the end it was not the booze, the cigarettes, or the life of crime that killed Grandma Burns. It was her toilet seat.
A teenage boy is being pushed down the sidewalk on an office chair in the cool of the night. He is wearing a bicycle helmet, and his friends are laughing hysterically.
A young man is hopping down Park Avenue on a pogo stick. He was buoyant, sweaty and exhausted.
In the end it was not the booze, the cigarettes, or the life of crime that killed Grandma Burns. It was her toilet seat.
Man of Words
I heard somewhere that drama characters are made up out of words. In this drama that we call life (okay, I'm being schmaltzy, but bear with me here) are we not made up out of words too? Do words not compose our thoughts, precede our actions, and in some cases, instigate them?
But I digress. I'm a lover of language, and I've fallen in love with the words again.
What if I could make the perfect man by writing him into existence? Alas, this is impossible. Words are on a page, pixels on a screen, mere signs that point to things. They can't be the things themselves.
But what if I could get creative, really have some fun with the English language? I could make a cardboard cutout, dig up some romantic comedies, and record all kinds of sweet nothings into a tape recorder. I could have him propped up in my doorway; he could wave to me as I pass by. But that's not right; that's not right at all.
I could buy a box of poetry magnets - the ones with words and phrases like "love" and "honey." I could build them into the shape of a man. I could put him on the side of my fridge, facing out. But that's not right; that's not right at all.
I could take out a personal ad. But what does a word-lover do with such useless abbreviations as SWF, SWPF or WASP? What could I say, when I am constricted to such a tiny blurb? That's not right; that's not right at all.
I could write a sonnet if I could figure out how to restrict myself to rhyme and couplet. I could write a blazon to my beloved, an idealized love song. But he might not understand. A real person cannot dwell in a world made out of words. Even the most honeyed would not do. And that's not right. That's not right at all.
But I digress. I'm a lover of language, and I've fallen in love with the words again.
What if I could make the perfect man by writing him into existence? Alas, this is impossible. Words are on a page, pixels on a screen, mere signs that point to things. They can't be the things themselves.
But what if I could get creative, really have some fun with the English language? I could make a cardboard cutout, dig up some romantic comedies, and record all kinds of sweet nothings into a tape recorder. I could have him propped up in my doorway; he could wave to me as I pass by. But that's not right; that's not right at all.
I could buy a box of poetry magnets - the ones with words and phrases like "love" and "honey." I could build them into the shape of a man. I could put him on the side of my fridge, facing out. But that's not right; that's not right at all.
I could take out a personal ad. But what does a word-lover do with such useless abbreviations as SWF, SWPF or WASP? What could I say, when I am constricted to such a tiny blurb? That's not right; that's not right at all.
I could write a sonnet if I could figure out how to restrict myself to rhyme and couplet. I could write a blazon to my beloved, an idealized love song. But he might not understand. A real person cannot dwell in a world made out of words. Even the most honeyed would not do. And that's not right. That's not right at all.
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