Never Say Giraffe

So, this assignments was to write a story based on a title from a list given to us. I chose . . .






Never Say Giraffe



I scarcely knew what to expect when I arrived at the doctor’s house. He had called only an hour previous to request my presence, and as the doctor’s antisocial nature made such invitations a rarity, I gladly sacrificed my evening to answer his summons. I walked up the steps to his door and rang the bell. The old man answered surprisingly quickly and welcomed me in. He prepared drinks while I reclined on his sofa and waited.
He handed me my beverage and shuffled back to get his own before seating himself. He stared at his drink for a long time before speaking. I flipped through the stack of National Geographics on the table.
“You,” he finally began, “are one of my dearest friends, and the only person I have left in this world.”
His old eyes drooped a little, and for the first time I saw how weak he really was. He paused a moment, licking his lips with his dark tongue.
“My time on this earth is finally reaching an end, and I have a favor to ask.”
I cleared my throat and nodded, unable to find any words.
“I would like you to continue my research for me. I would like you to pick up where I’m leaving off.”
“But sir,” I replied, “that’s impossible! I couldn’t possibly continue something so amazing! Surely, there must be someone better.”
“There is no one better. There is no one I can trust. Do not underestimate yourself. I will teach you everything you need to know.”
There was nothing left to argue. I could tell by the doctor’s face that he was decided on the matter. A part of me was excited; I was certainly honored. But I felt so unworthy. This man was a genius . . . who was I compared to him? My fear outweighed my enthusiasm.
“Doctor, I will never be as great as you, but I will do my best.”
I continued flipping through the magazines. The photographs of the animals always interested me.
“That’s all anyone can ask, my friend.” And with that he returned to his drink. I had paused on a page in the magazine that interested me. A gorgeous yellow beast was pictured feeding from a tree. I held it up to show the doctor.
“I say, old friend. Did you ever finish your research on . . .”
“Don’t say it!” He cried suddenly. “Don’t say that word.”
He had smacked the magazine from my hand and grabbed me by the shoulders. He had a crazed look in his eye, and I confess I felt something deep within me quiver.
“Never . . . Never say that word.”

At first I took this odd behavior as a sign that the old man’s sanity was waning. I was a fool to think that. I was ignorant, as most people are ignorant, of the truth. I didn’t learn until much later, when my family moved into the lab with me. The doctor was uneasy with the arrangement, but allowed it under the condition they never be allowed near the animal pens. It seemed sensible enough to me. He visited frequently to observe my progress, now dressing more casually in clothes fitting a retired person. Usually he wore sunglasses and an open shirt, and he boasted a tan line that always seemed to be creeping lower.
It took nearly a year to master all of the equipment and learn everything I needed to. The doctor seemed older every day. His skin became pale but vaguely yellow, and unsightly blotches appeared throughout his body. It wasn’t long before he left everything in my hands.
“Don’t be overzealous,” was the last thing he said. “abandon my last project.”
The graveness of his expression concerned me. I took this as another sign of senility. I continued the research for months without a problem, during which time the doctor passed away. His funeral was small and intimate. I had little time to mourn him, putting all of my energy into finishing his work. I felt I was on the brink of a breakthrough. There were so many things I learned, and so much I had explored, but I could not ignore the one experiment he had never completed. How could I abandon it? Could a climber live without confronting Everest? How, then, could I further my field without solving the greatest mystery it held? The doctor’s notes intrigued me:


June 23, 1922

An amazing discovery today. My experiments with genetic modification have led to impressive behavioral changes. I combined my own DNA with subject #37 and have found myself given to more tranquil dispositions. And my appetite! I feel as though I’ve been craving more salad than normal. How fascinating!


July 3, 1922

I gave myself another treatment today. The same effects have returned. I instantly felt more relaxed and passive. Gentler, even. The same tendencies in my appetite returned as well. I feel no desire to consume meat of any kind. This is a promising development! This could potentially prove my hypothesis that behavior is genetic, among all species!


I could not imagine why he would have abandoned his work when he was so close to completion. I began right away. I found all of his notes, started all his equipment. Within a month, I was prepared to replicate his first procedure. A success! I used #37’s DNA and found that my mind entered a placid, peaceful state. I had a craving for vegetables and even a desire to stand higher! I was only comfortable on the ladder by my desk. It was so promising!
I continued the work for months, changing the formula and performing the procedures multiple times. I began to find the effects lingering for greater intervals . . . and I felt my body changing. I felt ill. I felt cramped. My muscles grew sore and my neck ached. I continued working. I continued . . .
I am such a fool! My fate is sealed. My wife and child are gone, driven away by fear and disgust. I am amazed you can bear to look at me to hear my story . . . please learn from it! When you carry on my work, leave that one experiment be! I will die soon, and I must know that you will honor this one wish. Do not make my mistake. I’ve become a freak! I’ve become a monster! I’ve become . . . a . . . a . . .
No! Don’t say it. Don’t say that word. Don’t ever say that word. Help me get my hat on, and let us go. There is much work to be done, and this story is over.

Crystal Boy

Ah, what's there to say? It's shit, like the rest. But from it I shall GROWWWW!










BAM!
Billy’s foot hit the floor.
BAM!
He took another step.
BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!
The pounding continued as Billy stormed forward. The bus was about half empty and still no one was looking at him. Even his pounding went unnoticed, the sound muffled by the rubber mat beneath him. No one looked when Billy reached the front; the driver opened the door and closed it. Billy was outside.
His knee raised and lowered. Ninety degress. One-Eighty. Ninety. One-Eighty. Thump. Thump. Thump. Billy crossed the lawn and kicked his door open. The dead wreath fell to the floor and dried needles scattered everywhere. He slammed the door shut. The television was blaring in the other room. Billy stomped past the doorway and saw his mother at her usual position on the couch. He trudged up the stairs and lurched into his room.
He threw his bag onto his bed. He tore off his clothes and changed into new ones. He kicked his desk and left. Out of the room. Down the stairs. Through the hall. He opened the door and slammed it shut. He began the long walk to work. His legs were getting sore.
The trip took half an hour, and Billy was late. No one said a word when he walked through the back door. The chef was too busy in the kitchen to look up. The manager was locked in his office. The waitresses were all busy. Billy grabbed a pitcher and clipped on his name tag. The letters were beginning to rub off. He scratched at it with his fingernail and walked to the ice machine. He put some ice in the pitcher and walked to the sink. He filled the pitcher with water.
The restaurant was starting to fill up, although it was still early in the evening. There were only a couple waitresses on the floor. Billy began to scan for empty glasses. He went from table to table, none of the patrons bothering to look up at him. Most of them didn’t even stop speaking when Billy arrived. He listened to their friendly chatter and their intimate whispers. He listened to their angry exchanges. No one paid him any mind. He just filled the glasses.
A new party sat down. Billy filled the glasses. A woman threw her drink in a man’s face. It had to be refilled. Some children were continually in need of more water. Billy moved from table to table to sink to table to keep the glasses filled. A party left and he put down his pitcher to get his tray. He collected the dishes to bring to the kitchen. He tripped in the doorway and fell to the floor.
There was a terrible crash and Billy felt his knees explode. His neck caught on the rim of the tray and he couldn’t breathe for a few seconds. If any of the patrons turned to look, Billy never saw them. No one said a word. There was no break in the murmur of the restaurant. The waitresses stepped around him. He picked up the dishes with the dustpan. He got himself some water from the sink. He emptied his tray and went out to clear another table.
“Excuse me.”
Billy continued his silent march to the next cluttered table.
“Excuse me!”
Billy froze. He turned to see a man staring him in the face. He was dripping wet.
“Excuse me. Could you get me a towel please?”
Billy stammered and didn’t move. A tremor moved through his body. His stands started shaking.
“You know, a towel? White, flat, generally absorbent?”
Billy whimpered, his eyes wide. The man was gesturing with his hands, and Billy reacted by throwing the entire pitcher into the man’s face. Water sloshed everywhere while the plastic container bounced off his eye. As he fell to the ground, every head in the restaurant turned to look at Billy. Every eye was on him.
“Aaaah . . . ahhhh . . . SHIT!” cried Billy. He turned to run and slipped. He pulled himself up and scrambled out the door, cursing the entire way. The man stood up and rubbed his eye. Then he sat down. A waitress brought him a towel. The diners returned to their meals.